#no idea how to call this hill but i will die on it

[veikkoalen]

the inability of the fandom to find a balance between diminishing the role of the human willpower and diminishing the capabilities of extradimensional gods strikes again

[thepromisedbride]

i don’t talk about bridgerton on here but just to clarify. i will not be having ANY eloise hate on this account. i will bite.

[grimm-the-tiger]

Some of my favorite verses from protest songs, just because:

"Welcome home, my child Your home is a checkpoint now Your home is a border town Welcome to the brawl."

Anais Mitchell, "Song of the Magi"

"Suffocate me So my tears can be rain I will water the ground where I stand So the flowers can grow back again."

Aurora, "The Seed"

"Cheer them on to their rivals 'Cause America can, and America can't say no And America does, if America says it's so It's so."

The Decemberists, "16 Military Wives"

"See, my birds of a kind, they more and more are looking like Centurions than any little messiah And as I prune my feathers like leaves from a vine I find that we have fewer and fewer in kind."

The Oh Hellos, "Passerine"

"Was a long and dark December When the banks became cathedrals and a fox became God Priests clutched onto Bibles Hollowed out to fit their rifles, and a cross was held aloft."

Coldplay, "Violet Hill"

"Sieg Heil to the President Gasman Bombs away is your punishment Pulverize the Eiffel Towers Who criticize your government."

Green Day, "Holiday"

[elftwink]

just saw a mildly irritating post that talked about seeing takes about how sdv is actually bourgeoisie or whatever (am not reblogging because the rest of the post was honestly kind of unrelated and i want to talk about this sdv claim w/o derailing the rest of it) as if that take popped out of the void when i know for a fact that that take specifically is a response to the much more common "stardew valley is actually a leftist anti-capitalist utopia" type takes, a thing that is even less true about stardew valley than claiming it's bourgeoisie

like. the double standard of making completely detached from reality statements about how left-wing the ideals of stardew are, and then claiming people making the opposite take are armchair activists like... you don't think claiming that you play sdv because it fits totally with your leftist values (rather than that you play it because it's cute and fun or any other thing you are probably actually choosing to play it based on) is a form of armchair activism? isnt it more weird to need everything in your life to perfectly align to your politics, not in the sense that you select your pastimes based on those politics, but that you select them based on non-political criteria & then insist to everyone that Actually This Is Based On My Politics even when we can all plainly see that it's not???

stardew valley is a little farming sim. whether you like to play it or not says nothing about your irl politics. but literally just by looking at what you do in the game, which is produce things so you can sell them to make more things, you guys cannot seriously be claiming THIS is your anti-capitalist utopia and get weirdly mad and project this sense of armchair activism onto people who point out that it just literally isn't. sdv is a lot of things, but anti-capitalist is so totally not one. and i have no interest in explaining the intricacies of how the sdv farmer could be capitalist when they throw joja out of town, because frankly i have seen other posts about that and i have yet to see anyone involved in arguing for #sdvleftistutopia demonstrate any understanding of like. well like even the most basic understanding of class dynamics or that the word bourgeoisie has a specific meaning that is distinct from 'rich person' or 'ceo of corporation'.

also everyone takes it wayyyy personal like saying that sdv isn't anti-capitalist somehow translates to saying anyone who plays sdv and is anti-capitalist is actually a FAKE LEFTIST BETRAYING THEIR VALUES which is just not what anyone is saying ever and acting like they are kills the conversation dead. the conversation that YOU STARTED by claiming sdv was leftist or whatever

inb4 anyone gets on my ass about letting people do what they want, i LOVE stardew valley. i have played more than 1000 hours of stardew valley. if pointing out that sdv is capitalist makes you shit your pants then actually i kind of think you are a fake fan. what was all this about the spreadsheets to maximize efficiency. just like think for even 20 seconds about what you do in the game and how it may actually clash with your irl politics and hope for the world and ultimately imo that will make you a much better leftist than insisting that everything you do is actually already leftist simply because it makes you feel nice and cozy. niceness and coziness are not correlated in any way with 'correct' politics and the sooner you internalize that without viewing it as an attack on the things in your life that are nice and cozy the less we will have to have stupid conversations like this

also last thought it's totally your prerogative to turn off your brain and not think about politics while gaming but if that's your position then don't get on tumblr dot com to claim these things are leftist (how would you know, your brain was off) and also when people kept their brains on (regardless of what their conclusion was about the internal politics of sdv, or for that matter any media) and are trying to talk about it to each other, don't annoyedly get on your high horse about how actually you shouldn't have to turn your brain on. you don't have to. stop talking to me about it if you won't though.

[here-there-were-dragons]

after seeing the last full day of constant extremely vitriolic and accusatory rants acting like they're under seige from a ceaseless tide of hateposting compared to the like two more posts i've seen even mildly criticizing the new breed. yeah i'm convinced people are mostly just making up a guy to be mad at. and i checked onsite and unless the staff have deleted a bunch of shit again (which wouldn't surprise me, they're fond of their nukehammer) i didn't find very much of the Endless Flood Of Disgusting Hatred Tm there that people seem to think they're drowning in either, beyond like, a couple of people on the announcement post being rude, and like one disappointment thread where some of the posters were being shitty and fatphobic about it. if nothing's been deleted then the only way i can imagine the near-universal angry defensive outcry forming as it has is if people are going out of their way to interpret literally every single criticism as being secretly about fatness even and seemingly especially when it's not. and two thirds of the "defenses" are just basically "people aren't allowed to have different tastes from me or want different things out of a design" and are one step over the line in the notes of a minor art edit post off from being like that person in the keel announcement thread way back that went around insulting people's keel reinterpretations and calling them skin conditions. i've already seen people calling the person that edited the male silhouette just to move the tail back a little a fatphobe and an entitled whiner and bigot.

people going to legit war over this thing and the mere idea that anyone might not love it quite as much as they do. people defending a goddamned dragon png from what seems to be a largely imagined horde of dogwhistling bigots like it's life or death. acting like the lead actress of wicked when anyone mildly alters a precious dragon png in a way that does not even remotely alter it's weight. i don't know how to express how absurd all of this is to people who seem to genuinely think that the existence of dragon dislikers is a direct and personal attack on their spirit and sanctity of humanity and that this is some sort of vital symbolic battleground for ideological victory against the dark forces of bigotry and hatred. meanwhile i can barely even find anyone both on tumblr and on the forums mentioning the weight as anything but a boon. which again, makes it seem like people are going absolutely out of their way to interpret every single criticism-adjacent post as secretly being about fatness. i like the things generally speaking and i feel very clearly that it's completely impossible for me to say anything honest about some of my issues with them because i know for a fact that literally no matter what i actually say i have an issue with or how clearly i articulate what i'm talking about i'll just get a flood of people screeching about how "you can just say you hate fat people and go" and shrieking about how entitled i am and how i'm a hypocrite because someone else once said they wanted something that mildly contradicts the thing i'm saying i'd prefer and as we all know people you disagree with are a monolith and yelling about how no one is allowed to complain about biological plausibility or factual consistency because it's a "fantasy game" even if neither thing is literally ever brought up at all, and so on. because making sure that literally no one ever even mildly criticizes anything about a dragon png game ever is the single most important social issue of our time i guess. if you mention any issue that could be even remotely construed as related to their weight or body type on any level you get called a fatphobe and if you DON'T have any issue even possibly arguably related to their weight then they just accuse you of being a closet fatphobe anyway. lack of evidence of guilt is treated as evidence of guilt! you can't win! no one's allowed to dissent in the slightest without it being a secret signal of evil and a direct personal attack on Likers in general! and you're not allowed to *like* something unless it's completely unconditional with absolutely no actual thought or criticism either! the repeated posts i've seen as well about how "I'vVE never felt the urge to go on site just to say i don't like something, that's so weird, what's wrong with you?" are especially baffling and stupid as well, because how the fuck do you think the developers are supposed to figure out what people want and don't want if the only thing anyone's allowed to do is log on, post some largely contentless mindless positivity like "OOOGHOUGHHHGHG I LOVE" with zero delving into any real aspect of exactly why they like it, and never say anything at all when they don't? don't lie to me, i know no amount of constructiveness in criticism is ever enough for you no matter how much these types go on about how criticism needs to be constructive. it didn't take very long at all for the people yelling about concrit back in the day to jump all the way to "actually concrit is bad and evil and entitled too. no one is allowed to say anything unpositive about anything i like ever no matter how politely and constructively you word it". this is a problem fr's had for it's entire lifespan and all it's ever done is get worse and more gaslighty and goalpostmove-y. laying eyes on this eldritch horror of a fandom mindset feels unsettlingly like talking to my mother when she's at the absolute deepest point of her deluded violent manipulative everybody's-out-to-get-me-and-i'm-the-purest-saint-alive lunacy.

and i know if anyone manages to find this post (god i hope not) i'll just get someone putting words in my mouth going on about how i and everyone else just want to bitch about their weight and them not being "elegant" enough (and that apparently people have decided that's a secret code for Skinny now) even though i literally never said any of those things and neither did 90% of the other people i've seen even mildly criticizing anything

and i can't emphasize enough to any outsiders that might be watching that all of this is about a png of a grub-based dragon on a neopets clone dragon game, that i like and think represents a step in the right direction for breed design philosophy and body type variety

[foldingfittedsheets]

When deciding who to work for there is a sliding scale of employers that goes from lil mom and pop shops up to corporate monoliths. I have worked at both ends of the spectrum and I can pretty definitively say that tiny businesses are hands down the most insane employers.

The sweet spot is a place that has like 10-20 stores; that’s the best possible work environment. They’ll be polished enough to have protocols that make work structured, but not so bogged down with bureaucracy that nothing can ever get done.

This story is not from that sweet spot. This story is from my time working at Oil and Vinegar. Now, like many little franchise stores, the idea was solid. There was on tap imported olive oil and vinegar and it was really delicious. Top shelf. Unfortunately, each location was like the Wild West because owners varied wildly.

My owner was the human embodiment of Mr. Krabbs. His eyes were just constant dollar signs. Throughout my training he informed me of the price of every single piece of equipment I touched and how much it cost to replace it.

He had cameras set up to watch us, and an app on his phone to access the live feed. He’d call us to ask what we were doing when he’d just checked a camera to make sure we were being honest.

Now, the trouble was he had two locations. His location further south did amazing. It was way more centrally located and got three times the foot traffic. The one I worked in was in the snottiest mall possible in Arizona and consequently the rent was through the roof.

It was not going well for my store. We didn’t get as much traffic, so there was only so much I could do in a day. I could dust, sweep, and wait for customers. I read a lot and was frank when he called to interrogate me. I always asked for additional tasks but he never had any. What could I do to prop up a failing business?

But this man was convinced there was some Secret Reason that the store I was in was doing worse. He crunched numbers, looked at staff, and eventually hit upon the most insane possible solution.

We used too much toilet paper.

We were probably stealing toilet paper! Bleeding him dry one single ply square at a time! How dare we need to use the bathroom?! His south location used half as much toilet paper as we did, we must be thieving little monsters!!!!

Friends. The south location was populated entirely by men. My location had three people on staff who had to sit to pee. It was so blindly transparently the source of the discrepancy but this man was convinced we were making off with toilet paper to bankrupt him.

So he implemented what he believed to be an entirely reasonable response to this base treachery. We were allowed to have one roll of toilet paper. At any given time, one roll was permitted to us. This was so transparently unhinged that we protested but he insisted. If we were low on toilet paper we needed to call him to drop off a roll that he brought from his home. Smiling jovially, he assured us he lived so close by that it would be no problem!

When we needed to call him often for more he started tearing his hair out. What were we using toilet paper for?! Why wasn’t his genius plan to stop our scandalous waste working??!

Finally, the manager, the only man on staff had to pull the owner aside and be like, “Look, man, their bladders are smaller. They need to wipe every time they pee. They need to pee even more on their period. Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

Yes. It was. The manager was fired unrelated reasons and denounced as a traitor. The toilet paper ration lasted until I quit and probably until the store closed six months later.

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 12) [note: trigger warning for a pretty rough spanking scene with a belt and minimal aftercare. if you need to, you can skip to the midway point (there's a line between the first half and second).]

first chapter >> last chapter

-

He keeps your hands tied behind your back on the ride home.

All that does is confirm the fact that he must know. Graves must have tracked him down or perhaps he was approached by someone who did consider your sudden arrival in town suspicious. Why else would the sheriff chase you all the way into the mountains on horseback and then take you back with him? He would’ve within his rights to leave your thieving self to wander alone in the woods and succumb to the elements.

John doesn’t say a word the first hour of the ride back. You can feel the anger emanating from him though. He almost shakes with it. His anger somehow upsets you more than whatever is left to come. 

“Anytime you wanna start talkin’, I’m all ears,” John finally says, breaking the silence. 

You keep your lips pressed together, stubbornly silent. There’s no use giving yourself away before you’ve learned how much he knows. You haven’t built this life of yours with loose lips. 

“I don’t know what in the Sam Hill has gotten into you,” he continues, and his voice is cobblestone tread rough in the night. “Running off all by yourself. There ain’t nothing out in these parts except outlaws and highwaymen. There are men out here that’d love to get their hands on a woman like you—not even a knife to defend yourself with. You haven’t even got a scrap of food on you, never mind water. You’d’ve been dead in a week if the men out here hadn’t picked you off themselves.”

His words make your stomach ache. You know that there are worse things out there. A thousand gruesome ways to die. You’re less of a lady than John might think—you’ve heard stories. You’ve brushed close to that reality yourself. You wonder how he’d take it if you were to tell him about what had happened back east. 

Maybe running away this time hadn’t been your smartest idea, but it had been your only. You can’t fault yourself for the instinct to survive. 

“I know,” you mumble, dropping your chin to your chest. 

“You gonna explain to me why you stole my horse and ran off in the first place?” he asks. 

It’s the strangest interrogation you’ve ever heard of—sitting on the same horse with your back to the man questioning you and your hands tied together at the wrists. You wonder if you leaned back whether you’d feel his heart beating furiously in his chest. 

You remain mulishly silent though, reticent to answer the question.

“Maybe I’ve been spoiling you,” he continues, trying to rationalize it to himself. “After the fuss you put up those first few days, I thought a bit of structure and discipline would do you well, and it did. Giving you a bit of slack was my mistake.”

You frown at that. Those don’t sound like the words of a man with any knowledge of the circumstances leading to you running off. He might not even have come across Graves at all in the hours since the man made his appearance in the general store. Otherwise, you can’t imagine how he wouldn’t make the connection. 

Still, you can’t make yourself come right out and say it, even though every iota of your being aches to let the truth out. Call it nerves overpowering the need to be truthful and good. You vacillate between honesty and self-preservation, but each avenue feels like being dropped into a nest of vipers. 

But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. If he knew, he wouldn’t question you like this. It’s a boon you can’t give up, not yet. Not when the thought of his inevitable righteous fury fills you with dread and self-loathing. 

“I don’t have to explain myself,” you spit out suddenly, and it’s not you saying those words but something ugly and sad in you. “You’re not my owner.”

“I damn sure am your husband though,” John growls, winding his free hand around your hair to tug you back into his chest. “And I know these parts far better than you, little miss. Beyond running off on me for no good reason when I thought we put your reticence behind us, you went and put yourself in danger the likes of which you couldn’t even fathom.”

“I’m not an idiot,” you snap. “I know what men are like.”

“You’re telling me you pulled that stunt knowing what kinda danger is out there in the woods?”

“I wasn’t thinking!”

“I know you weren’t,” John grunts. “That’s the issue.” 

The rest of the ride home is uncomfortably quiet. John keeps one hand clamped on your waist while the other holds the reins of both horses, the two walking alongside each other back down the trail towards the house. The ride home is a lot longer than the ride out into the woods since John refuses to let either of them go faster than a slow trot while your hands are tied behind your back. 

He snorts in derision at your suggestion to undo your binds. “That eager for your punishment?” 

That gets you to zip your lips. 

When you get drowsy, John tips your head back and makes you sip from his waterskin. His hand fits carefully around your throat to hold your head in place, his fingers curling around to just graze the nape of your neck. Your throat pulses under his palm when you swallow. It’s far too intimate for how restless you feel, damn near shaking out of your skin, but it briefly shushes the voice in your head until he pulls his hand away. 

A shadow under the doorway of the house startles you at first before it takes a step into the faint light of the setting sun and you recognize the bristly blond of Simon’s shorn head and the red bandana shrouding the bottom half of his face. The tension ebbs back into you when you realize with creeping humiliation that the black horse you rode home on must belong to him. 

He watches the two of you approach with predictable disinterest, his eyes betraying nothing. The shame is excruciating. 

John brings the horse to a halt some feet from Simon, not bothering to greet him. You wonder if it’s the anger choking him or if this is just routine, men trading favors in silence lest a word in gratitude break the spell. After dismounting himself, John helps you down, all but picking you up and lifting you off the horse. 

Simon doesn’t say a word to either of you when he takes the reins from John’s hands, giving him only a curt nod and you a cursory glance before leading his horse away to mount. He doesn’t spare you a backwards glance before taking off back towards town. You watch him over your shoulder while John guides you up the porch steps and into the house, until the shape of him disappears into the horizon. Then the door shuts behind you. 

Alone now, your attention turns back to John. He stares down at you consideringly, a hand planted on the door he just shut until he lets it fall to his side. You can see the gears turning in his mind, weighing something out. 

It wouldn’t be right to call it anticipation; it’s not quite dread either. 

“I don’t make idle threats, you know,” he says, apropos of nothing. 

His words make you frown until you glance down to find him undoing his belt. Your blood turns to ice. He tugs the thick strap until it comes sliding out of each loop around his waist. The buckle rests heavy in his palm, thick fingers curling around it, and when he bends the belt in two, you already know that he intends to follow through with his threat from earlier, the one you said you’d gut him for.

“I’ll scream,” you warn, heart in your throat. It almost chokes you. “I mean it. I’ll scream like the devil.”

“Don’t go makin’ no empty threats now, darlin’,” he says in a low voice, almost taunting. You can hear the hard edge in his voice though. It’s not something he craves, but he’ll take it. 

“You touch me with that thing and I’ll never forgive you.” 

John’s eyes go hard. “I’ll just have to take that chance.” 

And then he’s on you.

He hooks an arm around your waist when you try to rush past him back out the door and it forces the breath out of you. 

You struggle as best you can with your hands tied behind your back, trying to wriggle out of his hold even as he heaves you up into his arms and climbs the staircase towards the bedroom. The steps creak under the added weight of you in his arms. The screams come tearing from your throat, ripping your vocal cords and nearly sending you into a coughing fit. 

“Let—me—go—” you shriek, kicking out wildly, hoping to catch something that’ll make him lose his balance. 

“All that squirmin’ ain’t making me feel more merciful,” he growls. 

John kicks the bedroom door open with his foot when he reaches the top of the staircase. The room looks ominous without the oil lamp lit, the shadows growing in the corners swallowing up the end table. The bed is just as you made it this morning, the sheets pressed tight and neat, and you only get a second to take that in before he marches towards the bed and throws you down onto it.  

You hit the bed hard, bouncing slightly. He sits down heavily enough to jostle you and when you try to roll away on instinct, a hand catches you by the bicep and pulls you back. He hauls you across the bulk of his thighs this time, far different from your first meeting back in the sheriff’s office all those weeks ago. Your feet don’t even touch the floor this time around, dangling in the air and flailing for purchase. 

“You brute—you bastard!” you screech.

“I’m not gonna be as charitable this time,” John says, yanking your dress up and your drawers down until your bare bottom is exposed. You gasp at the cold air, murmuring something like please, please, please under your breath. “Even if I knew why it was you decided to run off, that doesn’t excuse the fact that you did. You coulda been hurt or worse out there, darlin’, and I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m gonna make sure the lesson sinks in this time.”

He folds the leather belt to hold it in one hand, leaving the other to pin you down over his thighs, making sure you don’t wriggle out. The leather is cool at first when he drags it over your butt. It makes your breathing pick up. It’s so gentle that you can almost trick yourself into thinking that it’s all he intends to do. 

The first lash comes so quick that you barely register it. The second knocks the wind out of you, and then the pain sets in. 

It stings something fierce. Where his palm hurt that first time he bent you over his desk and spanked you, the belt burns. It goes deep and it lingers when he pulls the leather away from your stinging bottom. 

“Hurts like the dickens, don’t it?” John asks, not bothering to wait for confirmation before bringing the belt down again. “You’re lucky it’s only ten this time.”

You howl into the bedsheets, eyes tearing up and spilling down your cheeks. When you try to cover your ass with your bound hands, John grabs them and pins them to the small of your back. 

“What’ll you never do again?” he growls. 

“I—I’ll—”

“Say it, darlin’: I’ll never run off on my own again.”

“I’ll—n-never gonna—oh, it hurts, John—please—”

At some point, you must say the words he’s looking for. You lose count of how many times his belt has struck across your ass. Like thunder coming after lightning, you feel it and then you hear it. The sharp snap comes as a second wave of agony in and of itself. 

Your throat is stripped raw by the time it’s over. The aftermath finds you with a puddle of drool under your cheek, hair matted to your face. Sweat slicks the backs of your thighs and down your spine. Even the gentlest brush of John’s hand over your backside, the belt deposited off the side of the bed, makes you flinch, the skin there tender to the touch. You’ll surely feel it deep in your bones come sunrise. 

Too exhausted for anger, all you can do is lie there. It sits heavy in your stomach though, a pit at the center of you. You want to say, who gave you the right? The answer burns a ring around your finger though. You want to say, you don’t understand, it had nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with him and you. 

You can tell he wants to say something. It gets choked in his throat, but you can hear it in the way his breath draws in, like he’s trying to coax it from his chest but it simply won’t come out. 

“Stay right there,” John rumbles instead, shifting you onto the bed to let you lie on your belly. 

You moan in pain when he moves you, sniffling into your arms. The crook of your elbow is sticky with your tears and snot. 

The bed dips under his weight when he comes back. You flinch violently when he draws the skirt of your dress up again and smooths his hand over the tender cheeks of your backside, spreading a cool salve over your skin. The first touch of his hand makes you hiss, tears beading in the corners of your eyes again, but then the cool sinks in, alleviating the ache. 

He does that for another few minutes in silence. Gentle, tentative touches, only stopping when the salve has been spread evenly over your bottom. He’s quiet when he shifts you up the bed until your feet are no longer dangling off the end. You’re distantly aware of him taking off your shoes and tucking you into bed, but the events of the day have finally gotten the better of you. It would be easier to push a boulder up a hill than crack even one of your eyelids open.

Time passes slowly; sluggishly. Your thoughts can’t quite catch up with it, either too quick or too slow. You’re stuck in thoughts of the desert, caught in a sandstorm that manifests too suddenly for you to take cover. All you can do is close your eyes and wait it out. 

Morning comes like a brutal summoning into the waking world. 

It hurts, but you expected that. Before your eyes even open, you’re aware of a throbbing pain coming from your backside. You wince when you shift to your side, squeezing your eyes tight. You contemplate rolling over and taking your chances with John’s temper. The thought isn’t as appealing in the light of day though. 

It takes some time to get out of bed and when you do, you have to step tentatively from floorboard to floorboard, the ache making it decidedly uncomfortable. You can’t imagine what sitting down will be like. Riding a horse is just out of the question. 

From the bedroom window, you see John standing in front of the house with Simon, back again not even twelve hours later. With the window closed, you can’t hear their conversation, nor can you read their lips. Their exchange doesn’t last long though. After another minute or so, and a nod goodbye, Simon walks back over to his horse standing nearby and lifts himself up and over onto the saddle, taking off towards town. 

When John turns back towards the house, you see him glance up towards the bedroom window where you stand. The circles beneath his eyes are dark, pronounced. On another day, you might’ve ducked out of sight or jumped away from the window, but now you hold his gaze. 

He breaks your stare first this time, heading back inside. It’s less satisfying than you thought it’d be. 

You spend the day resting in bed and avoiding John for the most part. He spends the majority of the day out of the house. You hear him downstairs in the kitchen around midday, fixing himself up something to eat, and you listen attentively to the scrape of the chair across the floor and the pan on the stovetop. Like the day he brought you home, he brings you up a tray only to leave it at the door, rapping the door with his knuckles to let you know before heading back downstairs. 

When he comes up for bed, you’re already lying down with your back to the door, the oil lamp left unlit. John doesn’t say anything to you as he changes into his nightwear. He smells fresh when he climbs into bed, like he bathed in the creek out in the woods. You breathe in deeply, trying to keep your breath quiet enough to not disturb the silence. The pillow under your head is saturated with his scent. You turn your nose into it when he lies down on his back instead of curling into you like he usually does. 

Your chest aches at that simple denial. There’s a wall between the two of you and you know where it came from. Any trust that you’d built lies in ruins now. 

Perhaps that’s not quite right though. It’s a romantic notion that you’ve been building something together all this time, but it doesn’t feel right now that you have the wherewithal to look back and reflect. All this time, whenever you’ve touched, you’ve held him steadfast and at an arm's length away, stopping two degrees short of intimacy. 

Deliberately effusive; and worse, you’ve called it affection. 

The tenderness in your heart is the worst of it. There’s a bruise there, and it’s been there awhile. It’s only grown with your recent troubles. You tell yourself every year that you’ll air it out come spring, but then the winter comes and it freezes over again.  

The pillow under your chest grows damp with your tears. 

Your dress the next morning is cornflower blue. The wheatfields are golden stalks swaying in the breeze. It’s a pleasanter day than how you feel. 

The ride into town is as painful as you thought it might be. You wince with every stride, your bottom still tender as a rose. John’s arm tightens around your waist when you squirm, like you might slide off the saddle and try to flee again, and you bite your lip to hold back the urge to snap. 

The little bit of independence you’d grown to enjoy is snatched away from you. You expected that as well, but that loss of privilege comes with a biting ache. You fight the urge to gnash your teeth and bark at him that you’re not a child when he grips you under the arm and leads you down the road. It wouldn’t do you any good. 

When John leaves you off at the general store, you’re surprised to find Kate back, hale and hearty. She looks up when the chime over the door jingles and raises her eyebrows in greeting. The sound makes you flinch, memories coming back unbidden. 

You look over your shoulder to say something to John before he leaves, but the door is already closing behind him by the time you turn around. Your lips are pursed on a word that dissolves in your mouth. It has a bitter aftertaste. 

“Thought you wouldn’t be back for a few more days,” you say instead, turning back to Kate. There’s already a chair pulled up for you by the wall and you make yourself comfortable there, grimacing at first when your sore backside touches the wood before settling in. 

She shrugs. “Plans changed. Gaz and I made it back late last night.”

You frown. “Gaz?”

“Kyle Garrick. Sorry—slip of the tongue. You’ve met him already. He used to go by Gaz way back when.”

“Way back when?”

“Not my story to tell. You should ask one of them, if you’re curious.”

You are, but not enough to ask. “Maybe.”

The two of you lapse into silence after that exchange. Before leaving the house, you remembered to bring with you some needles and wool to pass the time. They’re not as familiar in your hands as you’d like them to be, but you suppose, barring the possibility of Graves or another bounty hunter showing up in town to cart you off, you’ll have time to learn. 

The thought leaves you anxious. It feels distinctly more possible now. 

“You met Miles while I was away?” Kate asks, out of the blue.

Your head comes up at her question. “Miles?”

“He was minding the store for me while I was away. Said you came in the other day.”

You swallow reflexively. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I did meet him. I didn’t stay long, since you were gone and all.”

She hums and looks back down at the book in front of her. You feel nervous all of a sudden. 

“He said you were very helpful,” she says abruptly, breaking the silence. You flinch. “Told me some gentleman came by with a warrant for a murder back east and you were kind enough to take it to your husband for him so he could keep minding the shop.”

Your throat constricts. She pins you under her gaze, unblinking eyes staring into yours but not looking for anything. Wispy blonde bangs brush along her forehead when she tilts her head ever so slightly. 

You nod instead of answering. 

“Did you give it to him?” she asks.

“I didn’t have a chance to. The day got away from me,” you say tersely. 

“I heard something about that. Kyle said John had to borrow Simon’s horse the other day. Said something about him taking off in a hurry.”

Again, you don’t answer. It feels like without knowing it, you’ve crossed over a threshold. 

“Do you still have it?” Kate prompts when again you don’t respond. You don’t tell her that you don’t because in all the fuss the other day, it must have slipped out of your pocket and drifted off into the wind. “The warrant?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. 

“That’s alright. I have a good enough idea about what it might’ve said.” 

Sweat beads on your upper lip. She all but says it outloud. You’re as still as a ferrotype under her gaze, imprinted in place, unable to move so much as a muscle or force a word past your stiff lips. 

“You’re under no obligation to tell me or anyone,” Kate says, and her voice is suddenly gentle, softer than you’ve ever heard it before. “I’m sure you had your reasons. I won’t be telling John, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh. Thank you,” you breathe, throat so tight that the words almost don’t come out. 

It’s the closest you’ve come to admitting to it, tangentially or not, and even now it’s spoken only out of the corner of your mouth. You don’t think you have it in you to recite the events sequentially. Even in the privacy of your memory, it comes piecemeal, in fragmented images that flicker across your mind because maybe to remember it whole would be too much. 

You don’t say much more after that, and neither does Kate. That wasn’t the point of bringing it up, you think. You'd know if it was. 

When John comes to fetch you at the end of the day, you leave without saying goodbye to Kate. Only a stiff smile before heading out on your way. If she returns your smile, you don’t notice it. To John, you simply duck your head and follow him out the door, letting him help you up onto the horse without a word. 

If it bothers him that you refuse to speak to him, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s so many steps back that you might as well be back where you started. Maybe even further back, a voyage gone so wrong that when you look over your shoulder, you can’t make heads or tails of where you came from. The trees from the other side of the trail never look quite the same. 

If you could open your mouth and say it, you would. If you knew he’d listen. But you don’t think John is that kind of man. Against the gold of the setting sun, he cuts a figure from times of yore. He speaks plain while you tend to speak in fricatives and bilabial stops, incapable of enunciating the words. 

You feel like a wound on the world. Getting it wrong again and again. 

It’s an old pain, one that started back when you were too small to hold it all. Now, you’ve grown large enough to hold it, though it holds you back in turn. You remember your parents studiously ignoring first creation like some noxious cloud billowing from the chimney. There’d been too many children for them to care about the runt. Shipped off to your aunt’s and uncle’s just for the cycle to repeat itself. 

It’s an old grief, this one, friendly because it nudges at your hips when you brush by, striking in the blue-green. And when it burns, it burns.

“John, I—” you say when he helps you down back at the house. 

He stares down at you, waiting you out. Your mouth goes dry, the truth beyond your grasp again. Your heart aches when his brows furrow and the lines around his eyes crease again, frustration welling beneath the surface. 

You understand. It sits under your skin too. 

"Go inside," he says instead when you don't go on. "I'll bring in the horses and start supper."

Your God sits at the edge of the bed, wholly lacking praise. It’s not His fault that it’s been awhile. These days, you can hardly muster up the energy to say hello. You gargle saltwater before you bathe and scrub your skin free of blood, waiting for the next morning to come.

And you think, lying on your side while John sleeps on the other side of the bed, wouldn’t it be lovely to get it right now, rather than in retrospect?

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP: Magic Older Brother

It happens the day of his high school graduation because Casper High is cursed, and the curse personally targets Danny. Danny doesn't care what anyone says. He will die on that hill.

The school is cursed, which is why he turned into a halfa in his freshmen year, throwing his life into chaos all throughout sophomore and junior year, and now that he was finally leaving it, this happens.

An attack by a ghost he has never seen or met before. She calls herself "Lady Gotham," and her name doesn't hint at her power or obsession, unlike other ghosts.

He finds it rather rude of her to burst the graduation ceremony just as they called his name.

Danny knew he could take her- she felt more like a city spirit than a ghost, which means she was terribly weak against Phantom- but with so many witnesses, he hadn't been able to transform. Instead, he was blasted with black tar paste that reverted him to the age of ten, and while he stumbled on tiny legs, she took him and threw him into a portal.

He had attempted to shift into his ghost side as soon as he landed, but something was anchoring his core. It felt like he had been hit with the Plasmius Maximus- his powers were out of reach.

He would not be able to take her in a fight after all.

Thankfully, she had been distracted by his parents attempting to rescue him, so she got trapped on the other side of the portal. Still, he felt it would be safer to get as far away from the random field she kidnapped him to before she could return.

So he was running in an unknown storm, to an unknown location from an unknown city spirit instead of having his graduation party with his friends and eating cake.

"Casper High just couldn't give up even on the last day," Danny grumbles while running through the pouring rain of a terrible storm, trying to see through the water and the howling wind. He was drenched head to toe in the water, and he could feel even his bones shaking. He hasn't been this cold since the day his Ice core materialized.

Up ahead, he spots a building. Praying they will take pity on him, he pushes himself to go faster until he's at the door, banging on it with his tiny fists.

"Is someone there? I need help!" He yells as the wind picks up again, almost throwing Danny off balance. "Open the door, please!"

The door cracks open, and one tiny blue eye peeks up at him briefly before it swings open. "Come in! Hurry!"

Danny doesn't need to be told twice as he all but throws himself into the giant building, away from what he is starting to suspect is a hurricane. He turns around to find a little boy- he couldn't be older than nine- struggling with closing the garage door. Danny is quick to help him, and together, after tucking and grunting, they get it shut.

"Thanks," Danny says trying to gather his breath. He glances around, startled to see he's in a big fancy house that reeks of money, maybe more than Vlad or Sam. It is also deadly silent and bare as if someone only attempted to make it look lived-in but forgot to get humans.

"Don't mention it." The kid says almost under his breath. Danny would think of him as shy if the boy wasn't staring at him without so much as blinking.

Kind of creepy.

"Are you here because of my poster?" The kid asks, and Danny has no idea what he's talking about, but he's not about to make the creepy kid angry.

"Sure am."

The boy beams. "This is the first time anyone has responded! Come this way. I have everything in the main ballroom!"

Danny follows eyes taking in all the tasteful decor of various cultures and the complete lack of any other person present. After getting stranded, he found a mansion tucked away from human contact in search of shelter. Strange how that has happened to him twice

The boy leads him to two large double doors which he proudly opens up with a loud "Ta-da!"

Inside the ballroom are rows and rows of bed cots, blankets, and pillows. On one side of the room are tables with water bottles, bowls of snacks, and even little goodie bags. There are board games on a nearby table and clothes folded neatly in various sizes. Next to the tables are piles of teddy bears.

It looks like a movie set of a makeshift shelter that could easily fit a hundred people. Again there is no one else but them. Double creepy.

The boy skips between the first two cots, gesturing to the room. "You're the first one here, so you can first pick! I have board games, food, and clothes for you to burrow at the front if you want! I'm sure we'll have more people soon if you come!"

Danny offers the kids a weak smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome! I'll go wait for everyone at the door. You make yourself comfortable."

While Danny cautiously explores, the kid races back to wait at the door for who knows who. The first thing he does is change into a warm set of clothes- picking a grey set of sweat pants and long sleeve that fits his tiny limbs. He grabs a water bottle and a bag of chips before his eyes land on a pile of brightly colored posters, likely forgotten on the table.

Strom Shelter for free at Drak Mansion

Everyone Welcome!

Sleeping, clothes, food and entertainment are provided!

Kids are invited to Tim Drake's birthday party on the same night!

Doors open at 5pm.

Oh gosh. Oh no.

He looks around the completely empty room and, for the first time, notices a small corner with a very sad "Happy Birthday" banner and a few party hats. At the edge of the table sits a folded half-sheet cake with a lopsided candle in the shape of a nine.

Above that little corner is a large clock that reads ten o'clock.

He puts his things down on a random cot, carefully returning to the front door where the little boy- he assumes Tim Drake- is waiting. He's leaning back and forth on his feet, and Danny can barely pick up his soft words.

"It's okay; they're all just really late. One person came this time so more could be on their way! Don't be sad, Tim. Things are looking up!"

Bless his heart.

Danny tries to reach for his ghost powers and grins when his ice core responds. He glances back at the little boy before he slips into the ballroom. He quickly re-decorates the party corner using his ice, making it look like actual decorations.

He even goes out of his way to open bottles of colored juices- he doubts anyone would drink them- and freezes the liquid so it adds a bit of color to the room. He's left with a winter wonderland with ice sculptures of animals- kids like animals, right?- and he gathers a birthday boy.

"Hey, Tim?"

The kid hurries to his side. "Yes? Did you need something?"

"Yeah, I need the birthday boy to cut his cake!"

Danny strong-arms the kid into the room and is delighted by the absolute happiness that blooms over the boy's face once he sees the room. "Wow! Did you do this?"

"Sure did, kid."

"Are you a wizard like Harry Potter?" The boy asks, and Danny has no idea who that is, but he nods anyway. Maybe it's this world's version of Santa Claus? Who is he to deny the kid's sense of wonder.

"Don't tell anyone." He says with a wink.

"But-But- but I'm a muggle!" The boy cries, suddenly horrified. Danny wonders if that's a slur, and if so, he won't allow him to use it to describe himself with it. "You'll get in trouble for using magic before me!"

"Why?"

"Cause muggles can't know about magic unless they are family! They'll throw you in Azkaban!"

Ugh, okay, he can work with that. "Well, I guess this makes us brothers, doesn't it?"

Tim's eyes practically pop right out of his skull. "Really?!

"Yeah, I'll be your big brother. My name is Danny and we can do something you always wanted to do for your birthday. How does that sound?"

"We can do....anything?"

"It depends on what you want to do, as long as it's legal and safe."

"Will.....you read me a bedtime story? I always wanted to know what that's like."

Danny's heart shatters. "Sure of course. What book do you want to read?"

Tim's face goes slightly pink. "The new Harry Potter book just came out. The goblet of fire? Can we read that?"

Oh, so Harry Potter is a book series! "Sure, Tim. Let's cut the cake and then we can pick a cot to pile blankets on to snuggle down and read."

Danny had never seen a kid look so happy in his life "Okay!"

Later, as Tim is tucked into the crook of his neck and shoulder, fast asleep after the exciting chapter of Harry Potter outflying a dragon Danny is visited by Lady Gotham.

It is only because Tim is too comfortable that he doesn't start swinging at her. She explains Tim's life and the obvious neglect before she bends down until her forehead touches the ground and begs Danny to care for him in her stead.

By morning, the Drakes suddenly acquire a new family member, and no one notices how he appeared overnight, but he's in the system, and no one can fault the documents. Lady Gotham made them herself.

[multifandomfanficss]

Don’t Stop My Heart

Tyler Owens x Reader

Prompt: You and Tyler take a road trip up to Iowa to catch some of the last tornadoes of the season, but he takes the teasing a little too far.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, mentions of car crashes, swerving, shitty ex boyfriends. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Hello! I didn’t proofread this one as many times as I usually do. I’m coming off a 4 and a half month writers block so I really just wanted to write and post while I was excited to do it. My job has been draining me as of late, so I’m trying to write when I get the impulse. I have so many Tyler ideas and no time to write them. Crossposted on my AO3 adriansglasses.

It was still fairly early, the sun was still rising. Last night you’d planned an impromptu trip up north to Iowa. It was about a 7 hour trip from Oklahoma, so you were on the road before 6. You were hoping to get there around noon. You didn’t love getting up that early, but Tyler promised he’d drive you and you could sleep in the truck. Tornado season was pretty much over aside from an isolated storm or two, but Iowa had been having very unusual storm activity all week. Tyler couldn’t resist hitting a couple more tornadoes in late August when the season was supposed to be pretty much over with.

You stayed awake for a little bit. You wanted to watch as you crossed into Missouri.

“Missouri welcomes you.” Tyler reads out loud.

“Yes! Finally!” You giggle.

“I didn’t realize you were such a big fan of Missouri.” Tyler comments.

“Oh, I’m not.” You pause, looking out your window.

“First you’re hypin’ her up, now you’re gonna disappoint her.” He jokes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure Missouri’s fine, but I’m more excited about that.” You point to a Hardee’s down the street.

“Really? We’re crossin’ state lines and you’re gonna make me take you to Hardee’s? You can get Carl’s Jr. anytime you want back home. That’s basically the same thing.” He argues.

“Take that back! You’re just saying that because you’re a Texas boy! You’ve never had the luxury of Hardee’s.” You joke.

“If Carl’s Jr. is better, I’m not letting you pick where we eat for the rest of the trip.” Tyler puts on his turn signal and sighs.

“How is that fair? I’ve never eaten at this location. What if it sucks?” You laugh.

“You picked your Hardee’s hill and now you’re gonna die on it. Now keep your trap closed and tell me what’s good on the menu.” Tyler makes a pretend threatening face towards you as he pulls into the drive thru.

“How am I supposed to not talk and at the same time tell you what’s good?” You tease back.

“Hi welcome to Hardee’s, may I take your order?” The drive thru speaker cuts you off. Tyler shushes you and you giggle.

After getting your food you start unwrapping the straws and putting them in both drinks.

“Whatever score we give this we need to give it extra points to account for how good the curly fries would be if they were serving lunch.” You try to bargain, taking a bite.

“No, you can’t just change the rules after we already got our food, that’s cheating. Just because you’re from the north, doesn’t mean you can cheat me.” He argues. He continues driving, leaving behind the paved roads of the small town.

“You’re acting like I’m Canadian!” You giggle.

“Well, Upper Midwest is basically Canada. There’s literally a town in Iowa called Toronto!” He smirks, taking the last bite of his food, continuing to drive through the middle of nowhere Missouri, back onto the gravel roads through the soybean fields.

“Shut up!” You playfully hit his arm. He jokingly swerves and your stomach flips. You gasp air. “Tyler, knock it off.”

“You’re the one who hit me.” He pleas innocent.

“I didn’t hit you that hard.” You defend.

“I thought you were gonna sleep on the drive.” He says, smirking.

“I might later, I’m not tired.” You answer, falling for his bit. He does a big fake yawn.

“Well if you’re not tired, I might take a little nap.” He lightly swerves again.

“Tyler, this isn’t funny!” You plead.

“What? Oh. Do you mind watching the road? We woke up so early and I’m pretty tired.” He jokes before swerving again. He’s taking the joke way too far. Once was one thing, twice was too much. You start hyperventilating.

“Tyler, STOP!” You yell, tears starting to come to your eyes.

“Woah woah woah, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” He has a concerned look on his face. He knew he had taken it too far.

“It’s not funny.” You cry.

“You’re right, it’s not funny. I would never-a done it if I’d known it would make you feel unsafe. I do it all the time on chases and that don’t seem to bother you. I didn’t realize-“

“That’s different! The roads and the fields when there’s no storms are different! We’re on an actual road! What- what if there were other people?! What if you hit somebody?! What if a sherif saw?!” You say, obviously still panicking. Tyler decides to pull over.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I was way outta line, but we’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no cars or tractors around. We’re safe.” His voice is soft. “Just breathe, Darlin’. Just you and me.” He takes your hand, rubbing small circles in it. “I feel bad. I wanted a reaction outta you, but not like this. I never want you to feel unsafe with me.”

“I know.” You were still struggling to breathe. Tyler places your hand on his chest to feel the rise and fall of his breathing. He hopes you can sync yours with his own.

“Take it easy, sweetheart. You’re okay. Feel me breathing? We’re both okay.” He places a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry… it’s not you. When I was in high school I had a crazy ex boyfriend who used to swerve in town just to scare me because he knew I was afraid of car crashes. He almost killed us a couple times, I think. I guess no matter how much time’s passed, dumb high school bullshit still affects me into my adult years.”

“Hey, that’s not okay. It’s not dumb bullshit. It’s trauma.” You lean over the console to be closer to him and he wraps his arms around you. “I would never put you in danger like that for the sake of a joke.” You could tell his blood was boiling on the inside, but he was trying to keep himself calm. He didn’t want to upset you more. He knew this was about you feeling better, not him.

“We gotta get going if we wanna try to make it by 1.” You wipe your tears.

“I don’t care how long we’re pulled over. Hell, we can even turn around if you’re not up to anymore. I don’t care about the chase. I care about you.” He moves your hair out of your face. “I can call the rest of the team and tell them to turn around right now or go without us.”

“What happened to Mr. If You Feel It, Chase It?” You joke, trying to lighten the mood. He looks into your eyes. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen him so serious.

“The only feeling that matters is the one I get when I’m with you.“

Tears start creeping up again. These tears aren’t bad, though.

“Tyler, I’m in love with you.” It just slips out, like the easiest confession you’ve ever made in your life. You both knew there was something there, but neither one of you were willing to say it. It had always been heavy flirting, awkward mornings after cuddling in the only bed left at the motel, a drunk kiss or two.

After a moment of staring in silence Tyler kisses you. Everything happened in slow motion, but in truth it was probably just the adrenaline slowing everything down. Tyler wasted no time in kissing you. It was the quickest decision he’s ever made. You don’t know how long the kiss was. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough. You’d swear off oxygen for the rest of your life if it meant this moment never had to end. You’d been pinning after your best friend for so long and finally the moment was here.

“I’m so glad you said something because you’re one of the best navigators I know and I really didn’t wanna risk losing you from the team by telling you I was in love with you.” Tyler laughs.

“Is that the only reason you didn’t tell me?” You ask.

“No, I was scared. Losing you from the team would be a bummer, but I couldn’t lose you from my life. We see a lot of loss in this business. Whenever I thought about it, the thing I couldn’t stand to lose most was you.” He runs his fingers through your hair, moving to cup your cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It was nice to finally say it. You’d waited a long time to tell him.

“Let’s get back on the road. This time just don’t stop my heart.” You give a small laugh.

“You’re safe with me.”

“I know. You’re not like those other guys, Ty.”

You hold hands and rest on his other arm as he drives. He’s lucky he’s good at driving with one hand because he’s happy to see about 30 minutes later you’ve finally fallen asleep. Today was going to be a long day, but Tyler knew forcing the team to wake up so early was worth it. He may have had to bribe Boone 20 bucks to drive the other car up with Lily, but at least he didn’t have a third wheel sitting in the back seat. Tyler didn’t get a lot of alone time with you. Now he had 7 hours of it. It was worth it.

[amethyst-huntress]

In the Heat of Battle - P x Reader

Requested by @amethyst-huntress

Notes: The premise of this fic was requested by Amethyst-Huntress and I started absolutely foaming at the mouth at the idea, so huge thank-you’s are in order for that nugget of inspiration. Unfortunately, same as last time, I have still barely progressed through the game thanks to my lack of patience and skill, so please forgive that both of my fics take place extremely early in playthrough. Other than that, thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy!

— 

Where is that damn puppet? You think to yourself, teeth gritted at the deadly inconvenience standing in front of you. 

In the dark and the rain and the constant buzzing noise of Krat, you admit it's easy to get turned around. Even traveling with a companion -in your case, with Gepetto’s puppet- it’s easy to lose track of which gloomy alleys you’d already traversed. Even standing back to back, nudging each other with your elbows, even checking in every so often,“You still with me?” It was easy to get lost. But now, standing face to face with a candelabra wielding automaton and a rabid mechanical dog, you’re  not feeling very generous towards your puppet companion. He’s probably searching for you in a frenzy at this very moment. 

Ha.

Fat load of good it does you. 

The automaton winds up and its eyes flash red across your face. Target locked. The candelabra comes crashing towards your head, but it's met instantly with the clanging cold steel of your sword. The automaton stumbles backwards. Its head cocks unnaturally to the side and you hear something whir, as if in frustration, beneath its face. It winds up again to strike you, but you’re quick and clever; you land a blow in the dead center of the loathsome thing's torso. A sick crunch of metal echoes as you draw the sword out of the brand new gaping cavity in its chest. The automaton sinks to its knees. You look down your nose at it, satisfied at your own skill. The enemy looks to be shutting down, but in a quick, almost desperate motion, its hand shoots towards your foot, grasping wildly. It's cold fingers close around your ankle, but you quickly stamp it out with your free foot. The automaton lets out a weak mechanical wheeze as its hand is crushed beneath your boot. For good measure, you take the hilt of your sword in both hands and slam the base through the miserable things forehead. It crackles, then collapses finally on the ground. You smile darkly at its now lifeless shell. Perhaps a little early. 

A sharp bark cuts through the air and your head snaps to attention. Shit. You forgot about the damn dog. Before you have the chance to raise your sword again, the dog lunges at you. Razor sharp teeth clang dissonantly together and the sound ripples against the glistening walls of the alley. In an instant, you’re knocked to the wet, muddy ground; the iron paws of the mutt are already upon your chest. The mongrel snarls mere centimeters from your face, black oily fluid spilling from its mouth as if salivating. You groan and struggle beneath its weight but regain your grip on your sword just in time to catch its rabid jaw. The dog bites down on your blade, thrashing its head to either side. You strain against its unnatural strength, attempting to pull your weapon free. In one fell swoop you’ll rip it free and decapitate this fucking thing. Your fingers curl tighter around your hilt, you ready a strike, suck in one sharp breath and then-

You freeze.

A second blade appears, glinting in the gaslight, right between your eyes. Thick black fluid goes splattering across your face. The mutt goes limp, its full weight crushing your lower torso. A gasp is pushed from your lungs and you roll to the side, quickly shoving the robotic corpse away from your body. You kneel, palms pushing into the slick ground. Your heart is thundering beneath your shirt as you swallow frigid air hard and fast. When you finally catch a breath, you turn your head towards the owner of the blade; Pinocchio, your companion. He wipes the rapier against his trousers, cleaning the sludge from its razor sharp surface. You huff, blowing matted wet bangs out of your face. 

“I had that under control.” You say sharply. P cocks an eyebrow at you, unconvinced. You feel your face burn in annoyance. “I did!” You insist, “Had you given me just one more minute I would’ve been fine. And probably less covered in this.” You jab your weapon in his direction, flecking dark oil across his shirt. He shoots you a slightly apologetic smile. 

He knows you can handle yourself, he does. He just worries. You can’t blame him; you do the same thing. You’ve gotten quite close on these arduous journeys, saving each other's skins more times than either of you can count. As you wipe the sludge from your face, P extends his hand to you and begrudgingly you take it. Swiftly, he helps you to your feet. His eyes flicker up and down your face, narrowing on your cheek. He licks the thumb of his legion hand and streaks it across your cheek, lifting the remnants of black. You scrunch your nose up at him.

“Eugh- enough-” You whine, swatting the hand away. “Where did you run off to anyways?” 

Pinocchio’s legion arm gestures behind his head. You squint through the darkness at the distant yellow lights of Hotel Krat up ahead. You grimace. It’s further still than you thought. “I don’t suppose you found some kind of underground shortcut?” P shakes his head apologetically. You both sigh, knowing you’ve got plenty of dangers yet to face before you’re given any time to rest. These days spent traveling have taken their toll on your bodies, but you’re at least grateful to have a friend in the gloom of Cerasani Alley. Your sword slides neatly into your belt as you walk ahead of Pinocchio. “Back to it then.” 

As the two of you push forward, you notice a concerted effort on your companions' part to stick close to your side. At any strange noise or eerie shadow, P reaches for your hand. You squeeze back in reassurance that all is well. A bit unnecessary? Sure. But you don’t fight it. It’s much preferred to losing the poor boy again. 

Drawing closer to your destination with only a few minor scuffles to slow you down, you reach a dilapidated fairgrounds. Sickly yellow light bulbs buzz overhead and cast an ominous glow across the entire scene. A ghostly music box melody plinks and permeates the air. You look to P quizzically. 

“You’re sure this is the right way?”

P takes in his surroundings and gives you a curt nod. You grimace in reply. This decrepit place gives you the creeps.

Together you silently weave through wooden cutouts of circus performers, checking carefully for hidden enemies. It's suspiciously quiet, save for the phantasmal carnival music that grows louder as you approach an iron gate. Another barrier. Excellent. 

“P?” You step aside and gesture to the locked gate. Pinocchio smiles slyly at you, boyishly pleased that there’s still a few things you can’t do without him. You want to roll your eyes, but you watch reluctantly impressed, as deep violet energy crackles around his fist. In one swift swing, he punches through the gate and leaves a smoking crater where the lock once sat. He shoots you a sharp smile, satisfied with himself. 

And then you feel something. A great mechanical thud rippling beneath your feet. Your heads snap in unison towards the source and your eyes go wide at the sight of the staggering monster in front of you. At least 3 times your size looms the Parade Master, constructed of decaying parts and craquelured paint. Its massive fist alone is as wide as your body, and sways heavily at its side. 

You unsheathe your blade, and its weight sinks your shoulders. It's not ideal for speed you admit, but the vindication after landing those obliterating killing blows to your enemies is unbeatable. Keeping your eyes locked on target, you whistle to catch Pinocchio’s attention. You started doing this early on. Whistles were a good line of nonverbal communication when you couldn’t afford a glance in each other's direction. 

“Flank him?” You suggest. Pinocchio whistles quick and sharp in agreement. Your fingers tighten around the great sword and your chest thrums with anticipation. You jut your chin in the direction of your common enemy. “After you.” 

Without looking, you know his brows are furrowed together in deep focus. You can perfectly visualize the way he lures the puppet away, his steps meticulously timed and graceful. As you wind your way behind the thing, you hear the clang of P’s rapier against tarnished metal. Your enemy rears its arm back, and you follow suit striking its vulnerable back with a satisfying SHUK! You yank the blade out of its now damaged shell and catch the briefest glance at your companion and oh. Oh. The way he looks at you. 

With fascination?

Admiration?

It’s something greater, deeper than that. Your heart skips. But you shake yourself out of distraction, startled at the sound of your own voice calling out. Your lips move before your mind has time to catch up. 

“MOVE!” 

Exactly as you shout it, P dodges a strike from the Parade Master. The brute’s fist lands in the brick pavement, blowing a hole through it instantaneously. You gulp at the thought of your companion lying there instead, crushed. Your skin goes cold. 

No. Never.

Knowing neither of you can afford another lapse in attention, you suck in one long loud whistle between your teeth. The Parade Master whips itself around to face you. Two huge lamp-like eyes glow sickly in your direction. This was intentional. You can distract for now and give your ally a moment to catch his breath. You ready both hands on your weapon and take a step back. The monster lurches forward, its steps accompanied by a horrid clanking sound. 

“Get over here you fucking rust bucket…” You mutter grimly under your breath as the space between you and the looming threat of death shrinks. You breathe deeply and steel yourself, heels digging into stone. You watch carefully as the puppet rushes towards you, arms swinging wildly. Just when the behemoth is about to crush you beneath its huge frame, you duck between its legs and emerge from behind. There’s just enough time to land a solid blow. P’s rapier crosses with your greatsword, both your weapons plunging into the deteriorated creatures back. 

“This one’s mine, P.” You snap, pulling your blade from its fresh wound. 

“Mine.” P parrots with a smirk, retrieving his rapier as well. Being a man of so few words, you can't help feeling amused even given the circumstances. This is good. The beast is growing weaker. If you can both keep level heads this will all be over soon, you think to yourself. 

At least until your enemy decapitates itself. 

Your jaw drops as the Parade Master rips its own head from its massive shoulders. It wields its shiny new weapon like an enormous mace and swings it your way. It makes contact with the ground, and the impact alone is enough to shake your balance. You dive to the side, narrowly avoiding collision with the wall. You struggle to recalibrate, to size up the situation while keeping yourself out of the range of attack. You hear P whistle pointedly across the arena, waiting on your instruction. Your mind races for a plan and comes up blank. 

“Hold on!” You shout, “Just- Just hold on, I’ll think of something.” You’ll have to if you want to leave this place in one piece. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All you can think to do is attack. And you do; your blade leaves white hot gash marks on the enemy, but it hardly seems to be enough against such a terrible and towering foe. You’ve angered it now, and it’s in a total frenzy. The Parade Master swings its massive head in your direction again and you raise your sword to block it. Half a second too late. 

As your weapons collide, the impact sends you to the ground. You gasp at the sharp pain that shoots through your skull. There’s a ringing in your ears and a soft dark edge to your vision. You struggle against unconsciousness and fight to keep yourself upright. Things are moving slow; trails of light obscure the events unfolding in front of you. 

You comprehend something catching the Parade Masters' attention, you watch the goliath wind up, you hear something cry out, and then hear nothing at all. A sick feeling churns in the pit of your stomach and bile rises in your throat. Something’s wrong. You search the scene frantically for your ally. Your line of sight flickers from the Parade Masters head to the ground slick with rain. Your throat tightens. With his face turned to the ground, his eyes fighting to stay open, lies Pinocchio. His rapier skitters across the stone, coming to a sudden halt beneath the foot of the Parade Master. 

Something flashes through you, anger, grief, adrenaline; whatever it is, it propels you forward. Your weapon is suddenly weightless as you skid between the monstrous puppet and your companion. The head of the Parade Master collides with your sword and the sound echoes through the arena with an arresting ring. You breathe hard in disbelief of your own courage. Your teeth are bared and your furrowed brow is sticky with sweat. 

“Don’t. Touch him.” You command, and you swear even your mindless enemy hears it. A deep guttural sound is forced from the very bottom of your lungs as you thrust your weapon through the center of the automaton's body. It doesn’t die, but you hear something inside it break, and the creature slows significantly as if becoming too heavy for its own armature. 

You risk a glance over your shoulder. P looks like absolute hell, covered in grime, barely staggering to his feet. Your chest tightens at his condition, but he’s alive. 

Alive. It’s enough. 

The enemy screams in frustration, rippling orange flames and black smoke billow from the place its head once sat. You stare at the hilt of your great sword, still lodged in its heart. 

“P, your sword-” You start, but your ally is already on it, your strategic minds miraculously attuned. He sends the rapier sailing -now free of the parade masters foot- towards your open hand. It whips past your head and slides perfectly into your grasp. With what's left of the enemy in your sights, you take a running start. 

Time seems to slow; the taste of victory teases you. Your head is about to collide with the hulking hunk of metal just as you raise your boot and dig its heel into the hilt of your great sword. Its placement serves as a stepping stone, and you scale the furious beast. You clamber up its torso towards its shoulders and feel heat radiating from the inside. It burns your hands, which grip the edge of the cavernous socket of its missing head. The monster thrashes beneath you like a wild bull, desperate to throw you off. You tighten your grip, the white hot metal searing your palm. You force yourself to ignore the pain as you raise the rapier and plunge one final devastating blow into the blazing cavity. You feel the rapier obliterate whatever mechanism kept the Parade Master alive, and it crumbles finally beneath you. 

Atop the shoulders of your freshly slaughtered enemy, you fall forward with a deafening CRASH. Your body tumbles to the ground. Your grip on the rapier goes slack. Exhaustion ripples through you, and you surrender to its sweet embrace. 

You hadn’t even realized you’d lost consciousness until your eyes flutter open, met by the stunning blue gaze of your companion mere inches from your face. For a moment you forget yourself, the urge to sink into his arms is so tempting. But your pride wins out and you scramble into an upright position, barely awake. Pinocchio lets out a sigh of relief and you see his shoulders relax. Had he been just as terrified as you were at the prospect of losing him? Did that same dread sit in the pit of his stomach? 

Your head swims with what-ifs, but you have no energy to find their answers. With strength that you’re shocked to still possess, you throw your arms around the puppet. Your fingers clutch the wet fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear the moment you let go. His body tenses at first, then melts under your touch. You feel his head settle between your neck and shoulder, solid and secure. Silently breathing in the smell of him feels like waves of relief crashing over your head. 

You wish the journey could end here in the peace and quiet of this embrace, but you feel him begin to pull away and your heart sinks. Face to face with you, his eyes search for signs of damage, for something to mend. His hands find yours and you hiss involuntarily. His eyebrows knit together in concern. You try not to grimace. 

“It’s nothing.” you promise, “Burned my hand, that's all.”

P looks down at your hand and cradles it gently in his own. With painstaking care, he lifts it to his mouth and places a feather-light kiss in your palm, then on each of your scraped and bleeding knuckles. He looks up at you through those thick raven-wing lashes and you notice a trace of your blood left on his lips. The sight makes your head swim and it takes the entirety of your willpower not to catch his mouth with yours. Your posture stiffens as you try to regain your composure. 

“Well it’s not far now, is it?” You ask, deflecting back to the mission at hand. “There will be plenty of time to patch each other up at the hotel. Right?” You offer, already stupidly aching for the return of Pinocchio’s delicate touch. He blinks a few times, as if he were struggling to focus himself. But he nods enthusiastically. You feel a smile creep across your lips. 

As you leave the destroyed fairgrounds behind, you let your good hand slip into that of your companion. The two of you venture forth, certain to never lose track of the other again. 

— 

If you read this and enjoy it please let me know! Seeing your positive comments and tags absolutely warms my heart and motivates me to keep writing. Thank you so much to those of you who took the time to leave me some kind words on my last fic <3

[redbayly]

Zutara Shipping is Canon

Let me explain myself.

I was enjoying an afternoon walk (as I mercifully live in a decent area to go for walks to clear my head) and I started thinking about the Ember Island Players episode when it struck me.

Shipping Zutara is canon.

Now, don't get me wrong, this isn't about if Zutara itself is canon or not (it's totally canon and I will die on my hill of willful self-delusion), but about shipping it.

I'm sure most Zutara shippers still get a little thrill whenever we rewatch the show and our majestic bounty-hunter June, captain of the Zutara ship, calls Katara Zuko's girlfriend.

But, as I said, this is about Ember Island Players.

It never truly occurred to me before that, in canon, Zutara shipping is just a thing. Like, an actual, accepted aspect of the world.

When Puon-Tim wrote "The Boy in the Iceberg," he just outright included a Zutara subplot. And as annoyingly melodramatic as it was, it was still there. He even went out of his way to discredit the idea of Katara and Aang being together. And, even though the play is Fire Nation propaganda (which has since confused me since the wiki says that Puon-Tim is from the Earth Kingdom; though that feels like a retcon), it doesn't seem to show a Zutara romance in a negative way.

And it could've gone in that direction. As propaganda, it would have been only too easy to portray Katara as an evil seductress who corrupted Prince Zuko and convinced him to betray his country. But it doesn't. The Zutara scene is embarrassingly saccharine and schmaltzy, but it's not shown as being bad - except for the episode trying to frame it that way because it hurts Aang's feelings.

And, because of how popular the play seems to be, we can reasonably assume that there were audience members who left the theater as die-hard Zutara fans. Even if they were cheering for Zuko's death - because, y'know, Fire Nation - there weren't any boos at the Zutara scene. Like, some of those folks who cheered Zuko's death also probably regarded Zutara as a tragic love story. There were probably even a few who quietly whispered to each other that they hoped Prince Zuko would run off with Katara and have a happy ending instead of fighting for the throne and dying, as shown in the play.

And with how the war actually ended, Zutara shipping probably only got more popular as Zuko started reforming stuff and being an actually stable ruler as opposed to his psycho dad and sister.

So, with this in mind, Puon-Tim is the ultimate Zutara shipper. Zutara shipping is canon.

I don't really know what else to say.

Any thoughts?

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

gimme more

pairing: joel x reader x tommy

tags/cws: sex pollen (reader is infected by it), breeding kink

summary: joel is just being a good friend by helping reader out, and tommy is just being a good brother by tag-teaming

a/n: div creds to @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

this is kind of theoretically set in jackson (AU where nothing bad happens lol), but we're going to pretend that the writer has finished tlou2 (and has not been caught up in playing silent hill) and is not just guessing about the details of jackson and such

wc: 2.2k

tags: @vaaaaaiolet @leonfucker3000 @withonly-sweetheart

You've experienced your fair share of unthinkable, inexplicable things since the outbreak began. Out of necessity, you've become familiar with the cordyceps — what it looks like, how it spreads, what the cure is (a bullet to the head). Whatever you just inhaled is not the cordyceps virus, but you feel zero relief in knowing that. You have no idea what this is and what it's going to do to you.

Joel calls out to you from above.

"Don't come down here," you yell back. "I think something's wrong."

It's the best way you can explain it.

"Then get your ass up here!" He's pissed, he's scared.

You shouldn't have been so reckless. You were stupid to think you'd find anything good in that abandoned bunker. If there was once something worth your excursion, it's long gone. Like everywhere else, it's been looted.

When Joel reaches out to help you pull yourself above ground, you can't help but notice how big his hands are, how strong he is, the way his arms flex when he pulls you up to relative safety.

"What happened down there?"

"I don't know, but I feel… weird. Something's not right with me."

"You didn't get bit did you?"

"No, it's not that. Definitely not. It's something different. When I went down there, it was like I set off some sort of alarm system, except it didn't make any noise, it just sprayed out some sort of blue smoke."

"And you inhaled it?"

"I didn't mean to."

The route back is short, but it's torture – your whole body feels like its been set on fire, and you want to keel over in pain.

"Do you need me to carry you?" Joel asks.

"No, I'm fine." You're not fine. You're out of breath, dizzy, aching for something.

Joel ignores your lies and picks you up. The minute he touches you, you know exactly what your body wants — him. You whimper at his touch — his hands aren't anywhere they shouldn't be, but your whole body feels sensitive.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No, not really… I don't know."

"Why are you whining then? Either you're hurt or you're on the edge of a fuckin' orgasm."

He laughs, but you don't.

"…Both," you admit.

He looks at his hands, making sure he's not touching you inappropriately.

"I don't understand. I'm not touching you down there, and you're not touching yourself. You got vibrating panties or somethin'?"

"I wish."

He stops. Then, in a whisper despite the fact that you're alone, asks, "Do you think it's whatever you inhaled?"

"Yeah."

"Let's hurry down to the infirmary then."

"No. There's nothing they can do for me."

"Don't say that. I'm sure it's nothin' and they'll be able to fix you up just fine."

"No, they can't. I know what I need. I can feel it."

Or at least, you hope it's what you need. You'd rather die than walk into a clinic and tell the nurse that you're so horny you think you're about to, well, die. You've made your bed and you're ready to lie in it — so long as Joel is there too.

He changes course slightly, and walks towards his house. Not much needs to be said. The look of sheer desperation in your eyes is enough. Has he dreamt about fucking you before? Maybe, but that's not why he agrees to do it. Above all else, Joel cares about you.

You don't make it to his bedroom, only to the living room couch. The curtains are drawn and Joel lives alone, so it makes little difference (minus the back pain that you'll inevitably endure from a couch rendezvous).

It's not your first time having sex, and you know it's not Joel's either, but it's the first time you've ever done this together. See, in your nighttime fantasies, he comes to you — on you, in you, for you — quite often, but in the real world, you're just close friends. The rumors that circulate are (unfortunately) not true: you're not fucking Joel. Or, you weren't. Now, you are. Now, you're tearing off your clothes because holy fuck it's hotter than it should be in April. You're feeling feverish as you help Joel strip (while he takes a minute to be awestruck by your bare body).

You're fiddling helplessly with his belt buckle like it's a brand new contraption to your hazy eyes.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get you ready first? Could go down on you…"

If someone put a gun to your head and asked you if you'd ever turn down Joel Miller offering to go down on you, you'd be dead. But despite how much you crave his mouth on your skin, you swear this thing might kill you if you wait any longer.

"I need you," is all you can muster.

"Lemme see if I can find a—"

He stands up, presumably to get a condom, but you grab him by the wrist.

"I need you," you say with more force this time.

It takes a mere glimpse of his cock — hard, throbbing in anticipation — to know that he needs you too.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he says when his hand reaches your glistening slit.

You let out a pathetic whimper. You're no longer in control. Whatever this toxin is, it's taken over. It needs Joel, you need Joel, it needs you to need Joel (more than you did already).

"I know, baby, I know," he soothes you as he steadies himself above you.

He slides into you with ease, buries himself to the hilt and then stops. He looks up to the ceiling, like he's about to speak to God, but all that leaves his mouth is a single word, "fuck", it comes out harsh, through gritted teeth, yet ultimately, it's his surrender.

His surrender to your needs, to your cunt that grips him like a vise and soaks him like a leaky faucet. Both of his hands hold your hips steady so he can pound into you as you beg for him to go harder, and he swears he hasn't fucked anyone like this in the last 20 years. Honestly, he's shocked his knees can handle it. He ought to have you ride him if you're so intent on controlling the pace, but then again, he doesn't trust your impulses.

Not only is he going to embarrass himself if he cums quickly, but he'll also leave you hanging. One hand moves to cover your mouth because he can't have you screaming. It takes everything in him to stifle you when you're moaning his name.

It's something between a warning and an apology. "I'm sorry, baby—I'm gonna cum." Naturally, he attempts to pull out since he's not wearing a condom, but you lock your legs around his hips and rip his hand from your mouth so you can tell him the three most important words right now, "Don't. Pull. Out."

"I don't wanna get you pregnant—"

"I want you to."

It all makes sense. "Is that what it wants?" His curiosity is piqued and the distraction of solving this puzzle keeps his orgasm at bay. "It wants me to… breed you? It's making you want me to get you pregnant?"

"Yes," you say a bit too enthusiastically. "Joel, please, I need you to."

"Need me to what?" He knows exactly what, and you can see that in the slight upward curve of his lips.

You groan in frustration — would he really be so cruel as to make you beg in a moment of crisis? Maybe.

"I need to hear you say it."

Joel could easily fill you to the brim right now, he needs to hear you beg because he'll need the memory later when he's alone, when he thinks about you. If you make it out of this situation, that is. But, fuck, if you're right, and all he really has to do is get you pregnant, there shouldn't be any problem.

"I need you to put a baby in me," you say, and while your body is still running wild in its starvation, embarrassment flashes across your face.

When Joel agrees, your orgasm overtakes you -- simply the thought is enough to make you gush all over his furniture. You thought you'd never reach your peak and be forced to teeter on the edge for the rest of your life. You hold him as close as you possibly can, forcing him deeper inside you with your legs around his hips and your arms around his back, digging your nails into his skin. He returns the sting with a bite to your neck, muffling a groan that threatens to escape him.

You're writhing against the pleasure, the overstimulation and the need for more mixing together, and Joel, melting in your arms, soothes you as best he can. His words are filthy and sweet all at once.

"It's okay, baby. I'm gonna put a baby in you, gonna get you knocked up. Don't gotta worry 'bout a thing."

When his grunts turn breathy, barely short of whimpers, you realize that he's turned on by this too. It's a blessing and a curse — his pride grapples with his arousal, fighting to keep his orgasm at bay but it's in vain. He cums inside you, and it feels like he's the one dying, and ascending to heaven (a place he never believed he'd step foot in).

You try to keep him inside you, but he insists that he has to pull out at some point.

Joel's about to put his pants on when the door swings open. At first you're afraid it's Ellie, and even though she's an adult, she's practically Joel's daughter – she's the last person who would want to see this. Who else has a key to Joel's house? you think. He's not giving them out to just anyone, even you don't have one (and you could be carrying his child).

Tommy, you realize, just as his voice echoes through the hall, calling for Joel.

"Hold on," Joel yells back, much louder than he needs to, considering the fact that there's only one wall between your naked body and an unsuspecting visitor.

Footsteps approach, and Joel gets the word "wait" halfway out of his mouth before Tommy enters the room. You all share a moment of silence before he apologizes, and excuses himself.

As he's walking towards the door, you try to pull Joel back in, telling him how badly you need him.

But he has another idea. Unconventional at best, but it's not like you're in an everyday situation anyway.

"Tommy," he says, stopping him before he leaves. "Will you do me — us — a huge favor?"

"Yeah, I won't tell anyone. Don't worry about it," he says, preemptively.

"No, no. A different favor." He peeks his head into the living room to see your miserable, desperate state.

"What's going on?"

Joel explains everything as best he can in as little time as possible. You admit, with less shame than you would otherwise, that you need someone to fuck you, and if Joel has to wait a bit to recover, it's a good thing he has a brother.

"You're sure about this?" Tommy asks.

Once you swear on your life that you are absolutely positive about this, he gives in, allows himself to indulge because ultimately, Tommy wants this too. Maybe their shared DNA influences their shared kinks, or maybe you're an attractive woman, splayed out on the couch naked and begging to be fucked.

Tommy makes quick work of his clothes, discarding them on the floor — he can sense your eagerness to have him inside you, almost as intense as his own desire.

It's not like you needed any lubricant anyway, but Joel left you even slicker than before, so Tommy slides inside you with greater ease despite being nearly as big as his brother. He's quick to lift your legs to gain greater leverage so he can up the pace of his thrusts.

You moans, despite how loud they are, do not cover up the wet sounds of Tommy fucking you.

"Are you sure you want me to cum inside you?"

"Yes, please, need you to get me pregnant," you say, throwing him for a loop. Whoops, you must've forgotten to mention that part.

He looks at you, then at Joel, in disbelief, assuming this is some sort of trick, a test, a gift — it doesn't really matter because he's too far gone to hold back.

"Fuck, I'll knock you up if that's what you really want, baby."

All you can say is "please".

"Wonder whose baby it'll be," he says, steady thrusts gaining momentum.

If he's toying with you, it's working, strange as it might be, the concept is a turn-on. It's Schrodinger's baby. You cannot be sure whose baby you're carrying -- if there is one at all -- so you can imagine it as both Joel's and Tommy's at once.

You look at Tommy, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, mind blanking. Surely, he's not having a scientific breakthrough, but maybe a transcendental experience.

Then, you look at Joel, who holds the awe of a full auditorium in his eyes, but there will be no standing ovation for your performance because he's using all of his strength to hold himself back from rushing the metaphorical stage, and one hand is busy palming his aching cock through his jeans to subdue that urge.

Tommy takes your chin, and with a sudden sternness, says, "Look at me when I cum inside you. Not him. He's not fucking you."

But when your eyes meet his, he's not the only one approaching his peak – you are going over the edge with him. You swear you might've blacked out because Tommy is already pulling out of you when you fully regain consciousness.

Once you get your bearings straight you realize something: you feel a lot better.

[coddda]

Light's relationship with his father is such a heartbreaking multi-faceted tragedy to me I hate it so so so much.

Soichiro loves his son so much, and while he's certainly not a perfect father I know that he cares deeply about Light. He wants to prove Light's innocence so badly but he can't let go of the underlying doubt that he might really be Kira and it gnaws at him. He does not know that from the very beginning he was being used by Light, whether it was to obtain information about the investigation, or to get to L, or to strengthen the foundations of his own lie that he wasn't Kira, this entire time he was simply another resource. He'll hang onto this doubt for years, even after L is dead, even if he doesn't express it in the latter half of the series, until he himself is on his deathbed, with what he believes to be undeniable proof that Light isn't Kira. (It's a lie, of course.) He dies happy, but it's on the foundations of blissful ignorance. His own son brought him here, brought him to the point where he had to sacrifice half of his own remaining life span, to his own death march, and was still trying to use him even now to kill someone else, but he doesn't know that. Soichiro said that what was evil was the power to kill others, and that whoever used it was cursed. Light was that cursed man, of course, and he tried to bring that curse onto Soichiro too by making him kill in his last moments. Soichiro was happy regardless, because he didn't know. He'll never know. (In the manga/anime at least. More on that later).

Light loves his father but it's not enough to turn him away from the terrible decisions he's made, if anything it only fuels them. His idea of "justice" is a twisted model of what he parroted from Soichiro, and he uses his father as another pawn (and a powerful one at that) in his plans. If he can prove that Kira is justice then perhaps his father will no longer call Kira, and therefore Light, evil, so he just needs to ensure that Kira becomes justice, right? It's Light's own actions that land his own father in the hospital for a stress-induced heart attack and yet he says only a few minutes later that he's the happiest he's ever been in his entire life. Even after Soichiro denounces Kira by calling him evil, even after he calls the Death Note's power evil, even after he unknowingly tells Light that he is cursed. When Soichiro dies Light is too deep in his own plans to actually properly process the fact that his own father is dying past what it means for his goals, but at the same time he still cares enough that after the fact he'll genuinely cry, only to brush it all away later. (Personally, I don't have a single doubt in my mind that Light's crying in that scene was genuine and I Will die on this hill). Soichiro had unknowingly denounced Light one last time just before his death, openly relieved that he "wasn't Kira after all", which also reveals that he has had doubts about Light this entire time, even after L died. By the time he's caught at the Yellow Box Warehouse Light will have denounced his father too, seeing him as someone who was made to be a fool, someone who was naive, even, too earnest for his own good. He won't realize that part of this description of his father might have applied to Light himself, back when this all started. Light takes after his father so much in so many ways already, so why not in this way too?

Ough. And honestly the other adaptations never miss out on this tragedy either, and I love them for that. (spoilers for the musical and 2006 live action movies I guess?)

In the musical we see Soichiro express his doubts and conflicts about who to believe, Light or L, if the son he raised really is a murderer, if everything he knows about him is just a lie. Like, there's an entire song about this, and you can tell how torn he is about it all, how badly he wants Light to be innocent but about how he also needs to face the truth no matter what it is, but at the end of it all he doesn't even get the answers he wants. At the end of the musical the only thing he finds is two corpses, Light's and L's, with no answers. No last words, no closure, only dead ends and a dead son and a grieving daughter. It's so awful I hate it here.

And the live action movie is fucking Insane. Like, wow. Okay. (Spoiler for the ending of Death Note The Last Name I guess) In the 2006 movies/novels Light writes Soichiro's name in the Death Note himself, and it's such an inconcievable move that it leaves even Misa shocked; Light tries to make Soichiro give him the Death Note for the last part of his plans, seeing his death as a "necessary sacrifice" (insert tangent essay about why I think 2006 live action movie Light is actually the most "coldhearted" Light Yagami, despite how infamous anime Light is). It doesn't work, and Soichiro does end up finding out that Light is Kira this time, and they have a confrontation, but he doesn't even sound truly hateful towards Light for it. He Never seems to outright hate Light for it, even after Light calls the whole confrontation a waste of time and instead tries to continue killing with the piece of the notebook in his watch, even after he tries to get Ryuk to kill everyone. When Ryuk inevitably writes Light's name and he collapses, Soichiro still reaches out for him and holds onto him as he's dying. Light literally dies in Soichiro's arms, still looking for the validation that he was right, that this wasn't all for nothing, that he was doing the good thing, trying to make Soichiro understand that he was trying to enact justice based on what he learned from him in the first place. Soichiro not only learns but sees for himself what his son has become, and Light dies in his arms leaving no closure for either of them. Soichiro will announce Light's death in L Change the WorLd on the news without saying his name, saying instead that it is only Kira who is dead, even though he and Light are one in the same. Sachiko and Sayu will never get to know the full truth about what happened to Light, instead Soichiro will lie and instead tell them: "Light was killed by Kira."

And then holy Shit the jdrama. If I write about it here this post is gonna literally double in length and also I don't really wanna spoil it but. Man. Man. If you watched it you know. Holy Shit dude I Cried.

It's the fact that, canonically, Soichiro will die oblivious to what Light has done, but even in the instances where he does find out, it doesn't make it any better, and it doesn't make him love Light any less, it just gives him more to grieve.

It's the fact that there isn't a single universe where Light doesn't use his father for his own gain, whether to gain information, or to try and control him with the Death Note, or make him write in the Death Note himself, and not a single time will he realize just how far he's strayed from Soichiro's ideals, and not a single time will he not forsake him for it by the end of the story.

It's the fact that, despite everything, Light will always refers to Soichiro as "dad/my dad" (informal) rather than "father/my father", even after he has been "denounced" (and this is true in every language that Death Note has been translated in, as far as I could find. Man, isn't that so cool! :) <- Through tears).

Anyways that's what I've been thinking of how's your guys' days going

[thatonegenshinsimp]

Sleepy Cuddles

Just some headcanons of mine that I have for whenever you want to sleep on them

Characters- Alhaitham, Diluc, Kaeya, Zhongli, Xiao, Childe

Warning- Slight spoilers for Diluc and Kaeya’s backstories

Notes: I didn’t expect my Capitano oneshot to get so much love! Thank you all!

Part 2

Masterlist

Alhaitham

It takes him a little while to warm up to it, but he loves cuddling with you when he’s about to fall asleep.

He’ll be reading a book while you lay down on his chest, an arm draped over your back as you sleep.

He occasionally looks down to make sure that you’re sleeping peacefully.

Yes, he will throw the book at Kaveh if he comes into the room to say anything. No, it doesn’t matter what it is that Kaveh wants to say, he’s still getting a book thrown at him.

After a while of reading, Alhaitham also gets tired, and decides to call it a night.

He always whispers words of comfort in your ear as you drift off, and plays with your hair once you’ve fallen asleep.

Another habit of his is that he’ll run his fingers through your hair as you sleep, which soothes him almost as much as it does you. It helps with the stress he feels after a long day of work.

Diluc

You have to drag him to bed the first time you want to do this with him.

However, once he finds out how warm and fuzzy he feels inside every time he holds you like this, he’s willing to go to bed with you the moment you ask.

He loves physical touch, it’s comforting to him when he can make sure that you’re there and that you’re really, truly in his arms.

If you run your fingers through his hair while you lay on top of him, he’ll absolutely melt.

It generally takes him longer to fall asleep since he’s so alert all the time, but it’s also because he wants to make sure you’re alseep before he is.

His bird has a perch by the window in case it ever needs to leave the Winery. The window stays slightly cracked open unless it’s Winter and it’s freezing outside.

Then again, the cold is all the more reason to snuggle up to him, isn’t it?

Kaeya

He immediately falls in love with the idea of cuddling with you when you fall asleep, and instantly starts doing so.

Kaeya always holds at least one of your hands, but will also have the unoccupied arm around your waist.

He’s actually very warm for someone so lithe. You’d expect him to be freezing most nights, but it’s usually quite the opposite.

However, he has mean bedhead, and he also moves around a lot in his sleep.

He likes to cuddle after a long work day when he’s absolutely floored because of how much he had to do.

Kaeya also likes to trace little shapes in your back and see if you can guess what they are.

He’s just a romantic like that.

Zhongli

He’s a very good cuddle buddy. He’s very warm, and his voice is what puts you to sleep most of the time.

That’s not to say that he doesn’t treasure the quieter moments between the two of you.

Nine times out of ten, you fall asleep in his lap while he’s reading a book.

The other times are when he’s telling you a story or talking about his day while the two of you lay in bed together.

His love language is physical touch and I will die on this hill.

If you’re having trouble sleeping, he’ll make you some tea or read you the book he’s reading.

He’ll also run his fingers through your hair as he’s speaking to try and soothe you further to sleep.

It almost always works.

Xiao

He’s scared to have you sleep on him at first.

Xiao doesn’t want to harm you in any way with his Karmic Debt, but eventually, after you persist for weeks, he obliges, and lets you lay down against him.

He warms up to the idea of you sleeping on him very quickly, and soon enough, he starts asking you to join him when he sleeps.

He likes it when you run your fingers through his hair. If you do it long enough, he’ll fall asleep before you.

Sometimes, whenever his Karmic Debt gets to be a little too much, he’ll lay down on you and hold onto you until it passes and he starts to feel better.

Xiao also likes to massage your back to try and soothe you if you let him, acts of service is his love language.

He cherishes every moment he’s with you, and moments like these are the ones he holds closest to his heart.

Childe

Good luck getting him to stay still. He needs to be doing stuff every waking moment he has.

However, if you ask really nicely, he’ll join you in bed and hold you.

He likes to talk, so get ready to talk even if you’re only half awake.

All jokes aside, he loves physical touch. That and acts of service are his love languages.

Childe is grateful for the times that you take care of him after a particularly rough day of work and fighting, and it shows in the way he holds you so close to him when the two of you rest together.

He likes to rest with you directly on top of him or with your head on his chest, while he has his arms wrapped around you to keep you close.

After all, he cherishes you like family, and the way he holds you reflects that perfectly.

[chamomiletealeaf]

Hey mama😚 I saw that you’re taking requests and I came RUNNINGGGGG to ask you this, so!

How do we feel the 141 men would react to being with a taller, thicker girlie that often gets insecure bc of that? This idea has been brewin for a minutee so I had to get it outta my system😭 if you’re comfortable with it too could you involve konig in it? Don’t feel pressured to ofc 😚💕

Have a good rest of your day/afternoon/night!! Xoxo💋

Hi! I love this ask! I myself am not too tall, around 5'5 (5'4" 3/4 to be exact) and I have never been very skinny, but hopefully I can do this idea justice!

warnings: afab! fem reader, smut MDNI, body worship

Price is a thigh man and he will die on that hill. He just loves your legs. Since you are taller than most girls, that just means there's more of your legs. You were Price's dream come true because not only were you tall, your thighs were so perfectly plump from how thick you were too. When he first met you when Laswell introduced you two at her wedding anniversary party, you wore a skirt that ended mid thigh, leaving just enough to his imagination, and just enough for him to get a peek at your thighs. He noticed he didn't have to break his neck looking down at you, and immediately imagined how easy it would be to kiss you. He also noticed your damn heels he thought looked so fucking sexy on you, creating the illusion of elongating your legs even further and making you taller, which just brought you closer up to his lips.

That night ended with him taking your heels off for you and slowly dragging his hands and mouth up your long legs, making every sting from snide comments about your skirt or heels melt away.

Your body is so soft in his hands and he loves squeezing you. He'll kiss you and both of his hands are immediately on your ass squeezing, making you yelp.

"Mmm. Damn lovie. This fucking arse is delicious." He'll smirk down at you while you giggle at his choice of words and his hands move down to pinch your thighs.

"And these thighs. Just wanna bite 'em up."

You always know how this goes. Whenever his hands are on you and he's talking to you like this, it always ends up with his head between your thighs.

And "bite 'em up" he does. He sucks hickeys into your inner thighs and leaves little bite marks.

"Fuck sweetheart. Look at that. A little love bite right there so you don't forget who's face belongs between your thighs."

Bonus if you squeeze your thighs around his head. It would make him cum immediately.

Price would love thigh fucking. Arguably even more than vaginal sex. Something about the way your thighs squeeze him so nicely without even trying, your slick lubing your pussy and thighs perfectly and just enough for his thick cock to slide in and out between them.

"Fuck darlin' look at that. Don't even need to press your thighs together for me to fuck them. Squeezing me so well. You're so fucking soft."

Simon is so pleasantly surprised when he first meets you. You were tall and you weren't even wearing heels which made Simon silently groan behind his mask as he thought about your long thick legs locking around his waist as he pounded into you.

Your forehead would come up right to his lips, making it so easy to kiss it, which he always took advantage of.

I feel like Simon would also just pick you up randomly. Lifting you up easily when you complain about being too tall or heavy to show you that you are not.

Most times he'll throw you on the bed and show you why your height and thickness are perfect.

"See honey, if you were short, your legs wouldn't be able to lift yourself up and down my cock so easily would they?" He says in your ear, gripping your hips while you ride him.

Or when he's fucking you in doggy with a death grip on your waist when you're feeling insecure he'll say:

"Yeah bunny just like that. Look at that perfect fuckin' ass bouncing back on me. If you were smaller I wouldn't get to grip your cute little love handles like this now would I hm? They're called love handles for a reason now aren't they?" He says between pants.

Gaz is speechless the first time he sees you. You made him feel like a nerdy schoolboy passing by his popular crush in the hallway. You were taller and bigger than most girls he's seen but that just meant there was more of you for him to love.

He loves seeing you get all dressed up, and especially when you wear fitted dresses and outfits so he can see every shape and curve of your body. He loves how his clothes can fit you just right and thinks it's so cute that you two can share clothes.

You'll try his jeans on and the length will be good enough, but you cannot slide them over the tops of your thighs and ass, making him smirk, but you look in the mirror embarrassed that you are bigger than your boyfriend.

"What's that look for?" He asks, seeing you pout in the mirror and looking behind you at your ass that won't fit in his jeans and you continue to try and pull them up, making the waist band catch under your ass which makes it jiggle with each tug.

"Keep doin' that love. Don't think you know what that view looks like from back here." He says with a full on cheeky smile now.

"Stop it Gaz." You warn him with a glare, genuinely upset his jeans won't fit.

"Aww it's ok hun." He says walking up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning his head on your shoulder.

"I'd rather see you without pants on anyways." He says, and you look down and away from him. Even when you're upset, he still finds a way to make you blush.

Then he'd kiss all up and down your neck, then your arms, and all down your legs pulling the jeans off. He kisses his way back up your body up to your ears and whispers:

"On the bed honey. Need to feel you."

And before you know it, you're sitting on Gaz's face while he locks your thighs around his head with his arms and you can't remember what even got you here in the first place.

"Gaz. Baby can you breathe?" You ask worriedly.

He just grunts disapprovingly and locks his arms around you harder so you don't get the idea to scoot away and you moan, feeling his head nuzzle itself deeper between your thighs.

He doesn't care if he can't breathe. You're the only air he'll ever need.

Johnny is absolutely SMITTEN when he first sees you and he's the most obvious. Mouth agape and eyes wide when Price introduces you to the task force as his niece and Gaz smacks him over the head.

Since then he's been literally obsessed with you and since you started dating, he brags to everyone about how he has the most gorgeous woman in the world.

Johnny loves when you wear heels too. Not only because it makes you taller and accentuates your long legs, but because Johnny is the shortest of the Task Force men, and when you wear heels, his eyes are perfectly aligned with your tits.

Whenever you wear heels around him he is not looking at your eyes. It takes everything in him to not just lean forward and smush his face into your cleavage. For Johnny, a bigger girl also meant bigger boobs for him to play with. He'll also come behind you and just squeeze them, reveling in how much they fill his palms. He just loves your tits so much. You'll be laying down on the couch and he's jumping right on top of you burying his face in them with a content sigh, or he'll be begging you to let him fuck them. He'll slide his cock between your tits and he will absolutely lose his mind for sure, watching how they bounce with each thrust.

For Halloween you two would be Gomez and Morticia since you are literally them in real life anyways.

You definitely feed into his mommy kink. He loves how you hold his head against his chest when he needs a snuggle and how he doesn't feel the need to be so careful handling you, and that way you can treat him like the finest porcelain doll.

König would feel elated and strangely validated since he knows what it's like to be seen as "the tall one".

And with you, for the first time, he doesn't feel so estranged. He, of course was still taller than you, but he loved how you were tall too.

He thinks it's so hot seeing you with your friends and you're taller than them. It gives him a sense of pride knowing that the most noticeable and beautiful girl in the room is his.

I feel like König would absolutely love when you give him handjobs. He's so big that the other women he's been with couldn't exactly hold him correctly or jerk him off fast enough due to his size.

But you? Since you were a little closer to his size, you made it work, two hands, and if you really tried one hand, squeezing and jerking him the way no other woman has, making him shoot cum all over himself.

And he loves how your legs can reach up on his shoulders while he fucks you in a mating press. A shorter woman would have a harder time reaching their legs over him in that position, and finally being able to do it gave him this primal urge to fuck you like he would never fuck anyone else again, not like he ever would want to since he found you.

[zinya]

Incorrect Quotes #4

Satan:" sometimes memories are the worst form of torture"

Lucifer :"These are our holiday photos"

Satan :" Exactly "

------

Mammon " Are you even listening "

Mc " Yeah but it takes a little time to understand so many stupid things a second "

------

Mc and Mammon running for cover in Levi's room*

Mammon "Quick! What's your password?"

Levi "Rainbow kittens on sprinkle clouds."

Mc: "You're kidding right?"

-------

Levi "This is my life now. I have climbed this hill and now I will die upon it."

Lucifer "Shut up. We've only been hiking for twenty minutes."

-------

Asmo"Oh, look at all the pretties!"

Solomon"Can you please stop talking about assault rifles the same way you talk about shoes?"

-------

Mammon "A is for organization."

Mc "According to WHAT alphabet?"

-------

The twins who redecorate their rooms

Belphi "Those are decorative."

Beel "Just because they're pretty doesn't mean they're not knives."

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Mammon"Take my hand."

Mc"Why?"

Mammon "I'm trying to ask you to marry me, so take my damn hand!"

-------

*In bed*

Mc: Hey, Chéri? You awake?

Lucifer: Now yes, why?

Mc: If a Guinea pig and a normal pig had a baby, would it be called a piggy-er Guinea pig??

Lucifer: If you and I had a baby, would it get my beauty and your late night thoughts, or your sexy body and my late night murder thoughts?

Mc: *Blushing* I... don't know how to feel about this.

All ideas come from Pinterest, have a nice day