#my worry is that the white dots are going to get lost in them if i don't darken the blue at least a little

[gamebunny-advance]

Let's try this again...

So, I went ahead and made Ice a new yarn wig, among other progress.

(The clothes are placeholder.)

I was originally gonna cut it all short like the concept sketch, but I thought the long hair just looked so cute, so I decided to only trim the bangs and tie the rest of it back. I even braided some of it~

As for the rest:

I sculpted his horns and tail, and they're all delightfully shiny. It's kind of a miracle that his design called for horns because the pins I stuck them to are helping to keep the heavy-ass wig in place XP.

I don't know if I'm loving the face-up. Using the metallic paint for his lips is giving Bratz energy, but I don't know if I love the eyes. They're just missing something. Maybe an accent color? The original vibes I wanted to go for with Ice was "backup dancer from Mottai Nightland", but they're not quite hitting it yet.

Maybe something like this would work?

(Kinda reminds me of a jawbreaker~)

But since I'm working with acrylics, if it doesn't work out, I'm basically gonna have to start all over again, so I'm more inclined to just leave it be.

I dunno. I just don't like how small the BTS eye molds are. It worked for the one project I got them for, but it's not really my style otherwise. I think any future dolls are going to use more stylized bases (I'm trying to brainstorm some ideas for that Hairdorables/Cave Club hybrid I proposed). I need some giant eyes to work with.

Otherwise, assuming I leave the face-up alone, all that's left are the clothes~ You may have noticed that he's already wearing the apron, but there's still a bit more I have to do~

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 1

Or: a secret Admirer AU

Less than a month into the school year, and Steve’s already making use of the library. If Mrs. Click could see him now, she’d be proud–until she caught sight of the blank notebook page in front of him and the lack of textbooks on the table. 

He feels stupid; he’s hunched over his notebook, trying to make his thoughts transfer onto the page in any coherent form. But, he’s not like Eddie with his impassioned speeches and clever English papers.

Words flow through Eddie in fully-formed, concrete ideas. For Steve, it’s more of a drip. Each word has to be scaffolded onto the previous one with blood, sweat, and tears. Even then, it’s never quite right. Too abrupt, never what he was actually trying to say.

He’s just never been good with words.

By the time he gives up, there’s more crossed out than left written, so he gets a clean page of paper and transcribes it as best he can. He’s left with:

       Your hair is pretty. Do you use conditioner?

Steve tears it from his notebook and lays it flat atop his table in the library, smoothing out any crinkles in the page. It feels like the start to something, sure, but there’s more blank space on the page than words. By a lot.

He leans back over his work, adds a little wonky heart in his blue pen and signs the whole thing���

       ❤ your secret admirer

—the way all the girls who leave notes in his locker do. Their notes are usually on pretty paper, written in sparkly gel pen that smells like strawberries. The i’s are sometimes dotted with little hearts he’ll never admit to finding cute. And there’s envelopes involved, and usually more than eleven measly words.

His looks like something Eddie’ll toss out before opening, mistaking it for trash.

Steve grimaces. How do girls do this? Do they all take some sort of class on how to write pretty letters on pretty enough paper that boys will fall in love with them? Is that what they teach in Home Ec? He should have never let Tommy mock him into switching to shop class.

Should he ask a girl?

Under no conditions will he ever ask Carol. She’d have far too many uncomfortable questions and tell the whole school all of his embarrassing answers. He’d be run out of town within days, Carol holding the sharpest pitchfork.

Steve leans back in his chair with a groan too loud for the library and fists his hands to rub tired eyes.

“Are you okay?” Steve jerks, sending his pen and paper careening to the ground in his attempt to cover the compromising words upon the page. “Oh, sorry!”

Steve watches, horrified, as Chrissy Cunningham bends down to pick his supplies up off the carpet before he’s had time to scramble out of his chair. She’s in her cheer uniform, white zip-up Hawkins hoodie covering her arms. She looks perfect and preppy and just like all the girls who’ve ever left a note in his locker.

She’d be able to write something that Eddie would want to read.

“Steve?” Chrissy’s hovering over him, lips pursed, eyes big and worried. “Are you okay?”

“Shit, sorry,” he replies. She’s got his note clutched to her chest. He curls his fingers against the urge to reach out for it—that’ll just draw her attention, and that’s the last thing Steve wants right now. “Just got lost in my head.”

“Anything I can help with?”

He knows what she’s going to do before it happens. Chrissy’s sweet—if there’s a way to help, she’ll want to. So, she holds out the paper and begins to read, probably expecting an assignment she can tutor him on, and there they are: Steve’s damning words written in still-wet blue ink.

Her brow furrows as she takes an obscene amount of time mouthing out the words before she looks back up to meet his eyes. “Did someone give this to you?”

Her eyes are still big, but they look sad now, like just the thought of someone receiving the note he’d slaved over is enough to distress her. Unable to help himself, Steve snatches it from her hands and crumples it into a ball, damning words hidden in his fist.

Chrissy gasps at his abrupt movement and takes a halting step away.

“I wrote it,” he mutters, no longer able to meet her eyes.

She’s silent for long enough that he’d think she left, except the library’s quiet, and he hasn’t heard her take a step. He stares at the grains of the wood in the table, empty hand rubbing against the smudged top as he waits for her to do something.

“Are you…” she starts, trailing off for a moment before picking her thought back up, “…picking on someone?”

Steve clenches his fist tighter, note crinkling beyond repair beneath his nails as he mutters, “no.”

Chrissy’s quiet again. Steve doesn’t dare to look up, even as he hears the chair across from him pull out, the sound of her weight settling into the wood. The table’s just so interesting. Nothing has ever been as intriguing as the little chip out of its edge, the ring on the wood where someone had let their drink condensate against all the library’s rules.

“Who’s this for?” Chrissy’s voice is soft now, like he’s some sort of horse, prone to bolting when spooked. “Steve?”

Steve looks up. Her eyes aren’t sad anymore; they’re piercing.

He’s always liked Chrissy. She’s the nicest girl in the school, until someone does something she doesn’t like. Then, it’s all disappointed eyes, and pouty lips. It’s like disappointing his Mom, but worse, because his Mom’s never around to stare balefully at him.

The point is, Chrissy’s nice. She’s not like Carol. If he told her, there would be no lynch mob, or fleeing Hawkins in the dead of the night with nothing but the clothes on his back. Probably. Maybe.

Steve tries to smooth out the page, and scowls down at it when the wrinkles refuse to disappear. It’s even worse now, words made illegible by the deep creases his fingers have pressed into the paper. There’s no way Eddie’d ever want a note like this.

So, he says, “Munson,” looking up to try to watch his meaning land on her face.

It doesn’t. Her foreheads all scrunched up as she looks down at the note. Only then does Steve realize he’s caressing the wonky little heart. He pulls his hand back, curling his fingers in so she can’t see the smudge of blue on his pointer finger.

“And you aren’t making fun of him?”

Steve can feel his shoulders drooping. He wants to disappear into the floor, melt into the carpet and become one with all the other mysterious stains upon it. “No.”

“Oh,” Chrissy replies, drawn out and low as she peers down at the crinkled note with a confused frown. But something must click because she straightens, eyes wide beneath her bangs. “Oh!”

It’s loud enough that they both reflexively flinch. But, when no librarians come skulking around any corners, Chrissy turns back to him, gaze uncomfortably intent. Steve wonders, somewhat horrified by the turn his life has taken, if he’s about to get hate-crimed by a cheerleader half his size.

But Chrissy’s nice—always has been, always will be. So, she bites her lip and looks furtively around like she’s only just realized this is a conversation that shouldn’t have any witnesses. “But you like him?” she whispers.

Steve leans forward, matching her energy and pitch as he replies, “yeah,” quiet enough that it’s barely a breath. Chrissy smiles at him, warm and small, just like her hand as she reaches across the table to put it over his and squeeze comfortingly.

The note sits, damningly soiled beneath their linked hands, wrinkled, and smudged, and barely-legible handwriting. The weight that’d lifted with Chrissy’s smile sinks back into his gut.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Steve says, letting go of her hand so he can pull the note closer to himself. “I’m no good at this stuff.”

Steve crinkles the note back up. It’s unsalvageable—a stupid idea executed badly.

He’s in the middle of stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans to keep his keys company until he can toss it out in the comfort of his home when Chrissy says, “maybe I can help?” voice lilting up, like it’s a question.

Steve meets her eyes, hand still half-shoved in his pocket. She’s all earnest now, the way she usually is when there isn’t a sad boy infecting her with his own ineptitude. Eyes shining with conviction, bangs curling sweetly around her face. She’s no Carol, that’s for sure.

“How?” he asks, and when she smiles, it looks a bit like hope.

***

 “I can help you write a better letter,” Chrissy starts. He perks up like a dog the moment its owner gets home. “If you do something for me.”

She feels like scum when he curls back into himself, gaze forlorn.

When she’d caught sight of the note he’d spent what seemed like a full hour pouring over, this isn’t what she’d been expecting. And when she’d finally made out his chicken scratch scrawl, she’d been sure Steve was picking on someone, no matter how unlike him it would have been. But then his shoulders had curled in, and his ears had turned red, and his voice had gone all soft and squishy when he’d said Eddie Munson’s name.

And she’d just wanted to fix it.

So, even as he asks, “what?” all sad and droopy again, she knows she’s going to help him, no matter what he says.

“Date me,” she asserts. It’s only as Steve blinks stupidly at her that she realizes how that came out of her mouth. “No, wait, not really!”

Her hands are waving around wildly and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. In contrast, Steve seems to come back into himself, shoulders shoring up as he smirks across at her with his signature raised brow. The one he’d used while leaning on Nancy Wheeler’s locker last year, or holding her books as they walked to class, and all the other assortment of stereotypical boyfriend activities.

He’d worn it all the time, like it was part of the uniform. 

“I just meant, we could fake it?” His right eyebrow raises to meet his left, forehead scrunching up with his incredulity. “It’s just, Jason and I broke up? And he won’t leave me alone.”

It takes all her strength to keep meeting his eyes as the seconds tick away. But then Steve nods, swings his letterman jacket off, and tosses it across at her. Unprepared for his sudden movement, it hits her in the face and drops into her lap.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he says with a cheesy wink that somehow manages to feel more genuine than any of his actual flirting techniques. “Gotta sell it somehow.”

“What a romantic,” she replies, deadpan, but she pulls his jacket on anyway, something that feels an awful lot like relief steadying her heart rate as she smooths down the too-long sleeves.

Jason’s going to freak out. But after that, maybe he’ll stop calling her house, and trying to put his arm around her at lunch, and trying to pick her up for school every morning. She’d do almost anything to get it into his thick skull that she’s not interested.

So, here she is, hashing out the details of a secret admirer letter from Steve Harrington to Eddie Munson, of all the unlikely pairings.

“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Steve whines, running his fingers through his hair until it’s all mussed up and falling into his face.

Chrissy snorts. “It sounds like you’re telling him his hair is frizzy and dry.”

“I said it was pretty!” He throws his hands in the air before crossing them and pouting his lower lip out.

Chrissy can’t help but laugh. She’s always liked Steve. He’s nicer than most of his friends, and he’s easy to talk to. But this is a side she’s never seen of him. She’s not sure anyone has; can’t imagine Carol or Tommy seeing him put his whole heart into something and not tearing it to shreds.

“Do you use conditioner?” she asks, throwing finger quotations around it as she reads it off the crumpled page.

Steve’s blushing again, cheeks all blotchy and red, rather unbecoming for the shoo-in for this year’s prom king. “Well, I thought you said you’d help!” he says, a little too loud for the library.

So, that’s how she ends up spending the next hour painfully turning Steve’s earnest thoughts into words on the pretty baby blue paper she’d carefully removed from the back of her daily planner.

In the end, they’re left with this:

       Eddie –

       I wish I could say this to your face, but I’ve never been good with words, and you’d probably think it was a joke.

       I can’t even get myself to talk to you, you’re so distracting.

       I like how pretty your hair is. How do you get your curls so shiny? I want to run my fingers through them.

       I hope this note brightens up your day. You deserve all the smiles you can get.

       Yours,

       Your Secret Admirer

It’s not what she would write, but still, it’s leagues better than what he’d started with. She slides it across to Steve, and he smiles down at it. He reaches his hand out, fingers almost brushing the page before he pulls his hand back, curling his fingers into a fist.

“What if someone sees me?” he asks, voice so quiet she can barely hear him even in the resounding silence of the library.

They’d managed not to talk about it, the dangers of Steve liking a boy. But it’d been present in the hesitancy by which he shared each of his thoughts, looking up at her like each remark would be the last straw before she recoils in disgust.

If someone finds out that Steve has a crush on a boy, it won’t take long until he’s getting beat up between classes or heckled straight out of school. Heck, even with all the rumors floating around about him, Eddie might be the one to throw the first punch.

“Do you want me to deliver it for you?” she asks.

“You’d do that?” he asks back, because apparently no one ever taught him not to answer a question with a question. “For me?”

“What else are fake girlfriends for?” she asks because they’re all questions now, no answers to be had between the pair of them.

Steve laughs, all tension leaving his shoulders as he throws his head back with amusement, eyes downright twinkling as he beams across at her.

“You’re the best, Chrissy,” Steve says, smiling even brighter as she replies, “I know.”

She leaves school that night after pushing Steve Harrington’s love note through the slats of Eddie’s locker, Steve’s letterman jacket keeping her warm from the cold.

This might be the best relationship she’s ever had, fake or not. Eat your heart out, Jason Carver.

PART 2

Welcome to my new AU! This will be posted in 21 parts. It is complete, so there will be a new update each morning until it's all posted. I've elected not to do a tag list, but it will be added to my pinned post each day as well. If that's not your speed, it will be added to Ao3 once it's all been posted here.

Special shoutout to @queenie-ofthe-void for not only their usual fabulous beta work, but also both the original idea and the writing of some of the secret admirer letters. You not only make me a better writer, but this work literally would not exist without you. <3<3

Title of the fic from the song Eyes in the Sun by Florist

[kombuuuu]

Somethin’ Soft for someone Tough.

Earth 42!Miles Morales x Fem!Reader

“Let me stitch you up, Miles.”

i ❤️ miles and he is so bf uhuh (i’m insane put me in a cell)

also he’s soooooo a simp in this, none of that ihu typa love his mama raised him RIGHT

warnings: injury, stitches, medical practices from someone who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing, some angst, slightly suggestive at times

I dot NOT speak spanish so if anyone is willing to help with translation for future fics, I would owe my life to you (and give early release? i dunno wtv u want babygirl)

—

Miles didn’t understand your hurt. He didn’t understand why you hated him being the Prowler—, didn’t understand you crying when you found out. Or your shame and disappointment when it came to his..

-Profession.

It confused him, he did this to keep you safe. He’d already lost enough, he can’t lose you. He won’t. You just didn’t get that.

Having you be mad at him, loath him, despise and detest him for being Prowler. It was easier than you dead because he wasn’t.

He would rather you hate him, than only have your memory.

So when he came home to you sleeping in his bed, waiting for him to return to you only two weeks after his initial reveal, he did nothing but lay down next to you and let your hand slowly drag into his. Interlocking your fingers in a twisted pattern of forgiveness and relief.

And he didn’t try to understand why.

—

It was warm this night, the heat of a summers Sun leaving Brooklyn a mucky kind of hot. Sweat dripping down the flesh of those still dwelling outside so late, only taking solace in the rare occasion of a breeze through their clothes.

Which is why you felt ever grateful lying in an air conditioned apartment dawned only in a pair of your lovers boxers and a ribbed white tank top.

It was the pair you bought him a while back when browsing street stalls, decorated with little cats and hearts. You thought they were funny, he was not impressed (but he was happy you were happy).

Miles had been out a lot lately. Assignments, as he called them, had been increasing in frequency as of late. Willing you more and more worried about the boy you loved, he just kept coming home injured.

Which you endearingly (aggressively) scolded him for, tones of care seeping into your monologue of being safer with his job whilst he huffed and puffed begrudgingly.

Assuring you he was nothing but careful,—

“Mami, ¿por qué iba a ser imprudente con mi vida cuando te tengo a ti para volver casa a? Alguien tiene que cuidar de ti.”

"Mami, why would I be reckless with my life when I have you to go home to? Someone has to take care of you."

A bashful murmur of “Just be more careful.” Would only reward you with a hand on your waist and the beginnings of a smile. You sighed out in boredom, draping a hand over your forehead dramatically. Spread out on Miles’ bed awaiting his return that’s seemingly taking years.

A crash outside your (boyfriends’) window alerted you out of your position, the piercing sound of metal scraping against metal grating your ears. Shooting up from your laid position, you messily shuffled off the bed, almost tripping over yourself to get to the figure struggling beyond the glass. A heavy claw dragged the window open with the apparent little strength it had left, heavy breaths and short rumbles of discomfort reaching your ears.

The neon pink of the Prowlers mask greeted you, quickening your aid in slamming open the window and catching Miles’ stumbling body from toppling through.

A husking groan sounded from your sweetheart as the mask slowly peeled back, revealing the trails of blood creeping from a cut in his lip.

“Hey, mami.”

Miles was gorgeous, he was a still picture of a painted deity in living form. The plump of his lips dripping a slow streak of burgundy did nothing to taint the sight of him, you wished it had, maybe you could be madder.

“Miles, what happened?” Your concern had outweighed your admiration, you were now fretting.

“I tripped.”

You scoffed something unbelieving, smiling despite the ache in your chest at the poor sight of him. Your emotionally stumped man.

“C’mon, baby, come inside.” Your right hand caressed the side of his face, left collecting his claw adorned fingers in yours to help him through and into his room.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he stepped over the sill, sucking in a breath and hoping you didn’t catch it.

Glancing up at you from his hunched position, you gaped back at him, unimpressed but worried.

He dropped your hands, the clasps on his gloves clicking, and the metal dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Pushing his arms back and letting his backpack fall too, he cracked his neck and winced again.

You all but pouted at him, reaching for his hurt body in discontent.

He leaned down to put his head on your shoulder, breath tickling your neck as he peppered you with light kisses, nipping your skin in just a graze. He wasn’t one to usually be so affectionate, but his guard always lowers with you, shoulders dropping and pulse quickening.

“No está tan mal, ma.”

"It's not so bad, ma."

His hand lifting from out of yours and onto your waist, circling the exposed skin between his boxers and your shirt.

His boxers,—

—,his hand twitched.

“Not that bad?” Your hushed voice bled of concern. “There’s a gash in your side!”

The simple serenity he had found buried in your neck had been ripped away from him in an instant.

You all but hauled his body to the bed, urging him to sit down against the sheets whilst he sulked grumpily behind you. Pushing against his chest and sitting him down.

You ran to his bathroom, washing your hands thoroughly before opening the cabinet under the sink, reaching back to the first aid kit you had placed here for this exact reason and towel, you rushed back to his room and shut the door behind you. “Amor, It’s just a—“ Cutting himself off, he hissed and cursed some under his breath.

“No digas que es sólo un corte.”

"Don't say it's just a cut."

“Mi sol, I have suffered worse.”

“Let me stitch you up, Miles.”

You turned back, shooting him an exasperated look while you threw the towel. Miles catching it without much effort and putting it under him. Flipping open the latch on the kit you sat yourself next to his bed, knees underneath you and digging harshly into the scuffed wood. You grabbed everything you assume you’d need, setting it on the open lid of the kit and focusing back on Miles.

“You look good like this, mami.”

You choked slightly, glaring up at him.

“Take off your jacket, Morales.”

"Sabes, si querías que me desnudara..."

"You know, if you wanted me to undress..."

“One more word.”

“Understood.”

He groaned as he did. Jacket falling off his shoulders and onto the bed, he pushed it to the floor beside you and spread his knees. You shuffled closer between them, lifting his shirt enough to see the damage on his torso and sighed shakily when figuring he was right.

It was just a graze, but a damn deep one. On the right of his torso, falling just under his ribcage was a thin, deep gash.

“What were you cut with, Papi?”

His stomach clenched as you prodded around, checking the wound for any signs of oncoming infection and signalling for him to take his shirt off.

“A knife, probably.”

Despite the weary of the situation, a smug look adorned his face. You poked his stomach, him wincing.

“Figures.”

You hid your smile.

He slipped his shirt over his head, grimacing at the pull of his wound. You took it from him and set it aside, getting an unopened bottle of water from the kit and pouring it over the cut. The water ran through the blood, trickling down his abs and soaking the waist band of his pants, he tipped his head back, groaning lowly in pain.

“Mami, entiendo que estés enojada, but please be gentle.”

"Mami, I understand that you're angry, but please be gentle."

He gazed down at you lazily, the drawl of his accent coating his voice syrupy in light of his injury. He looked downright sinful, braids draping lazily and shoulders dropped. Leaning back on his palms with his legs spread.

“I am gentle.”

“Sure.”

You focus returned to his wound, grabbing a clean hand towel and patting his cut dry, gently.

The occasional hiss or moan would interrupt you, but other than that Miles stayed relatively quiet. Watching you work as you fixed him.

“There, all done.”

“Not gonna kiss it better?”

You huffed, amused as you started to put everything back where it belonged. You could change the sheets and dispose of the hand-towels tomorrow, right now he just wanted you.

Miles grabbed your waist as you stood, hands slipping behind you to shove you forward into him. He buried his face into your stomach and sighed. You giggled lightly, the lack of a smile on his face tagged with the need for your touch was something no one but you could get used to. Your hand slowly trailed up his bare back, nails scratching lightly at his skin. He shivered, tightening his hold on you further.

“Lay down, baby.”

He whispered your name, “Chiquita, you take such good care of me.”

Humming, you unhooked his arms from you and pushed him to lie back by the tips of your fingers.

“Gon’ spoil you after this.”

You grabbed the towel, surprisingly dry and dropped it to the floor with the other discarded items.

“You already spoil me, Papi.”

Miles kicked off his shoes, sparing you a glance and a hum at the endearment.

“‘S’cause you deserve it.”

He unbuckled his belt, threading it out through the loops and threw it to land somewhere. You dragged the corner of the quilt back up to the both of you, stopping halfway. Miles sighed in annoyance, huffing at his pant button and cursing it as he fumbled to pull his pants down.

You giggled, “Need help, baby?” He scoffed lightheartedly. “I got it.”

“Mhm.” He eventually did get it, pulling his pants off and over his legs, coughing slightly at the wind crushing his cut had caused him.

“C’mere mami.” He grabbed your thighs, dragging you on top of him. “Mm—“ “Shh, it don’t hurt.” You let yourself relax slightly, mostly leaning on your need as not to hurt him.

The stars in his eyes as he looked up at you, he sighed quietly.

“It’s hot baby, we’re gonna get all sweaty.”

“Hopefully.”

“Miles.”

You rolled your eyes in a laugh, hooking your arms around his neck and leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Mm, there. Now you’re all better.”

He rubbed shapes into your thighs, loving the proximity. The way your breaths mingled and skin stuck together.

He thanked the Moon and the Stars for letting him keep you, begged every day to anyone out there that could hear him to tether your souls and kill him have he ever lose you. Would kill a million men to keep you safe, and he’d already had a running start.

He cleansed himself of his sins with your love, showering in the light you provided for him, and watched the blood of any man drip from his fingertips and into the rivers you’d created in his veins. Letting it mix with his own and beat by the tone of his heart. Which only ever raced for you. Only beat for you. He could only live for you, your love and acceptance.

Of which Miles would never understand why you loved him, and he would never try to.

“Much.”

He laid down, you following. Lying your head on his chest and listening to his breathing stutter at the contact.

It was late now, far later than a healthy time to finally sleep. But nothing could break the bubble of ease that now seemed to suffocate him. Lulling him into a slumber with his love against his heart.

—

first fic shoulllllf probably be fluff b4 i angst again

as angst is all i’m good for

i literally don’t know how to write fluff so pray it was good

IF ANY TRANSLATIONS WRONG PLESASSSSSE CORRECT ME

[vicsy]

chalex / care ❤️

"Oh my god."

Alex hears Charles before he spots him sidestepping Fernando's ridiculous scooter, weaving through the Saturday paddock crowd and beelining towards the entrance of the Williams motorhome, which had just enough luck not share the fate of McLaren's. The weekend promises to be shit on a stick but something's gotta give. Alex is grateful for small miracles like the one he's currently trying to prevent from jumping out of his rather capable hands.

"Found him chewing on a plant in catering," Alex quips and as soon as he does, Leo finally wiggles his way out, leaping into Charles' waiting arms. "Little guy gave you quite a heart attack, yeah?"

Charles can't really respond, busy being under the merciless attack of puppy kisses all over his face and Alex can't help a smile, endlessly endeared. It's the cute puppy factor, he half-convinces himself, shirking his hands into his jean pockets. Charles yelps when Leo bites him on the chin and Alex's heart wraps itself in fondness. Definitely, it's just the dog, not the one enduring all the slobbering. Sure.

"Oh my god, Leo! I don't know how he got out," Charles says, breathless with relief. He tucks Leo into his chest and Alex notices how much the puppy's grown, no longer fitting in the palm of Charles' hand. Leo starts bumping his snout at the chain Charles wears around his neck. Alex stares at the picture perfect for entirely too long. "I almost lost my mind looking for him before you texted me. Thank you so much, Alex. You're my hero. This could have been a disaster."

"Well, I do have a zoo," Alex enunciates and Charles laughs, so bright and open, his face all scrunched up as if he's looking at the sun but that's just Alex is front of him. Just the little ol' him. "Solving an animal related crisis is sort of a given. So yeah, any time, mate. If you ever need any help, I'm your guy."

An underdog for your dog, Alex's mind provides and he bites the inside of his cheek.

Charles looks like a dream in a white, baggy t-shit and those abysmal jeans, holding a puppy to his chest like it's the most precious creature in the world. And it's a dream catered specifically to Alex, wired straight to his synapses, and his mind veers dangerously close to the pits of yearning. Every week is a losing battle as it is. Alex can't compete.

He kind of freezes, momentarily stumped, when Charles goes in for a quick hug. Which is fine and super normal thing to do, he's high on emotion, whatever. Leo gets inevitably sandwiched between their chests. Alex eventually figures his way back into the basics of human interaction and wraps one arm awkwardly around Charles, then places his other hand on Charles' forearm in a makeshift attempt at a barrier. The usual hubbub of a race weekend passes them by and Alex hopes to keep his wits about him while he's got 'em. At the back of his mind, he registers the press of something cold and wet to the underside of his jaw.

Leo's sneeze goes off like a tiny bomb.

"Oh, Leo," Charles sighs apologetically, rocking back and out his embrace. Alex doesn't mind some dog snot. He lets his touch linger, fingers tucked into the crook of Charles' elbow, next to Leo's tiny paws. "Thanks again, Alex. For taking care of Leo for me."

"No worries, Charles."

Alex wishes he didn't need to let go but they've got to race and he can't keep staring at Charles' lovely, mole-dotted face all fucking day. He plasters on a smile that digs into his cheeks way too hard and his hand falls limply to his side in quiet surrender. Alex wishes for unattainable and watches Charles head back to his team, to his red car, to the people who worship the ground he walks on. Before he disappears around the corner, Charles turns, carefully grabbing Leo's tiny paw, and waves Alex goodbye with it.

Alex wishes it wasn't just about the dog.

Send me a ship/character(s) and a one word prompt and I will write a 5 sentence fic about it.

[eclecticpatrolroadlawyer]

Illicit affairs (chapter 2)

Chapter 1

Summary: Bucky and Y/n are in arranged marriage. Bucky is having an affair. This is all it is about... Let's see where Y/n's fate lies... Should we?

Pairings: Bucky x reader, Bucky x Dot ...

Genre: angst, affair, unrequited love

next day

Y/n's POV

The tea kettle's loud whistle pulled me back from my thoughts, and I remembered a moment—a moment that stung with disappointment.

As I took down the tea, the warmth of the steam evoked the chilling recollection of our wedding night. In the intimate dance of shared vows and whispered promises, Bucky's words had pierced the veil of anticipation. "Don't ever expect anything from this marriage," he had declared, the weight of his words settling like a heavy shroud.

The routine of making tea felt a bit sad, each step taking me back to that night. The sounds of cups and boiling water seemed to replay that moment when our hopes started to crumble.

As I lifted the cup, it held not just tea but also memories. The warmth of the liquid was mixed with the bitterness of that night, a night where promises felt broken. The smell of the tea carried the ghosts of our wedding, a reminder of a vow that seemed to fade, and the quiet acceptance of a marriage that had lost its sparkle.

I sigh when I see he's gone, probably meeting her under the excuse of jogging. Disappointment settles in my chest, and it feels like trust is slipping away. The air is thick with things we're not saying, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.

I decide to hit the supermarket while he is away, so I head to our shared bedroom to get ready.

half an hour later

at supermarket

In the bustling mart, my eyes catch a plushie perched high on the shelf. A whimsical desire takes hold, but I bite my lip, hesitating—I'm a grown woman, after all. Glancing around, I make sure no one's watching, and then, in a spontaneous moment, I decide to go for it.

Standing on my toes, I reach, my fingers brushing the soft plushie. Just as I stretch, someone's chest presses against my back. Startled, I turn to find a tall figure in a leather jacket, their presence both surprising and comforting.

Those green eyes meet mine, the contrast between the familiar and the unknown. Bucky's eyes held the depth of the sea, turbulent and mysterious, while this stranger's gaze resembled something serene about them, like a forest bathed in sunlight. It's a peaceful encounter, and for a moment, I forget the complexities that linger in the shadows. Unlike the stormy intensity of Bucky's ocean-blue gaze, these eyes carried a calm, a sense of peaceful allure that drew me in. With dark blonde hair and a hint of freckles, this stranger feels like a breath of fresh air, a divergence from the familiar.

Startled by the sudden closeness, I gasp and take an involuntary step back. My retreat, however, is met with a minor mishap—I lightly crash into the shelves. In that split second, just as I brace for impact, I feel the stranger's hand at the back of my head. It's a gentle touch, preventing my head from making contact with the shelves, even though the impact would have been light. The unexpected act of kindness leaves me momentarily flustered, caught between embarrassment and gratitude.

"I-I-..I'm sorry," I stutter, feeling the heat creeping up to my cheeks. Suddenly, words escape me, and I find myself at a loss, caught between embarrassment and an unspoken gratitude for the stranger's unexpected kindness.

"Are you okay?" I manage to ask, my heart beating a little faster. There's an unfamiliar feeling swirling within me, and for the first time in my life, it feels right.

The man chuckles, a light shake of his head accompanied by a crinkle near his eyes. He smirks, revealing a set of little white teeth, and speaks softly, "No worries, my lady… Actually, I should be the one asking you, are you okay, miss?" His green eyes lock onto mine, and a warmth spreads through me. I gulp down the breath that got punched out of me and find myself nodding, still unable to find words for the whirlwind of emotions. My brain insists it's wrong, but my heart seems to have its own answer ready.

In that fleeting moment, it feels like time stops. I find myself smiling, trying to take in every detail of his form—the way he styles himself, his unique way of speaking. It's as if everything about him becomes the focus in that small span of time—a love at first sight that catches me off guard.

8 months earlier

Dot's POV

"I can do it," I tell myself, taking a deep breath before entering the interview. My head held high, I step into the room, the confident click-clack of my heels echoing against the marble floor.

2 hours later

Walking through the park, I find a bench, sighing sadly as I take a seat. Muttering to myself, "Ugh, not again," I slump down, frustration evident in my sighs. "Why do I always get nervous?!" I groan, burying my head in my hands. "At this rate, I'll stay poor for the rest of my life," I whine, feeling overwhelmed.

Suddenly, a handkerchief touches me, and I look up to see a handsome man extending it towards me. His ocean-blue eyes draw me in, and for a moment, I'm lost, drowning in their depths. It takes me a few minutes to realize I've been staring, and I snap out of my thoughts, shaking my head. I smile at the man, stuttering, "Oh, I...th-thank you, sir. I'm sorry. You really didn't have to stop to help me, but thank you," I say, grateful and slightly flustered.

"Oh, my mother taught me better than to ever leave a crying woman or to ever make a woman cry," the man replies, smirking charmingly with a wink and adds "Especially when it's a beautiful woman like you, miss." As those words leave his lips, it's as if the man's looks, which were already a source of fluttering butterflies, now weave a spell on my heart. I feel a blush creeping up as I glance down, nodding shyly in acknowledgment. "Thank you," I murmur softly, accepting the handkerchief with a light touch, my heart still dancing to the charming melody of his words.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, not trying to be nosy, but may I know why you are crying, beautiful?" The man asks, taking a seat beside me while maintaining a respectable distance. His blue eyes, as usual, lock onto my brown ones, managing to steal my breath away. I maintain my composure, nodding as I reply, "Just knowing I messed up my job interview." Sighing, I look down, my fingers clenching the soft fabrics of the given handkerchief, my lower lip caught between my teeth as I reflect on the interview.

The sound of a clap pulls me out of my thoughts, and I find the man smiling at me. "Oo! I think I know how to bring up your mood…Wanna have a cup of coffee with me? I know the best place." I look at him, unsure, considering he's still a stranger. Before I can voice my thoughts, he continues, "Oh! Sorry…I forgot to introduce myself. I'm James… James Buchanan Barnes. In short, Bucky or Buck." He extends his hand as he introduces himself.

I smile involuntarily as I take his hand and shake it. "Pleasure to meet you, James. I'm Dottore… Just call me Dot," I introduce myself with a hint of warmth in my smile.

Third person's POV

Who would've thought that this random meeting could turn into something so special? It became a beautiful story, defying expectations and creating a connection that wasn't supposed to happen. From a simple park encounter, something magical unfolded—a tale of love that wasn't allowed, something forbidden, filled with both joy and heartbreak. In simple words, it turned into an 'Illicit Affair,' a story written by fate and emotions, painting a picture of love in unexpected places.

Bitter always follows the sweet,

especially when it comes to love.

Especially when it comes to forbidden love.

-Karina Halle

(WANNA GUESS THE GUY WHO Y/N MET AT THE SUPERMARKET?😆I GAVE ENOUGH HINTS...EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE HIS FACE FEATURES 🤭 BUT HE IS FROM SOMETHING SUPERNATURAL GENRE TV SERIES AND OLD ONE)

Note: Hey guys! Hope you like it. English is actually my second language so if there's any mistake you can inform me by messaging me privately. And PLEASE REBLOG AND DON'T STEAL MY WORK. Please like and comment too so, that I can know your views. Thank you for reading guys! Have a nice day and please comment if you wanna be tagged in.

Taglist: @angstysebfan @cjand10@learisa@themorningsunshine @binkszamsstuff

@dreamerglassesgirl @winterslove1917 @perfectpieslimeprune @nikkivillar @bethexo07 @vicmc624 @pattiemac1 @ozwriterchick

[bigfan-fanfic]

I'll Always Worry (Spiderbro x Peter Parker PLATONIC)

Spiderbro taking care of peter after a mission cleaning his cuts, making him dinner and setting a bath for him and listening to him rant about whatever is on his mind also offers cuddles since my peter love language is physical touch

"Where's May?"

"Out. She's gonna be at a F.E.A.S.T. meeting all weekend, so I'm in charge."

Peter nods, and you see him for the first time. "Holy shit, Pete!"

He's covered in scratches, some of which are still bleeding, and didn't even try to get out of his Spider-Man suit, which is practically shredded.

He barely reacts when you snap into action, pushing your laptop aside and half-carrying him to his bed.

You help him get the wretched fabric off, and spend a while cleaning his scratches and cuts.

"Dude, what happened?"

Peter launches into a full on tirade and well, you asked. You sometimes forget that he doesn't have anyone to talk about this stuff with besides you, because your mom will worry about him even more than she already does and his friends don't quite get it

So you let him vent, and ask questions where needed

And watch the tension practically drain out of him as he talks himself all out of steam.

"Well... that sucks, buddy." You chuckle, and are relieved to see Peter smile wanly.

"I should get back out there...." he says softly, and you clear your throat.

"I'm in charge, Pete. Remember? So you're gonna stick right here. You need to recharge your batteries."

"But what if people are out there that I can help? With great power... comes great responsibility."

Your dad was a good man. But you have a feeling that Peter is making his last words into almost a mantra for existence as opposed to the dying words of a man desperately trying to distill all the paternal advice he would be unable to give into something, anything.

"You also have a responsibility to yourself, Peter. And part of having great power is knowing your limits. You can't help anyone if you hurt yourself doing it." you say sternly.

You gently take Peter by the shoulder, and he leans into the touch.

Thankfully, he relents. "I still feel guilty, though."

"Well, feel guilty in a bubble bath. I'm gonna make something for dinner for us, and I want you all melty and relaxed."

He chuckles. "I haven't had a bubble bath since I was a kid."

"You still are a kid, kid." You tease. "So relax, will ya?"

He raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay..."

He takes a while, so you go all out with dinner, making some cheese sandwiches, grilled with butter and smeared with a homemade pesto, and with some freshly cut tomato. You make a nice pile of them, and serve them with some soup.

Peter emerges in a loose white shirt and shorts, and he smiles at the meal you've made.

The sound of you two eating dominates the table - the food too good and the comfort too sweet to bother talking.

But finally when seconds and thirds are finished and your bellies almost uncomfortably full, you tell Peter this weekend is a recharge time. No Spider-Man.

You expect him to protest, but instead he nods, and he just... looks so lost.

"I figured we'd catch up with each other over the weekend. You know, order some pizza, play some games, chill."

"I'd like that."

"You wanna watch a movie with me?"

He nods again, and you grin at the eclectic collection of themed Band-Aids dotting his arms and legs.

You both crash on the couch, grabbing some blankets, but very soon, you stretch out an arm, and he leans against you.

Peter melts into the side hug, like he always does. The poor kid seems to crave physical affection.

Remembering when he first came to live with you all, when his parents died... he needed that loving, to make sure he knew he wasn't alone.

He became your little brother then, not just your cousin. And that first night he fell asleep in your arms, you promised yourself you would protect him.

It's become harder to protect him these days, but at least you can be here for this.

Your little brother falls asleep against you, and you let him rest, smiling a little as you watch the movie on a lower volume, watching over him.

[spyderlondon]

An au, where everyone’s memories are lost including the crew thinking they were ever real/humans when they got transported into the digital circus, they all think they are their respective characters and act as their characters personalities, heavily deviating from the ones in the show

Pomni a semi crazy goofy jester

Kinger…. A normal king

Jax, a helpful voice of reason(with a little southern accent)

And so on

A/N: .......evil Caine route? Evil Caine route. Definitely no showtime in this- it'd be far too toxic. There will be a referenced BunnyDoll though.

CW: Mind wiping, mental manipulation, puppeteeing unwilling participants, amnesia, loss of free will

Art by @00belle00lovely00

Pulling All the Strings

Ko-Fi

----

There was a small gasp then a groan as a small woman awoke in a dark room with no light visible aside from a small crack under, what she assumed, was a door, "Ugh... where-where am I...?" She mumbled quietly.

There was an almost unnoticeable dark chuckle from the corner of the room, "Seems my new puppet has awoken from her sleep~" A voice called out as she was forced onto her feet slowly and steadily as if strings were pulling her upwards against her will.

Her eyes widened in fear as she began struggling, attempting to get away. Only to feel her flesh being cut into by the invisible threads. She could only gasp in pain, "Let go! Let me [^^%*&^%] go, you ba-" She cried out as the strings seemed to yank against her neck, threatening to cut deep if she spoke another word.

Once the woman went silent and the figure seemed to feel slowly stop to struggle, he spoke up again, "They always struggle." He sighed as he on the strings once more before loosening them up, "Always struggle, almost always curse. You're all so... human." He hissed out 'human', sounding disgusted by the word. He went silent as he looked down at her, only his glowing narrowed eyes could be seen. It was as if he was examining her, judging her, figuring out who she was, "Hm, yes, you'd make a wonderful jester~" It sounded as if he was grinning, "Let me adjust your mind a tad..."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN AD- Ack!" She was silenced with another pull of the invisible string on her neck, drawing blood.

"Now, now, pet. You needn't worry about a thing..." A hand was placed on top of her head, forcing her to peer up into his heterochromatic eyes that began to quickly flash with dots and strobbing lights. She attempted to shut her eyes to avoid looking into his but that merely resulted in tiny strings taking her eyelids and forcing them open, "Do not look away from your new puppet master." He commanded with a low growl. She whimpered in fear as she had no choice but to submit to him, gazing into his flashing, wide eyes, "Good, my little jester~ Just stay like that..." He mumbled as watched the color from her eyes slowly dull from the bright violet coloration they once had and slowly had the colors separate into blue and red in a pinwheel pattern before her eyes were allowed to flutter shut.

------

"Pomni. Wake up. Time to prepare for the show." A voice spoke out, waking the jester from her sleep.

She rose as if booting up like a computer. She looked up at the floating figure in front of her with blank eyes for a moment as if registering who she was looking at- red coat... white under shirt... black pants... top hat... oh! "Hello! Caine!" She greeted as she jumped out of her bed with a bright, kind've unnatural smile on her face.

Caine hid a smirk as he watched the girl- his new puppet. His new 'AI' smile at him while rocking back and forth on her feet as if waiting orders from him. He hummed as he silently looked her up and down, admiring his work on the jester. She had a black and red color scheme unlike her blue and red eyes but her outfit had entirely changed- she had a hat on that completely covered her hair with the front part of it going down in between her eyes and barely going over the bridge of her nose with little yellow bells on the ends of the liliripes; she had a dark red vest with little purple jewels attached on the lapels; gray long sleeves that had cyan embroidery on it of some swirly patterns as well as the letters 'C&A' on the shoulders; she had dark blue and crimson gloves on her hands; her tights were black and red alternating zig zags; and her shoes were like her gloves dark blue and crimson.

The ringmaster rolled his shoulders a bit, "Hello, my dear." He mused as he greeted her, "I apologize for how I had to force you into sleep mode last night, you were just acting out too much. I had to reprogram you a bit." He explained with a feigned sigh of disappointment, "But, don't you worry, any injuries sustained were patched up Bubble!" He clapped his hands together as if everything was going as normal as always. Pomni's programming simply messed up and had to be fixed after!

"Oh! Sorry for whatever I messed up on, Ringmaster!" The jester apologized with a silly bow before glancing up at him to see him chuckling in amusement, brightening her mood up.

"Ah, it's all okay. No harm, no foul after all, my dear." He waved off, "But we mustn't stand here chatting! Jax and Ragatha's act should be over here soon! You are up next, my dear, the audience mustn't be kept waiting after all!" He urged her to get ready before he zipped off to check on the current act.

----

"You cannot see

How much I long to be free..."

A stiff looking rag doll was spinning on a large music box in the center of the main stage of the circus- she was dancing around as if she was nothing but a decoration on the mechanical contraption.

Near her was a purple rabbit with a yellow light jacket on top of a seafoam green shirt and dark yellow pants. He was moving and dancing around as if under control of an invisible puppetmaster, "Truly Scrumptious~" He sang towards the doll despite how she never glanced his way and remained ever turning, "And if I may seem presumptuous..." He danced over to the mirrors attached to the music box and looked at himself like it was choreographed... until he paused and stared himself in the mirror as if he saw a flaw on himself.

"Turning around-" The doll's eye subtly wandered towards the rabbit and noticed what he was doing, she could tell the audience and the now nearby Caine, were becoming suspicious by the rabbit's actions, "-on this music box that's..." She waited until she rotated closer to him before jolting a tiny to ram his face into the mirror, making him stumble a bit and looked around.

There was laughing from the audience and the rabbit went back to singing, "Never... never... ever..." He wandered back in front of the doll's music box where he saw a hand close to his and he couldn't but use his puppet like movements to get close to trying to give her hand a kiss.

"Wound by a key." Her moved upwards quickly, slapping one of his ears lightly- causing more laughter from the crowd.

"Go away." She made sure her arms and head moved in a perfect, robotic motion as she spun and tried to ignore the blush that tinted her cheeks a little when she saw him try to kiss her hand.

"Yearning..."

"My heart beats so unruly..." The bunny placed a hand on his chest and had it move like a heartbeat.

"Yearning..."

"Because I love you truly..." He opened his arms wide as if to get a hug from the doll.

"While I'm..." The doll sent him a small look that told him to 'stop it'.

"Honest, Truly..." The rabbit hugged himself instead.

"Turning around and around." She suddenly became frozen, the music box no longer turning.

"I do." He halfway flopped downwards, the tips of his ears barely touching the ground.

Once the music ended and there was a roar of cheering amongst the crowd, Caine popped in between two, "...meet me in my office after the show..." He ordered the two of them silently, his eyes glowing a bit as the two of them gave a quick nod before running backstage.

The ringmaster looked up to the audience, "Weren't they wonderful, audience?!" Everyone in the stands cheered loudly, "Hope our next act, the jester can impress us all just as much!" He roused up the crowd, getting them excited for the new jester.

The rag doll and rabbit stared in horror from behind the currents as they heard the announcement of a jester. The doll had to grip the rabbit to keep herself from letting her mask fall, not when another character was so close by, "He got a new person..." She mumbled under her breath, her voice trembling as she watched Pomni make her way up to where the trapeze platform were, "...we have no net to catch her if she falls..." Her face paled, "Jax..." Her grip tightened.

Jax put a hand on hers and tightened it a bit, "Caine can control her, she'll be fine, Rags..." He murmured to her, his own eyes never leaving the sight as well. Especially now that the jester had begun her performance.

-----

Song used in the fic: "Doll on a Music Box" from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

[sarahwroteathing]

Apples and Cherries

Part Three to Coffee and Cinnamon and Maple Latte

Word Count: 2048

Summary: A bakery mishap leaves Steve scrambling.

Warnings: More fluff and foolishness and a mistreated kitchen item

A/N: Sorry for the delay, my fine friends. They’ve got me working so much overtime, it legitimately feels illegal. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Steve was jittery as he made his way into the bakery that morning. There wasn’t really a good reason to be. He just felt… something. 

Things had been different between the two of you lately, since he started going in and buying coffee every morning.

The rivalry was still very much alive, but it had lost some of its edge. Your comments were more playful than biting, when you bothered to insult him at all. You smiled more. Genuine smiles instead of the dark eyed grins that he found more than slightly terrifying. You touched more. Overlapping fingers during the exchange of coffee cups and pastries. Nudges with elbows and knuckles and shoulders. An occasional arm squeeze. 

(Three of them, to be exact. Not that he was keeping track. That would be weird.)

The nervous energy buzzing beneath Steve’s skin didn’t seem to be affecting Sam in the slightest, who was humming happily to himself while loading his side of the pastry cases. It had been his turn to open this morning, and Steve could see trays of croissants and turnovers that he’d shaped and left in the fridge overnight now baked and cooling on a rack just over Sam’s shoulder.

“Gooooooood morning, sunshine. Did you know that I’m a genius? Actually, don’t answer that. Of course you know I’m a genius.”

Steve cracked a smile, leaning through the door into the kitchen to grab an apron - blue with white polka dots today. 

“What has the great and powerful genius that is Sam Wilson created this morning?”

Sam retrieved a small covered plate from the back corner, presenting it with a flourish.

“Taste it!”

“Gladly.” 

Not bothering with utensils, Steve lifted the beautifully glazed mini bundt cake off of the plate and took a hearty bite, smiling at Sam’s unimpressed expression. 

“Jesus, that’s good. Caramel apple? ”

“Yep. The cherries weren’t speaking to me today. I thought they’d be nice in the turnovers though since I used the apples.”

Steve froze, halfway to the sink to wash the sticky glaze from his fingers. 

“Oh, you used…”

“That okay? Mixing it up a little?” Sam raised a brow curiously at the low-grade panic he read on Steve’s face.

“Yeah, that’s… Are there any apples left?”

“Don’t think so. But we’re supposed to get more delivered tomorrow.”

This was stupid. There was no reason to be panicking about this. He wasn’t mad at Sam for using all the apples. He wasn’t. But like Steve, you were a creature of habit. Your order was always the same: one apple turnover, reheated if it wasn’t fresh from the oven. Only ever apple. 

Still, there wasn’t anything to be worried about. It’s not like you came in for a pastry every day, and he had yet to find a pattern in your visits. And while it was clear you enjoyed them, the happiness overtaking you on your first bite always enough to make Steve turn away to hide a proud smile, his ego wasn’t big enough to think it would ruin your day if your favorite pastry wasn’t in stock. 

But…

He didn’t love the idea of disappointing you.

And he was choosing not to think about that too much.

“I’m gonna run to the store. I’ll be back as quick as I can,” Steve said, fumbling with the apron ties.

Sam only watched his embarrassing attempts at speed folding for a couple seconds before snatching the fabric from his hands and waving him off.

“Go, Johnny Appleseed. I got it.” 

“Thank you!” 

He was out the door and halfway down the block before he reminded himself that he didn’t actually have to run. 

Thankfully, there was a tiny independent grocery store just four blocks away. The elderly woman at the register raised her eyebrows at his purchase of one single green apple, but mercifully chose not to comment. 

Sam, however, did not show that kind of courtesy.

“Are you really gonna make one apple turnover?”

“Yes,” Steve said, snagging his refolded apron that Sam had left on the counter. 

Sam stared at him for half a second more, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You know what? I’m actually not gonna say anything. We’ll see how this turns out.”

“She didn’t come by while I was out, did she?”

“Less pining, more baking.”

“I’m not-” Steve broke off with a huff, leveling Sam with a glare that had stopped being effective against him years ago and storming off into the kitchen.

Pining. Steve had never pined a day in his life. 

The tension eased from his shoulders as he began work on the apple filling, a recipe he’d been making since he was a teenager that contained half the spice rack and required measuring with the heart not the neatly labeled spoons. 

There was extra dough in the refrigerator, the way there almost always was. It made moments like this easier to manage and oven disasters or tragic clumsiness faster to recover from. 

Time passed differently when he was baking, faster and easier. The only thing on his mind was the next step. While the pastry baked, he easily occupied himself with cleaning up the mess he’d made. 

With two minutes left on his timer, he made the call.

“I don’t deliver.”

“What?”

“Your coffee. I won’t deliver it,” you said. “We had a deal, Rogers.”

“I know we did. That’s not what I - I have something for you. You can come whenever. I’ll be here.”

And then he hung up. Because Steve Rogers had many skills but carrying phone conversations wasn’t one of them. And maybe he was just a little bit nervous. Again. For no particular reason. 

Steve leaned out the kitchen door.

“I called Y/N,” he told Sam. “Let her into the back when she gets here, okay?”

Sam didn’t look up from his book.

“Or you could wait for her up here instead of hiding in the kitchen like a creep.”

“That’s…” Steve squinted. “Fair.”

He stepped forward, letting the door swing behind him, hovering just a few inches in front of it. 

“You have flour on your apron.”

Steve looked down quickly, swiping his hands impatiently over clean fabric before glaring at Sam again, who was smiling innocently. 

“What-”

The very childish argument was ended before it could begin, a cheerful jingle signaling your entrance into the bakery. You were wearing lipstick again. Because the universe enjoyed personally victimizing Steve. 

“Hi. Come on back.”

Without waiting for a greeting or your answer, he turned and disappeared through the swinging door. You stared at it curiously for a few seconds before turning to Sam.

“I was invited this time,” you said pointedly as you stepped around the counter.

“I’m getting you your own apron. This is getting ridiculous,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. 

“Better be a cute one.” 

The divine scent of freshly baked pastry greeted you when you entered the kitchen, instantly inspiring a smile.

 Steve was standing stiff and uncomfortable by the oven.  A baking tray rested on the stovetop, holding one extremely large turnover. 

Your smile widened.

“That’s a thing of beauty, and I’m very jealous. What did you call me over here for?”

Steve blinked at you.

“For… This is for you.”

“Oh! That’s very kind of you. What’s the catch?” 

“There’s no catch.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Steve shrugged.

“No occasion. Just… wanted to make you one. Sam used all the apples, so all we had was cherry. But you don’t… order… Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Keep talking.”

Steve narrowed his eyes in confusion but continued.

“You never order cherry. So I went to the store for an apple so I could make - What?” 

He’d seen you make all kinds of faces over the course of your strange and rocky friendship. 

Angry, challenging, suspicious. 

Amused, confident, joyful.

But this was different. There was a spark of something he didn’t recognize glowing in your eyes, lingering at the corner of your lips. 

You let out a breath. 

“Oh, God… I’m about to do something stupid.”

“What do you-” 

And Steve couldn’t even finish his question because you were looking at his lips. You were stepping closer. 

He had to be reading this wrong. Either way, he should almost certainly be saying something right now, but he never got a chance. 

Because you were feeling a little stupid and a lot impulsive, and this sweet and infuriating contradiction of a man had gone out of his way to make your favorite pastry when he should have been baking things he actually intended to sell, and honestly who does that?

So you kissed him.

Before you could think about it. Before you could talk yourself out of it. 

You kissed him. 

Your hands were on his shoulders, and his lips were far softer than you had expected where they rested against yours. But they weren’t moving. He wasn’t moving. 

It’s possible you stopped breathing for a moment. 

And you were about to pull away and make the fastest exit humanly possible out the back door when you felt the shift.

Tentative, as if half expecting a slap, as if this whole wonderfully stupid thing wasn’t your idea in the first place. 

A hand at your waist, one finger at a time before daring a full grip with his palm. So stupid and so very Steve, and as he felt your lips begin to smile at the gesture, he took it as further permission.

A delicate touch to your face, your neck, a skimming of fingertips over soft skin before this too solidified into something firmer. Holding your face, somehow both gentle and unyielding, keeping your still smiling lips exactly where he wanted them. And he did want them. That much he began to make abundantly clear. 

Apparently, Steve Rogers had other talents besides baking

Every touch was warm and respectful in a way that put butterflies in your stomach and made you want to stayed wrapped up in him for as long as you were allowed to. Every pass of his lips felt incredibly sweet, sharpened by the shock of new affection but still gentle, still careful. 

Your brain began to short circuit at roughly the same time you felt your hips back against the countertop. Though you’re certain you lost some time, you managed to recover enough of yourself to remember that you’d kissed him. He should be the one swooning, thank you very much. 

But he moved easier than expected beneath your insistent hands, hit the kitchen island harder than you intended, knocking a cutting board to the floor with a loud clatter that sent you springing apart with breathless gasps. 

As you both stared down at the cutting board like you’d never seen one before in your lives, the panic began to set in.

Steve’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushed. Your heart kicked into double speed. 

“I should go. I’m gonna go,” you said quickly, not daring to make eye contact.

“Don’t forget the-” 

Steve stepped forward, intending to wrap up the apple turnover for you, but you got there first, scrunching the parchment paper lining into a messy bundle and backing quickly towards the door. 

“Yep! Got it. Thanks for - Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

You left the bakery at a near run.

When Sam walked into the kitchen five minutes later to make sure his best friend was still alive, Steve was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the cabinets with a vacant expression.

“What just happened?”

Steve took a deep breath.

“Uh, well… I gave the… the thing, the…”

“Apple turnover?”

“Yep. That. That’s the one.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“And?”

“She said… ‘I’m about to do something stupid.’”

“Running out of here without paying for it?” Sam guessed. 

“Don’t think so.”

“Poisoning you?”

Steve tilted his head, pursed his lips. 

“Little bit. Maybe. Probably.”

“Steve.”

He blinked a few times before lifting a hand to poke at his lower lip.

“Something stupid.”

“What does that - Oh! Oh,” Sam said, a wide smile taking over his face as Steve just nodded, still staring off into space.

Sam nudged his leg with his shoe.

“You good? You need your inhaler?”

The dreamy expression vanished in favor of a frown.

“Shut up,” Steve said turning his head away. “…Maybe.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, well, well...

What are we thinking, friends?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tags: @shifutheshihtzu​ @internalbullshit​ @lilasiannerd-blog​ @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory​ @iwillbeinmynest​ @scotlandasshole​ @netflixa​ @hardcorehippos​ @singingprincessstudent​ @sophiealiice​ @blue1928 @tinuviel015​ @a-book-pressed-rose​ @bbparker​ @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun​ @feelmyroarrrr​  @orangespocks​ @multifandomgirl-us​  @buckybarneshairpullingkink​ @patzammit​ @pato-el-cerdito​

[annymation]

Okay, I know Valentine's Day just passed, but how would a Valentine's Day interaction go with Aster and Asha? What would each of them do for each other on Valentine's Day?

Sorry for the VERY late reply, haven't got much time to answer lately, and before I didn't have much inspiration for this one, but @uva124 gave me an idea, so here's a little Valentine's day story

Asha decided that for Valentine's day she'd make a painting for Aster, a painting of a field of purple aster flowers, with a beautiful night sky.

However, because she's quite the perfectionist, and not as skilled with painting as she is with drawing, she felt like the painting wasn't quite good enough no matter what she did. So for days before Valentine's day arrived she'd hide in her room trying to finish it, not letting Aster see it.

But then the day actually arrives and she loses track of time trying to finish it, before she knows it it's already close to night time

*knock knock*

"Asha? You're in there?" Aster asks worried from outside her room

"A-AH! Don't come it yet! I'm busy!" Asha has her hands and arms all covered in paint as she tries to hide her unfinished work behind a cloth

"I know, you said so earlier but... Valentine's day is almost over, do you wanna hang out?" Aster sounded a bit sad that they didn't even see each other earlier

Asha looks surprised noticing it's indeed sunset, she completely lost track of time "Oh no! Ugh I knew I should've used acrylic paint!" She says in frustration

(For those who don't know, acrylic paint dries way faster than oil paint, I'd know, I used to make oil paintings)

"What are you talking about" Aster says coming in the room, they see her covered in paint "*gasp!* You were painting!?" He smiles widely "I didn't know you knew how to draw AND paint too!"

"That's because I honestly don't know how to paint, this turned out a mess" She points to the canvas hidden behind a piece of cloth

"... Let me be the judge of that" Aster walks in and pulls out the cloth to see her art.

The night sky is full of white dots splattered around that do resemble stars, and the purple field of flowers looks quite messy because the flowers all sorta mixed together into one purple blur.

Aster looks at the canvas in awe while Asha covers her face in shame "It looks like a child made it, I'm sorry, I've wasted the whole day instead of spending time with y-"

"I LOVE IT!" Aster exclaimed hugging her tightly "It looks amazing! What do you mean "like a child made it"???"

Asha smiles at him, but she still feels insecure about the painting "I wanted it to be perfect"

They smile at her reassuringly "You don't have to be perfect, you just have to be you, and that's way more than perfect for me, okay?" he says while still hugging her

She blushes as a big smile stretches across her face, she hugs him as well "Okay heheh" she giggles a bit, feeling her heart flutter

"Now! It's my turn to give you a gift, come on!" Aster pulls her by the hand out of the room

They go to the cliff next to the tree Asha wished upon Aster

(I make a lot of romantic scenes take place next to this tree but come on it's a cool location)

They watch the sun set together, leaning on one another without really saying anything, just admiring the beautiful sight

Once the sun is gone and the stars start to appear, Asha says "That was a beautiful gift" holding Aster's hand

"Oh that wasn't my gift yet" Aster corrects her with a cheeky smile "OKAY GUYS! Do your thing!" Aster yells to the sky above them

Asha looks up, already excited to see what he got planned but... Nothing seemed to happen

"... Guys???" Aster asked the stars, already getting nervous they wouldn't do the one little favor he asked

Then, Asha sees it, a shooting star cutting through the night sky

"*Gasp!* You asked for a shooting star just for me?" Asha asks hugging his arm

Aster looks quite disappointed though "... No, I asked for a meteor shower, it was supposed to be A BUNCH of those, like come on, is throwing some asteroids around too hard???" They ask, frustrated that things didn't go as he planned

"Hehe you don't need to make a whole cosmic event happen to make me happy" She leans on their shoulder "I love just watching the sun set with you"

Aster feels his heart beating faster "And I love you"

"I love you too"

They kiss under the starry night sky.

A few more shooting stars can be seen passing by.

[anadxanax]

Celaena I —

Some branches of the story get lost over the years, despite her importance to the events that unfolded in the Dance of Dragons, Celaena Targaryen's name is not given due credit in any of the records made by the citadel's maesters. There are many justifications for this, but none of them please me so this is my tribute to the dream tamer...

Previously - Index - Next

The air was dotted with stars, their fire thousands of miles away illuminating the earth that burned like never before.

Fire, salt, tears.

Wind was nothing more than a memory.

The walls were damp, red, and moving like sea waves. Contracting and expanding, swallowing. The water that covered her from the knees down was bright green, so bright and beautiful that it made her want to cover herself completely in it, but she couldn't, something in the back of her mind screams that was dangerous to play with that.

Muffled screams outside remind her that she must keep going, she couldn't stop now. She needed to climb.

The girl climbs the narrow, damp walls, and when she finally manages to stand, the floor sinks beneath her feet. It's fluffy, lumpy and rough, there are traces of the green liquid there. In front of her, a narrow corridor of raw flesh stands, the sides covered in ivory white stakes that come from the floor and ceiling. Hot wind passes through the gaps between the stakes but doesn't burn her. Nothing can burn her. She's made of dragon's blood.

A gutural noise echoes up the hole she came out of and it contract's again. The girl turns and stares in terror at the sight: wild fire. It climbs the hole slowly and then expands. It wasn't green water, it was wild fire. The walls open and the fire covers everything in a strong and destructive breath. The ground above her feet disappears, she's falling and when she looks up she can only see the dragon that spat her out close its mouth and fly away rocked by it's withered wings. She screams, but the dragon doesn't comeback to save her.

Why doesn't he come back?! She was like him, her blood was fire too! Why didn't he come back?

Her skin falls apart, scattering into the air until all that remains are bones of her former self and silver hair. Warm wind embraces her in her fall. She looks up, seconds before being embraced by the ground, and sees the moon, full like never before, explode and expel a million dragons.

When the dragon's blood finishes its fall, the ground turns into ice and Celaena opens her eyes.

"The dragon..." Celaena screams sitting up in bed when he finally woke up. She was drenched in sweat, her hands were shaking and her breathing was uneven.

She was used to these dreams, the ones that seemed too real. When she was immersed in them she didn't know how to get out. Celaena knew they were just dreams, that nothing could hurt her body, but the mind... It was her mind she was worried about.

The light emanating from the window bathed the room in a silvery glow, the moon was full, huge like never before just like in the dream. Its comfortable glow contrasted with the infernal heat in the room, She was sweating so much that she had wet the bed sheets.

How disgusting, what would they think of her? She was no longer a little girl, she was already twelve years old and practically a woman. Imagine what they wouldn't think if they thought she still wets the bed when she sleeps? No. Celaena couldn't let the news spread. She got up and took the sheets off the bed throwing them in the fireplace so quickly that she didn't even needed to think.

As soon as she finished cleaning the bed, she looked for a new nightgown among the countless trunks that her servants had brought from Dragonstone. Celaena didn't understand why there was a need for so much clothing since they would leave shortly after the end of the tournament, still, she mentally thanked the maids every time she woke up sweaty at dawn and had a clean nightgown to wear.

Outside the Red Keep the city was in an uproar, the arrival of nobles from all corners of the kingdom certainly boosted local commerce and, of course, the festivities too. King's Landing was the kind of city that was alive at night, but Celaena's room only had the view of the Blackwater bay that ran slowly with the soft shushes of the water. She could hear the ordinary people in the city living their lives, screaming, moaning, laughing... she could also hear the dragons roaring in the pit and... no, this roar was too close.

Celaena's lost eyes turn to the moon through the window, full like never before, as if it would explode and expel thousands of dragons like in the dream the girl had just woken up from. There was a black spot in front of the moon, cutting it in a smooth and slow flight. The roar of that creature echoed throughout the Red Keep like a lullaby to Celaena's ears, she knew who it was immediately.

The Dreamstealer circled the Red Keep in the air as if it were his prey, his orange eyes swept the countless towers, gardens, gates and windows until they settled on the only thing he could recognize as his: Celaena. As soon as he saw her, he changed his flight path, diving towards the balcony where she was waiting for him with a huge smile on her lips.

His long wings swept the ground, spreading dust and star's as he landed messing up the little girl's hair and nightgown. He was young, so small that she was barely able to put a saddle on his back, but she loved him.

He was the most beautiful dragon to be born in centuries, the blue and purple scales contrasted creating an almost boreal effect never seen before. When he flew in the night sky the only thing that gave him away was his bright orange eyes that adorned his face like little suns. He was a wild dragon that hated being caged, but was also extremely gentle and faithful to his owner.

"Skoriot emagon ao issare, Dreamstealer?"

"Where have you been, dreamstealer?"

Asked the Targaryen approaching her dragon and touching its nose. There is more in dragons than ordinary men can understand and the Targaryens understood this on a certain level, their dragons might not speak but they always made it clear what they wanted and Dreamstealer wasn't any different. He tilted his head towards Celaena's body, poking her and then pointing back to the moon.

He wanted to fly.

"Nyke kostagon daor sōvegon sir. Se istia sagon isse zaldrīzes ripo."

"I can't fly now. And you must be in dragon pit."

She scolds him, but can't seem angry at all, just enchanted by the beautiful creature in front of her. Celaena always found herself admiring Dreamstealer and couldn't get used to how beautiful and unique he was, the smallfolk used to say that Targaryens were closer to gods than to men, and for Celaena that was true because there is no way that there is anything more divine than dragons in this whole wide world.

"Ēdā iā bantis ossȳngnon tolī?"

"Did you have a nightmare too?"

Dreamstealer grunts poking her again, he wanted to fly. He didn't need words to make it clear that he too had been disturbed by the world of dreams. Celaena's mother told her that in her first years of life she used to spend the nights screaming in her sleep, that she would be disturbed and woke up sweaty and shaking every night. These nightmares only calmed down after Daemon gave her the egg that gave birth to Dreamstealer.

The bond between them was remarkable, sometimes it seemed like he was more people than dragon, that he understood her like no one else could. When Celaena cried he did too, when he was sick he also weakened, and when she had nightmares he was also disturbed.

There were no records of such a dragon.

"Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys, yn kostā sōvegon isse lyks, ñuha byka mēre. Iksan ȳgha."

"The night is dark and full of terrors, but you can fly in peace, my little one. I am safe."

With one last touch to the dragon's forehead Celaena stepped aside to give him space as he reluctantly took flight. His long, shiny wings sweeping the ground. He was like a dream, but better than anything she could ever dream about.

"My lady?" the voice coming from inside the room woke her up and Celaena quickly turned her back on the balcony and returned to the room.

"Sor!" she scolded him as soon as she closed the balcony door and could look at him. She didn't know that man, he wasn't her sworn sword sor Daren Waters. "What makes you think you can come in uninvited?”

"Nothing, my lady" replied the man with a cheeky smile making a short bow. "Forgive me for coming in without asking permission, but I heard a noise and thought-"

"Oh, no... it's not your fault. Sor Daren should have warned you that I have these night terrors and might end up screaming."

The soldier nodded, he was gigantic and very beautiful. Celaena was used to seeing the same men every day, the dragon seeds her mother took in as her wards and common people who served in Dragonstone. That soldier was different from the people she was used to, he didn't have an ordinary face neither was Valyrian. He's features were something else, men usually made Celaena afraid with their perverted eyes that found pleasure even in a child like her, but his eyes were big and kind, and even if she tried, she couldn't feel afraid of him. It was almost funny how respectfully he avoided looking at her body, it made her want to smile.

"Oh, sor Daren warned me about the screams but there was something else a-"

"A big noise like thunderstorm coming from my chambers?"

"Exactly!" he responded clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eliciting giggles from the young lady.

"That was my dragon, sor..."

"Harwin" the nameless soldier finally introduced himself and Celaena couldn't help but echo the name, sliding it off her tongue. Harwin... "Exactly. Harwin Strong, my lady. And... a dragon? What was he doing here at such a time? Shouldn't he be in the pit?"

"He had a nightmare" replied the young lady, knowing it would sound childish, but with no better answer than the truth.

"A nightmare... just like you did."

"Yes, sor Harwin, just like I did."

His gentle eyes carefully analyzed the lady's strictly serious face, trying to distinguish if that was really true or if she was just trying to have a laugh at his expense.

"Impressive" he concluded after a few seconds of silence, shaking his shoulders and looking around. "So there's no threat against you in this room?"

"That depends, sor, are you a threat?"

"I don't think so, my lady" replied Harwin, bowing again.

"Great. Thank you, sor Harwin."

"At your service, my lady."

N/A: I know this may seem confusing, but my intention is to follow a POV structure similar to GOT, so yes, there'll be chapters from the pov of several oc's and maybe canon char's.

Also, again: please be kind. English is not my first language and is hard asf to translate, especially because some things sound great, like real poetry, in my language, but in English it doesn't work. 😭 (crying in latino america)

Continue in:

[v33n4-c4rn1s]

♡︎kitty strolls♡︎

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:

damien karras x reader

(I CAVED SO BAD HE NEEDS LOVE ♡︎♡︎)

based on a comment by @ashley-slashley

It was below freezing, cold enough to send icicles down the spines of anyone who stepped foot in the snowy weather of Georgetown, it was usually this cold, a snow storm here and there but mostly..it would go away after a day or two.

Leading man, Damien karras, a priest and a psychiatrist in one, he had just finished a few papers in his office. He crept down the stairs solemnly as he watched the snow fall, worrying about his dear mother, possibly considering bringing some coffee and cake to share with his mother, he figured it would be a nice surprise for her..he loved his mother truly..Ah but what flavour of cake would he get? he made his way to the large oak doors and opened them up.

strawberry cake? banana? chocolate? did he dare slide red velvet into his mix? well.. maybe some-

"Damien!!"

his thoughts were dropped to a halt immediatly, he jumped, surprised by the voice of which he couldn't recognise. He shook himself out of his little trance.

oh thank the lords! it was just [name], his sweetheart..his mother invited them to dinner, it seemed they'd be walking together.

"ah..there you are dear-"

he let out a sigh of relief..thank god it was just them, he almost had a heart attack..but didn't they look so beautiful in the snow? the way the white spots landed softly in their hair, like an angels blessing. I mean how ironic..they were his angel after all.

"I figured to drop by, since we're walking to the station and too your mother's home yes?"

they asked poileity..it was nice to hear their voice. He smiled, nodding at their question and gently grabbing their hand, starting their journey to the station, He felt like a lucky man, being able to have someone like them, was it truly a blessing? he was a man who'd lost almost every part of his faith and even himself, he forgot long ago about god but now he felt god had sent him a gift, a gift for all his devotion..could it be a parting gift? a thank you?

as he let his mind run he didn't notice that his lover had stopped in their tracks, a gasp leaving their lips. He panicked for a moment, thinking someone had startled his beloved he took a quick turn and came into a staring contest with a little black cat with a tiny dot on its neck..like a clerical collar?

"oh my god Damien!!"

[name] was smitten, love at first sight.

"ohh how cute! she's been following you dims!!"

the cat meowed immediately, reaching itself to Damien who hesitantly took the small animal in his arms, she looked at him, big brown eyes staring right at him.

"she is cute.."

he spoke softly as not to startle her.

"can we keep her? I've already chosen a name, molly!!"

[name] insisted..but Damien stood his ground and put the cat down.

"my dear she probably has a family already.. perhaps her mother is waiting for her? just like mine is for me- we have to get to the station.."

[name] sighed in defeat, allowing him to drag them too the underground station.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

As they waited for the train to strike past not a word was spoken. [Name] was thinking about the cat while Damien thought about what kind of cake he wanted to surprise his mother with.

"oh dims..-"

Damien raised an eyebrow at [Name's] tone before turning to face them, his gaze shifting to exactly what their eyes where on.

oh no..

there she sat, Molly. the little clerical cat..meowing at him.

"oh lord.."

he muttered, he turned back to [name] who simply pleaded with their eyes.

"..no-"

he spoke but his lover just ignored him, lifting the feline into their arms. their eyes practically sparkled, gazing at the tiny kitten, absolutely smitten. Karras' heart simply melted, oh god how could he say no now?

"..fine-"

he sighed, [Name] tilted their head.

"we can keep her.."

He smiled ever so slightly at the dozens of kisses being placed on his face.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

"mama?"

he called out, waiting for a response from his mother, he wasn't sure if she was awake..

"dimmy!!"

oh, yes she was. she grabbed his face, kissing all over his face as he laughed.

"hi ma, [Name's] just setting the drinks and food down.."

But mama karras was far to focused on the kitten in her son's arms.

"baby!!"

she exclaimed happily, scooping the kitten into her arms, she smiled widely.

"oh dimmy, it's looks like you!!"

she wasn't wrong..the black fur, the white neck dot and the brown eyes..

"actually Mrs karras..she's for you, her names Molly.."

Damiens eyes widened as [Name] spoke, was this their plan all along?

"for me? oh!"

Mrs karras was beside her self, Damien helped her back to her chair as she cradled the kitten while damien scooted off into the kitchen and turned to [Name].

"was that your plan?"

he asked, a smile gracing his features opening his arms for them. [Name] shuffled over, allowing damien to wrap his arms around them, he smiled softly.

"maybe..I mean, your mamas so lonely dims..she needed someone- or well.. something? I hope Molly makes her happy.."

Damien chuckled softly, kissing the top of their head.

"I'm sure she'll make my mother the happiest, your a sweetheart.."

he heard his mother singing songs in Greek to the kitten, clearly head over heels for the small feline.

"we'll sort out the all the other things like the cat bed and a litter box tommorow.."

[Name] muttered, yawing softly as Damien lead them to the small couch in the living room, laying back and allowing his love to make themselves comfortable.

"you've got a good heart.."

he let his hands rub their back as he hummed, listening to their breathing, the following words from his lover had his face a cherry red.

"mm..and I allowed you to steal it.."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡

good lordy alright, I caved, damien lovers come get ur food before I snatch it back ♡︎

(let me know if you spot any mistakes<3!!)

[humanerrorbutterflyeffect]

Prelude

Dawn cracks. You could hardly tell as the sun hasn’t peaked over the mountains yet. In the distance are gentle hums of arriving aircrafts in the distance. Those sounds get lost with the hustle and bustle of people walking and talking, loud beeps from the overhead speakers as announcements are made, spoons hitting teacups, all of which are unbearably overwhelming to handle.

Out of all the things he had accounted for, this is the one thing he didn’t think about. Even if he had, he quickly realised that the music he’d drown out the noises with would drown out the boarding call announcements. His knee kicks up and down anxiously as he yawns, absolutely knackered from the lack of sleep; he prays to Kigem that he can get at least a couple of hours of sleep on the aircraft.

His new boss paid for the business-class seat, so it should be fairly comfortable to sleep in… but what if it isn't? Having never flown in an aircraft before, he worries about if it’ll be neigh impossible to sleep due to various unforeseen factors: frequent turbulence, awful seats, loud children, seats that cannot even fit his tall stature…

He didn’t have long to find out.

“Now boarding business guests flying from Anerita to Endina at boarding gate 5.”

His ears perk up at the announcement, getting up and grabbing his suitcase as it’s repeated once more.

With each step to the front of the line, his nerves grow stronger, rethinking the past month to make sure he has everything he needs, knowing he won’t be able to afford a trip back home for a long, long time.

He checks the pockets of his tan, heavy cotton trousers for his passport, panicking at the realisation it isn’t there.

He checks the outer and inner pockets of his dirty white, light weight lab coat that extends down to the knees, with a hole in the middle of the upper left arm, showing its vintage nature. Not in the waist pockets, nor the right chest inner pocket.

While he uses his right hand to pat down his chest, checking if he somehow dropped it down his black, short sleeved shirt. As he looks down to look at his shirt, he stops as he notices.

“Oh,” he thinks, taking the passport out his mouth, “there it is.”

He adjusts his large, round, bulky googles to make sure they aren’t crooked. The purple lenses distort his eyes to appear as small dots. The metal rims are cushioned at the base, with the strap covered by his thick, bushy hair that flows down to his neck.

His well used, vintage suitcase is adorned with scuffs and dents across the worn blue leather body and golden metal corners. In contrast to its age, the address tag looks brand new, signed with his name but lacking an address.

His thought to open it and check for any missing objects is halted before he can even begin to start as the gate agent politely yells “next!”

He steps forwards, handing them his passport and boarding card.

“Name, please?” They begin typing on a computer as they look at their passport and boarding card.

“Victor. Victor Dontoya.” The friendly sounding gate agent eases his nerves, beginning to dawn a smile.

“Lovely name. Going to the lab, Mr. Dontoya?” They ask, Victor mistaking their small talk as interest.

“Yes, actually!” He nods with a cheery tone, or at least as cheery as you can get with his deep, typically monotone voice, “Well, n-not today,” he stutters, correcting himself, “I start work tomorrow. Today will be my last day here.” Victor glances out the window, as if looking at a dog he has to leave behind.

“Well, that’s nice!” Their small talk has become genuine interest, “What are you researching?”

“Plants!” He smiles at the gate agent, “they’re a lot more interesting than you’d-”

“Oh.” The interested look in her eyes quickly disappears as she cuts him off. “I hope you enjoy your flight. Next!”

Victor’s beaming smile fades into a disappointed frown, putting his passport and boarding card into his inside pocket as he walks down the boarding tunnel towards the aircraft, waiting in another line to get onto the aircraft. He’s happy it’s at least progressing faster than the other one, enough to where it feels like a slow walk than a start and stop; before he knows it, he’s already in the aircraft, showing his boarding card to a welcoming flight attendant so they can point to the direction of his seat.

The first thing Victor sees are the spacious first-class seats with a shrug. Too extravagant for his tastes. Victor considers himself a simple man, and the seats look far too large for him. Though, he does lament the thought that he might need to book one in future travels if business class is too snug.

While Victor is skinny, he is taller than most at 6-foot (approximately 1.82 meters) and has always had trouble sitting in the majority of non-adjustable chairs comfortably. Upon walking into the next cabin, he figures he must be in business-class when he sees the similar, but thinner, cubicle-style seats. Feeling anxious, Victor looks at the boarding card to find his seat number, comparing it to… wherever the number is. Not on the floor… not on the seats… not on- ah, there they are, placed on the lowered roofs above the seats.

He gives the numbers a quick scan as he walks past, checking the boarding card frequently.

E6-7… F6-7… G6-7… H6-7… H6-7. This seems to be it! Victor bends down to avoid bumping his head on the lowered roof as he sits down in his aisle seat. The first thing he notices is how roomy it is; stretching out his legs as far as he can comfortably. It would be roomier, were there not a suitcase beside his legs.

On the wall in front of him is a small, but perfectly viewable, TV with a footrest underneath it. On the wall next to it is a small door that, upon inspection, has two sealed bags: one containing a set of pyjamas and another containing all sorts of hygiene amenities he had no use for.

Next to that is a fogged window that he finds strange but shrugs off, looking below it to see a mesh pocket that contains safety card and a menu for food and drinks that, for the most part, aren’t to his taste.

Looking at the window, he notices the frame has a small indent on the top. Pushing down on it, he-

“AH!” he screams

“AH!” the woman in the seat on other side screams back.

“Oh Kigem, I’m so sorry!” He apologises to the stranger, grabbing his chest as he recovers from the scare.

“It’s fine, just don’t scare me like that again…” she looks annoyed as she also recovers.

“S-sorry…” Victor apologises again, partially putting the divider back up before, pulling it back down again. “Real quick, do you know where I can put my bag…?”

“Above your head,” she grumbles, going back to her newspaper before gasping to herself. “Wait- is this your first time flying?” Her tone is curious, with a hint of excitement.

“Yeah… sorry again for-”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” She tsks with excitement in her voice, getting up and opening a door behind the head rest to a storage compartment to get out her bag. “You can have my seat! Mine’s on the window, it’s a must if you’re travelling to Endina, especially for the first time!”

“Moving, actually.”

“Even more of a reason to have my seat!” Her excitement, as well as her insistence, is unmeasurable.

“Are you sure?” He asks nervously, “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” She waves her hand reassuringly, “I run a travel related newspaper, I go on trips all the time,” she humbly brags, “I’ll have the window seat on the way back anyways, ain’t no skin off my nose, especially when I have a rare opportunity to give someone the best first-time flight experience I can!”

“I… guess, then.” Victor is beginning to wonder if this friendly face is going to turn obnoxious quick. Out of all his worries, he didn’t think someone who might talk his ears off throughout the entire flight would have been one.

“I’ll try to leave you alone for the most part, just enjoy the view!” She smiles as she gets into the aisle seat, reaching across the open divider to grab her newspaper before closing it, along with sliding privacy a door he didn’t even know existed.

He walks past her seat and into the small corridor to his new one. It looks similar, except with the addition of the place behind the head that he quickly takes advantage of. He gets seated with a relaxed sigh, looking out the window at Anerita, his relaxation slowly turning into sadness as he realises this will probably be the last time he’ll ever see it with his own eyes. It’s all he’s ever known. He feels like he’s not just leaving behind his home, but his memories, most of himself. He wonders if this will be worth it as the anxiety kicks back in-

“Oh, one last thing!” The helpful blogger from earlier scares him from the pulled down divider. “The lock is by your head. Enjoy your flight!” She beams a bright smile before closing the divider, followed by a click of a lock.

A sudden buzz from the speakers on the roof of the cabin startles him as someone says something he can’t quite understand. Victor has been studying Endinian for a long time, so he isn't sure if the quality of he just couldn't understand what they were saying or if the quality of the microphone was awful, (assuming it was even Endinian at all). Shortly after, the TV at the end of his seat turns on, aided by the audio coming from the cabin speakers.

“Around two hundred and fifty years ago,” a mature, yet youthful, voice narrates as an animation plays, showing a silhouette of man climbing a snowy mountain “a man by the name of Venver Keya climbed the midpoint of one of the many mountains that surround Endina. On that snowy night, he looked to a nearby cave blocked by a rock for warmth. Moving the rock revealed something beyond our imagination: Kigem, the origin of the universe, trapped in the cave for millions of years. Out of appreciation of Venver, she told the whole world of her rescue, as well as giving him a kiss on the head.” The animation shows Kigem kiss Venver on the head, then panning to show the front of Venver’s face with the kiss in gold. “While Kigem may have returned home, her blessing has remained on the heads of the Keya family for generations,” the camera scrolls to the right, going past Venver to others from the Keya family, slowly increasing in speed as it passes a silhouette of each member of the Keya family, with only the kiss on the head staying the exact same. Eventually, it shows the final silhouette, then fading to show a plump, white woman that looks to be in their mid-30s. Her brunette hair is bunched up in a bun, held by a flowery clip. Her brown eyes are framed with purple eye shadow, complimented by her glossy lipstick and faint blush on her cheeks. Her outer robes fade from white at the top to purple in the middle, with her inner robe having a purple flower pattern on the left side and white on the right, with a black waist belt with red string tied in the middle. “I’m Keyla Keya,” she welcomes, standing in the aisle of an empty aircraft, “heir of the Keya family and all its subseries! As you should know, when Venver returned home, the world tried to give him as much as they could as thank you for helping Kigem, but he did not wish to be given help, opting to give help to those in need of it. We continue that tradition today through the Keya Foundation, and today we extend that help to you...”

“...Help make sure you have a safe and comfortable flight.” The camera cuts to an elderly white woman, around her mid-60s, displaying the name 'Kristen Keya', leader of the Keya family. Her grey hair is, like Keyla's, is also tied in a bun, but with the sides flowing freely down and over her ears. Kristen's green lipstick and eyeshadow are a stark contrast to her brown eyes, but match the knee length dress perfectly, lightly decorated tree patterns. Kristen looks comfortable in the first-class seats Victor saw earlier. “Before lift-off, it’s important that your tray is folded away and your window shutter is open. You can hide your tray by folding it in the extended armrest beside you...”

“...Or in the seat in front of you.” The camera cuts once again, this time to a formal, yet faintly gruff sounding white woman in her early-30s by the name of 'Ivy Keya', the youngest of the family. Ivy humbly sits in what Victor can only assume is economy-class. Her thick hair, black flows down her back and right side of her face, partially covering one of her brown eyes. Her robes, though a similar set to Keyla's, except with no outer robes and decorated with pink, same for her eyeshadow. All three members have the kiss mark on their heads shown proudly, like it was a badge of honour. Next to her is an elderly man, looking contently out the window. “It’s important you don’t leave your hand luggage in the aisle, so please stow them in the overhead lockers above your seat, or under your seat.” The footage shows Keyla putting two bags in the overhead locker, then Ivy putting a bag under her seat.

As the video drones on, Victor's gaze turns towards the window, beginning to wonder why people as famous as the Keyas would dedicate themselves to something so mundane. It's not like they need the publicity, their history is well documented and taught internationally. Perhaps he, like seemingly most of people, are apathetic to them. That gives Victor an interesting thought: how could people ever become disinterested in the living proof of a higher power? Despite his apathy towards the Keyas, he has donated to the foundation whenever he has the spare cash. He admires their goal, especially once they helped his town put out and recover from a fire that burned half of it down. When Victor gets to Endina, he wants to pursue the local customs, such as going to the temple cave and donating to the shrine every New Years, or attending one of the many parades. Maybe that will give him a greater appreciation for the Keyas.

As the sunlight finally peaks over the mountain, the runway has a beautiful glow and the windows of the airport a glistening shine. While not the best, this view makes it worth getting up at 4 in the morning, it makes him excited for what the view from above will be like. He can hardly believe it's already 9 in the morning.

Returning his attention to the TV, he notices Keyla holding a small, brown fabric pouch with gold-coloured laces, decorated with a white kiss mark similar to the one on her head.

“As the flight crew do a final safety check, we would like to ask that, if you have any donations you wish to give to the Keya Foundation, you can find a small donation pouch in the mesh pocket in front of,” Keyla narrates as the camera shows Ivy pulling out the small pouch from the pocket on the back of the seat in front of her, “or beside you,” she continues, cutting to Kristen pulling out the same pouch from the mesh pocket in the extended arm rest, similar to Victor’s seat. However, upon inspection, Victor sees no such pouch. “Any amount is greatly appreciated, and we accept any currency you may have on you. Even if it’s the spare change in your pocket, it’ll mean so much to those in need. From all of us in the Keya family, we hope you have a safe flight and enjoy your stay at Endina. And for returning residents, we can’t wait to welcome you home!”

With that, the TV turns off.

Despite his search, he cannot find the small pouch, deciding to get the attention of the flight attendant walking down the aisle.

“Sorry to be a bother,” he apologises, “but I don’t see a pouch anywhere.”

“So sorry, we no longer provide the pouches, but you are more than welcome to use the donation tray as you disembark!”

The flight attendant takes their leave, checking on the other passengers before the aircraft slowly starts moving. He watches out the window as he sees the aircraft moves backwards out of the loading bay, before turning and moving away from the airport.

The aircraft beings making humming sounds, confusing Victor at what the heck is happening and wondering if the sounds he’s hearing are normal, before suddenly… the aircraft stops.

Trying to avoid worrying, he tries to get as relaxed as he possibly can in his chair as he waits for what feels like forever until the PA system makes another noise. This time, he heard the flight crew loud and clear.

“We are cleared for lift-off.”

A loud, high pitched electrical sound is heard as the blades of the quadcopter start to spin. Although the cabin does a good job of dampening the sound, making it bearable to listen to, it’s still a lot for someone as inexperienced as Victor. Soon, the high-pitched sound is overpowered by the sound of the propellers at full speed as Victor feels butterflies in his stomach from the feeling of the quadcopter slowly, but surely, lifting off the ground. Victor’s eyes look towards the window as he sees the airport slowly lift out of view and the sounds of the aircraft dampening as the wind from the blades no longer reflect back onto the cabin, quickly becoming little more than background noise. As he looks out the window, seeing the quadcopter move up and over what he called home, that anxiety he felt earlier no longer lingers, those memories of the past become bittersweet, and the goodbye no longer hurts as much. That feeling of dread and worry is replaced with peace and excitement, ready for whatever new adventures await him as he lays back in his seat, sighing with a sense of content and relaxation.

Once the seat belt signs turn off, he gets out his notebook from his suitcase, pulls out his table tray and begins to write down notes for his big project to pass the time. Given he’s a new hire, he wants to start small by researching the Bluebell Rosequartz, a plant that surprisingly has little to no research despite its beauty. While it is more in his interest, Victor thinks of questions that would help secure funding. “What medicinal value does this provide?” “What causes the petals to have a sparkling blue and pink gradient?” “How does it react when put in habitats outside its own?” “Could you reconnect a severed nerve of a human with the stem of…” okay maybe not that last one. As much as he finds the idea interesting, he crosses it out.

Getting ahead of himself, he ends up writing ideas and notes down for his other research project ideas, eventually getting to the end of the notebook. His thoughts stop dead in his tracks as he looks as the last page. Turning the book upside-down, he sees the old scribbles and doodles of a simple robotic mechanism. He wasn’t always an aspiring plant biologist, he experimented with robotics before then but dropped out once he realised it wasn’t really a role for him. He thought that if he could rebuild the engine of his car, he could build a robot that could help mechanics by fetching tools. The skillsets were too different; plants interested him more anyways.

Not wanting to dwell on the headache that is robotics, he puts away the notebook and pencil just in time for the helpful journalist from earlier to gently pull down the divider.

“Hey!” She grins. “It’s time!”

“Oh, uh, hey. Time to land?”

“No, silly! Look out the window!”

Victor opens the window shutter and peaks down below at Endina, his new home. It’s much smaller than the view of Anerita, but still large enough to not see the whole country from the small view the window provides. The towns below are quite small, with plenty of grass land between them. It reminds him of where he used to live. As he looks closer, he can see tractors going around the farm as a dog chases animals back into their pens. He’s always wanted a dog… his dad was always allergic, and university never let him have one in his dorm. This time should be different. As he looks up, the small community towns become less frequent as places become more and more dense, until eventually he sees it: the National Institute of Science and Research. While it isn’t the tallest building in the country, it’s by far the biggest, with employees using scooters and rollerblades to get around the facility (or so he’s heard). Looking further ahead, he sees the coastline. He’s never been to a beach before! The idea of standing at the edge of the only continent on the planet is still so surreal to him. Soon, it’ll be within walking distance!

“We should be over it now!” She sounds excited, almost kicking her legs.

Victor, confused, looks down to see they're right over top a mountain, and right below he can see a small, wooden structure that stands at three stories tall on the east side of the building, with the west being one story tall, but much wider. Further up the east side of the mountain, about a 5-minute hike up, there’s a construction crew that seem to be installing solar panels that connect to a thick, long cable that run down the mountain to the back of the building. The construction crew and a plump person in purple wave at the passing quadcopter, the person in purple more enthusiastic than the others.

“So, whadya think?!” She asks with an impatient squeak.

“Wait,” Victor squints his eyes. He slowly starts to recognise the building; how could he not have realised it before? “That’s the Keya temple! And is that Keyla?”

“Keyla?!” She gasps, frantically trying to unbuckle her belt as she rushes towards the second window in Victor’s area. “By Kigem’s good graces, it is! How exciting! I’m jealous, you really got lucky today!”

“I guess so,” he nods for a moment before looking back up at the city, “you see the institute?” Victor points, even if she can’t see where he’s pointing to. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be having my first day there.”

“Oooooohhhh, won’t be long until you see the head Keya herself, then!”

Before Victor could ask for elaboration, the seatbelt sound plays as the accompanying sign turns on, causing her to immediately rush back to her seat and lift the divider back up. The flight crew announce over the PA that the aircraft is approaching Endina International Airport and will be descending shortly, asking passengers to get buckled up, close their trays, and put their seats in the upright position.

As the aircraft makes its way to the airport, unknown to anyone, Keyla is also starting an adventure of her own…

Sumate Junel, While I was overseeing the construction of the solar project, something rather strange happened. For a brief moment, I felt like I flashed back to the past, standing in front of a small, sad, young boy. I didn’t think of it much at first, perhaps it was a boy who was visiting the cave? Lots of children are scared of the cave below the temple. But, as I pondered more on it, I recall seeing him in the guest lounge after a party many years ago. Perhaps an early teenager? Either way, it was quite strange… I told Ivy about it and while she may know what I’m talking about, she wasn’t entirely sure. Mother and father did not share the same sentiment. Mother didn’t recall such a child, while father just, well… he just looked to mother, saying nothing after she shook her head. This memory feels like an itch I must scratch, but I don’t have the foggiest idea as to why. Perhaps this is something worth investigating, or maybe this isn’t anything at all, but what I do know is that I won’t find the answers inside the temple, but I might just be able to find them outside. Wish me luck. Sulame, Keya Keyla

<[Previous Chapter]< - >[Next Chapter]> - <<[Chapter 1]<<

[contemplationofapoint]

Below are the poems from the image above:

Contemplations (Of A Point)

The grinning prophet provides once more an open relation to a closing door.

Dramas in mind, maimed by today transcend through soft memories each ‘morrow.

Moved to introspectives sparked by each darkness, smile on smile on through the hollows.

****

Roll shut the drawer another body deceased. The spiral decapitated diffuses in space. Seclusion delusion fixing a place. Presuming control, a ridiculous weight.

****

Decorations of utility used not once today. Purchased promptly, I know not why. Wasted worry, money and time. Trained to perpetuate, consume, and die. Why stand in line, waiting to try?

****

Cursed by illusions lost in delusions dreaming the dots in my mind.

****

Transition through a life today, trained to find a reason. Remain too long, lingering happy honored to try the plays. Perhaps we devour a way.

****

To spiral realities inferred from a line, thanks for the grins conceived out of time.

****

Crunching Krispies, killing worlds Each bite a destructive decision.

****

“Time is money” a world insane. Brainwashed since, “How much for fire?”

****

A world to speak to, silence produced. Peopled by beings indifferent. Insanity hastened through gospel endeavors. Ending as is etched in my skull, “Send now your money prayer of faith.”

****

Infinite realms of repetitive dribble concerns for a moment in time. Questions eluded as points are passed through, lost on a circular line.

****

Diffusion from the thought intended. Focus found from feeling free.

****

Plainer life in fields of green. Graze on regularity. Spend a life, to carve a door. Never to pass through.

****

Alone in the darkness sifting my mind, feeling the gladness of love without bound.

****

I am happy. I am happy what a life I have found. I Know. I Know. --- I know how it sounds.

Below is the story of the models - the contemplation - etc.

The origins of this post would have to be Second Year Fall Semester in Architecture School at VA Tech circa 1988. In retrospect, it seems I may have been conducting a sleep patterns study on myself. For the better part of the semester, I would stay awake for three days straight, then have a normal sleep, and then stay up for another three days straight.

Near the conclusion of the semester, I pushed and was seemingly able to stay awake for five days straight or so. I say seemingly because although I didn’t commit to sleeping, I do know that I experienced some sort of ‘micro sleeping’ moments where I probably seemed to be basically awake however I would drop periodically into a deep dream state.

From outward appearances less than a minute of time would pass but within the dream state I experienced vast expanses of time elapse.

During the course of the semester as each third day occurred, I recall that the world was generally funnier from my perspective, and I enjoyed the humorous focused feelings.

Over the span of several days and weeks I would arrive in Lab at the Warehouse behind Lane Stadium around 10 each evening. We weren’t in Cowgill due to a lack of space.

Upon arriving at Lab, I would put on my music, get out my cutting board, plain white index cards, precision point X-Acto-Knife, and white Elmer’s Glue. Then I would proceed to make one of the models (images of which I have shared again earlier today) and leave it on my desk in the morning prior to departing for other daily obligations prior to return to Lab for the regularly schedule 1PM to 5PM Monday, Wednesday, and Friday Sessions.

I don’t recall discussing the models with anyone nor do I recall anyone asking me much about them however I got the distinct impression at the time that perhaps some discussion about them occurred in my absence.

What I believe was going on in my mind at the time and continues to thread through my thoughts is what can best be described as ‘The Contemplation of A Point’. The poem ditty verses mostly written during my undergrad years are likewise manifestations of ‘The Contemplation of A Point’.

The Text 'Point (geometry)' about Euclidean Geometry is relevant to the past and present. The first sentence “In classical Euclidean geometry, a point is a primitive notion that models an exact location in the space, and has no length, width, or thickness.[1] In modern mathematics, a point refers more generally to an element of some set called a space” says it all though the remainder of the Wikipedia post is instructive and helpful.

Particularly helpful is the second sentence: “Being a primitive notion means that a point cannot be defined in terms of previously defined objects. That is, a point is defined only by some properties, called axioms, that it must satisfy; for example, "there is exactly one line that passes through two different points".

It is interesting to me that such a complex and comprehensive concept as A Point is coupled with the phrase ‘Primitive Notion’ though in reading through the second sentence it occurs to me that the use of the word ‘Primitive; is perhaps intended to be synonymous with the word ‘Primordial’.

The definition of A Point as “That Which Has No Part” wholly lacking in dimension while at the same time being both infinite and finite and somehow seemingly fully occupying a specific and unambiguous X,Y,Z,Time Coordinate is in essence the starting point, journey, and conclusion.

A Point is One, Many, All, and One. Within A Point, the rules of reality breakdown and are pervasive. A Point is self-sufficiently-referential while being defined by external definitions of perception seemingly lacking in existence without them.

A Contemplation of a Point concludes that finite perceptions are constructs construed of the infinite and thus illusions committed to by the limits of life …

And Yet … And Yet …

Friday Feeling Bike Ride Wheeling Living The Dream and Grateful for Life Rules The Day in Every Way.

Time for my Morning Walk - I hope you all have a lovely, wonderful, and delightful day, weekend, week, month & year.

[thinplacesradio]

a field of white, three-bladed wind turbines at night, seen through a car's windshield. deep blue sky. the image is distorted by VCR static. white text reads:

[021] THE BALANCE. A CALLER FEELS WISTFUL. THE HOST WATCHES WINDMILLS.

listen here, or anywhere you find your podcasts. transcript under the cut:

[static, radio tuning]

[Traveling Sales Rep: Don’t touch that dial! We’ll be right back, after these short messages.] [static, radio tuning]

[click]

Hello and welcome to Thin Places Radio. I’m your host,

and it is the middle of the night. But don’t worry. You’re not alone.

[Thin Places theme] 

I’m coming to you awed from my studio, which is what I like to call this silent, endless field of windmills I’ve found myself at the foot of. I am smaller even than the dot at the center of the blades. Every second, they blink red, then go dark again. Red. Black. Red. Black. There. It’s like they’re all breathing together, or all looking out for something, a hundred eyes opening in unison.

Something is beginning to spin them off in the distance, coming this way. I don’t feel a breeze. The night air is still and empty. But something has them shuddering and turning, faster and faster, moving through the herd like a swarm of biting flies.

So… what is Thin Places Radio? Well, you can call in about anything strange that you’ve got going on in your life - feelings, omens, premonitions, hauntings.

Are you getting help from the other side?

Are you looking for something small?

Are you seeing someone across the street that no one else can see?

When the veil between worlds is thin, we get closer than ever to the strange and the unexplained - but also to each other. Call in, get it off your chest. Lines are open.

[click] [voicemail:]

I am feeling particularly wistful this evening, and wondering if time itself has lost its balance. Maybe, just maybe, there is something out there - smaller than we think it is. 

[click] 

You’ve got me wistful over here, too, caller – next door to you in the neighborhood of the cosmos.

I don’t think time has a balance – or, if she does, not one that I will ever understand.

[steel guitar - eerie, curious music begins]

There is no real moment where the hourglass is balanced. A grain of sand doesn’t suspend itself in midair. The next one is always falling behind it. We never have the present moment. And yet, the present moment is all we ever have.

Time doesn’t need to hold steady. She passes. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes relentlessly, but she never pauses, not once. There is life to live. There is rot to progress. There is hair to gray and water to flow and billboards to peel and bleach white. Even if you lose track of her, she never loses track of you. Well. Of most of us.

We’re all one of those little grains of sand, caller. Everything big is made up of something smaller, and smaller, and smaller. The windmill field is each windmill, and each blade, and each atom of metal, and each person who welded it together in the factory, who loaded its parts onto the train that would bring it across the country to this place, who worked the machinery to piece it all together. And each of those people is every moment they’ve ever been through, and every person they’ve ever loved, and every mistake they’ve ever made, and every bright thing that’s captured their interest or their ire.

Am I making any sense, listeners? Maybe not. I’ll try again. The big things are hard to touch. We let them pass through us and then remember how it felt. We keep the big things in the small things, because the small things are what we have. But that’s good. That makes them easier to hold on to.

I’m here. So are you. All the impossible things exist anyway. And thank God for that.

[click]

[a swarm of creatures]

[click] 

The windmill above me is creaking to life. There’s still no wind, but I can feel something moving, trying to settle around me. The red lights are flashing quicker, now, uneven. There’s a pattern to them that I can’t understand. I think they’re speaking, in whatever way they can, but they aren’t speaking to me. The invisible swarm passes right by me, and around me, but it doesn’t settle – except for the brush of one small animal-insect-something that does not have a taxonomy that lands on the back of my hand, for just a second. I feel chitin or scales or feathers or fur. And then it’s gone, and everything, including the windmills, is still again.

[click]

Thank you for listening, callers, and thank you for calling, listeners. I hope you feel a little bit lighter. I know I do. As always, our number is 717.382.8093. That’s 717.382.8093. Until next time. I’ll be here.

[static] [Traveling Sales Rep: visit us at the - diner just off -] [Various Garbled Voices: the - road - provides - the - road - provides -]

Thin Places Radio is a podcast written by Kristen O’Neal and produced by Kaitlin Bruder. The voice of Your Host is Kristen O’Neal.

Tonight’s voicemail was left for us by Kent. Editing and sound design are by Kaitlin Bruder, and the music tracks you heard in tonight’s episode are: the Thin Places theme, by Miles Morkri, and Unearthed by Miles Morkri. If you have a question to ask, a story to tell, or a suggestion for the host, give us a call at ‪(717) 382-8093. The lines are always open.

[Thin Places Theme outro]

[mangoslixes]

hello my darling, hope everything is going well 🧡 ok now let’s talk business: could you give me a list of your 5 top favorite podcast, with a little description and your impressions? Please and thank you I’m super curious 🧡

Hello my love! I'm so sorry for disappearing, I've been drowning in finals season. But I'm finally free and here to talk about podcasts with you!

My current top 5 favourites are:

Arden: A fictional podcast about people making a true crime podcast. And it's modern Shakespearean retellings! I didn't know that bit when I started the show and after a while I connected the dots and it was all so interesting. An investigative journalist gets stuck making a podcast with an ex private detective, and they "hate" each other, so for the better half of the episode initially, it's just them arguing over small things. So if you like enemies to lovers, Shakespeare, true crime and a bite at capitalism with the most weirdest ad breaks I've ever heard, I'd highly recommend.

Mabel: it's a horror podcast, and it's about my favourite trope too, i.e, a fucked up house. It's about a carer leaving messages to her client's estranged granddaughter, Mabel. The narrative is so beautiful and haunting, I love it and the house too! I love the idea of houses that are haunting rather than haunted, abandoned houses rejecting humanity, houses that love or hate you to a destructive degree, houses that give too much to the point that they stifle you, houses that take too much until there's nothing left of you but a forgotten carcass at the mercy of time, just fucked up houses in general.

The Silt Verses: do you like the horror around Gods? Yes, the idea of gods existing is about mercy and humanity and generosity etc etc, but there's also the horror of Gods. Gods that are everywhere, within everything, but they're hungry and they need to be fed, they need to feed. They're always hungry, always starving. Gods whose ideas of generosity and miracles and gifts are so far from our own morals and ideas that it's just monstrous. Gods are everywhere and they're hungry. Good existential horror, makes me feel like this 🧍🏽‍♀️ when I listen to it.

Out of Sight: this!! This one's a bit hard to explain, but it's basically about this supernatural investigator and his partner Lazari. Each episode has a different supernatural mystery but they have Lazari's own troubles connecting them all. It's all about creepy legends, ghosts and two people trying to fix those problems while making a podcast out of it.

The White Vault: See I got attached to all of the characters, and that's what I'd recommend you not do because this is a found-footage style podcast. Now that we've got that covered, it's got five seasons, and I'll tell you how it starts and why it's terrifying. It starts with a repair team being sent to an arctic outpost, where they get stuck and are isolated for a while. Here things go south, because this is a horror podcast, so yes, things go down south incredibly fast. The voice cast is amazing, the sounds are amazing, and the details are gory. Then when we come to season 3, it gets worse, because we realize the monster was the least of our worries. Me and @queridaz lost our minds over this and I've still not finished season 5.

[me-myself-and-my-fos]

Holiday Conflict

Pairing: Sam Abrams x Nicole Blake

A/N: First Sam fic! Got inspiration while at the store yesterday

“Halloween hasn’t even happened yet and you’re already looking at Christmas stuff?” Sam questioned.

He mentally cursed the store for putting the Christmas items so close to the Halloween items. Nic swore up and down that she was a focused shopper— only got what she was looking for and left. In reality it was 50/50 depending on how she was feeling. He lost count of how many times he’d weave through the aisles looking for his wife after she wandered off.

“Why are you even looking at a tree? The one we have works just fine,” he added, glancing down to make sure Joan was still beside him. And she was, mesmerized by the bright colors of the Halloween buckets.

“The one we have is as old as our relationship. I think it’s time for a new one, especially now that Joanie is getting older.” Nic’s eyes were fixated on the artificial pine tree with colored lights and pines dusted white to mimic snow. It was perfect and new and a bit shorter than the one they currently had. “Besides, your parents are coming to visit— this is the first Christmas she’ll get to spend with them.”

He sighed deeply at the reminder his parents insisted on coming to visit. “I still don’t see anything wrong with the tree we have.”

“I still think we need a new one. Oh Joanie, what did you find?” She walked over to them and knelt down beside Joan who held onto a plush, fluffy purple pumpkin basket that had a smiley face and was decorated with sparkly dots. “Do you like this one?”

The two year old nodded and grinned up at her father. “Puple!”

“I think it’s becoming her favorite color. Everything she picks out has been some shade of it,” Nic commented, picking Joan up and standing.

“I’ll go get a basket so we can finish shopping for the things we did come for,” Sam said. “No tree.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Nic smirked as he started to walk away. She reached forward and smacked his butt, causing him to stumble in his step and give a look of surprise back at his wife. She winked at him before looking at Joan. “I know all the tricks to convince him.”

“Daddy!” Joan shouted, reaching in the direction of her father.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, Daddy’s just right there, see? He’s coming right back.” Nic pointed in Sam’s direction. When he stopped in front of them with the cart Nic set Joan down in the shopping basket.

“I don’t think her being in there is the safest,” he said.

“We just have to make sure she doesn’t stand in the cart. I used to ride in the basket when I was her age,” Nic told him. “Don’t worry. That’s my job.”

He hummed and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes before they headed towards the food aisles.

“You know, I have a coupon for coffee creamer. Buy two, get one fifteen percent off. I figured you could take them to work since you’re always complaining about the cafeteria’s creamer—”

“Bribery won’t get you the tree, honey,” he told her amusedly. “Come on, Joanie, let’s see if they have your juice boxes.” As they headed towards the aisles Nic fell behind a few steps. Smiling mischievously, she shook her head.

“We’ll see about that.” She chuckled to herself before hurrying to catch up with them.

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