#plink has something to say

[milkyplier]

I’m going to be taking a break sort of. From the fandom. I’m not leaving, you’ll still be able to talk to me and you may even see me post more LU stuff, so honestly there may not be very much of a change from how I currently am. But making things official helps me feel better and more organized, so here we are.

Again, I’m not leaving at all, but I’m going to stop hyper fixating on it (and I think I’ve been forcing the hyper fixation for awhile) and start getting into other things. Like I’ve been playing Genshin Impact and I listened to EPIC the musical lately. Ultimately, I’m hoping that an official break will just take the pressure I’ve somehow managed to amass off myself. So maybe I can start simply enjoying fandoms and creating again. Who knows? Maybe I’ll learn something from it and have a breakthrough and level up as an artist or a writer or both. But anyways, yeah.

I may also be less active on here. I know I already have been, but I lack a lot of energy these days and that often results in me putting off answering asks and stuff simply because if I did answer it now, I’d sound brief and half-hearted. So if I’m really active in here for three days and then the next three I’m suddenly gone, it’s just because I am exhausted 😌

Anyways. This went on a bit long, and I don’t think that was necessary since I’m not a big blog, but regardless! For those of you who read this, thanks for understanding—it really does help me feel more in control about my decisions. :)

[florencemtrash]

Prim and Proper - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Some suggestiveness

Masterlist of Masterlists

Summary: Y/n and Azriel get dressed for a party at the Court of Nightmares in their own special way.

Author's note: This has been sitting unfinished in my drafts. Time to get it out into the world.

The taste of metal seeped onto your tongue, the bite of iron grating against your teeth as you held a pile of pins between your lips. You sat in front of your vanity, hair gathered up in your hands as you tried to create something of a shape. 

Shadows, cool, black fingers, gently slid up your back, whispering against the expanse of skin before gripping your chin. One by one you let the pins fall from your lips where they were caught by spectral hands. 

“Thank you, Azriel,” you said with a smile. You didn’t need to turn to know your mate, and husband, had appeared in the room. He was, always, silent as mist and moved like it too. Once there, and in another instant, gone. 

“Thank the shadows.” Hands, scarred and corporeal, brushed against your shoulders. “They needed no commands from me.” Azriel smiled, leaning against the vanity when he moved in front of you. 

The scent of his latest fight against Cassian still clung to his skin and leathers. His knuckles were bruised and split — an injury you knew would disappear before you even stepped foot outside of Velaris — and a faint red mark tinged his high cheekbones from where he’s been struck. 

“Do you need help with that?” He asked coyly. You spit out one last pin. It fell against the marble countertop with the plink of rain on a tin roof. Then you dropped your hair, shaking out your arms as your hair fell down your back. 

Azriel’s eyes traced you hungrily, and he couldn’t help the disappointment in his stomach when that wide expanse of bare skin disappeared behind the curtain of hair. But perhaps it was a good thing. He’d have a hell of a time keeping his fists to himself if any male eyed you in your strappy dress. 

You draped an arm over the back of your chair, eyelashes fluttering up at him in a way that made his heart stutter. Seventeen years of knowing you, and three years mated, and you still pulled at his heartstrings like a puppeteer. 

“That would be lovely. But!” You held up a hand before he could walk any closer, then pointed towards the bathroom door. “Shower first.” 

Azriel huffed, stealing one quick kiss before slipping into the bathroom. 

Steam billowed out from beneath the door, rolling over the floor like white caps over a beach. Azriel combed back his hair, towel sitting loosely on his hips as you busied yourself with makeup. The smile you’d adopted while brushing blush over your cheeks became real as Azriel rested his hands on your shoulders, stealing a kiss along the curve of your neck before you could say anything. 

He put up your hair and you helped him with the buttons of his dress shirt, especially the pesky ones that lined the slits below his wings. With that done and out of the way, the real work could begin. 

“Three inches or four?”

“Three. The four-inch one is too heavy.” You touched a strand of hair that Azriel had purposefully left out of its arrangement. For framing those beautiful eyes, was what your mate had said. “I want the hair to last if it comes to a brawl.” 

“Smart.” Azriel smiled and spun the thin, three-inch dagger in the air before sliding it into its sheath and then into your hair. The ends that showed looked decorative — beautiful — and discrete, but he’d seen you pluck out a male’s eye with a needle — you could do far more damage with this. He then added a few pearl pins — also using for stabbing people in the eyes. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Azriel murmured against the curve of your ear. 

You hummed in curiosity, then your brow shot up as he gently laid a new pendant necklace against your chest. 

“Raskel finished it in time?!” 

“He did indeed. You’ve got twelve shots.”

You fingered the teardrop shaped pendant, hearing the faintest clatter of hair thin darts within it. You raised the fuller, blunt end to your lips before aiming at the wall and blowing. A sharp, thin whistle followed by the faint plink of the dart hitting the wall made you laugh with glee. 

Azriel smiled adoringly. “Now you’ve got eleven.” 

“That’s eleven of Keir’s males if he decides to test us tonight.” You winked back, for the darts held a poison concentrated enough to kill a fae… if her aim was true… which it always was. 

They traded teasing remarks and began a heated discussion about Sellyn Drake’s newest novel — the author’s first foray into historical fiction — all the while trading daggers and hidden poisons and the odd cutting wire here and there. 

“I like Hellvin Thorv best,” Azriel said from his position on the floor. He slid the sheath up your thigh, tightening it until you nodded in confirmation and slipped a simple silver dagger into its rightful place and flung your skirt over top. 

You clicked your tongue half in disapproval. “You would like him best.” 

“What is that meant to mean?” He asked in shock. 

“Nothing.” 

You helped him put on his thin, leather gauntlets with the hidden blades tucked against his forearm, buttoned up his shirt, and helped lace together the corset he wore, each of the boning channels hiding a knife thin as a feather but stronger than steel. You’d designed it for him, much to Raskel’s chagrin as he was the one who made your creations come to life. Raskel loved to moan and groan about the injustice of it all, but he did love a challenge… and gold. 

As a final touch you made Azriel sit down in your vanity chair before climbing into his lap and holding his chin in a gentle grasp as you lined his eyes with kohl. 

“I would like to see us back in this position at the end of the night,” he sighed. 

“Then let’s hope no one tries anything tonight.” You pressed your lips against his neck leaving a berry red stain. 

“Leave it,” Azriel said when you went to wipe it off, then grinned at the expression on your face. “Let them remember which female I belong to.” You left two more marks on his jaw, just to reinforce the message. 

“Shall we go, Husband?” You asked, standing to your feet and holding out your hand. 

“We shall.” He squeezed once before sliding his arm around your back and squeezing your hip. 

Rhysand and Feyre were the center of attention at the Court of Nightmares with their glittering jewels and chins raised high. Cassian’s voice was loud and grating to unfamiliar ears, and Nesta’s eyes shone like two ice chips, flashing like spotlights as they raked over the crowd. But everyone knew it was the silent pair furthest back from the front of the dais that needed to be feared. The ones made of shadow and darkness that could disappear and reappear seemingly at will. 

Keir caught your gaze once and shivered much to Azriel’s delight. He tipped his head to the side ever so slightly, letting the room catch the smear of lipstick on his neck. The male gritted his teeth and fled out of view. No one would dare raise a hand in defiance so long as you and Azriel graced their presence.

[rafesbowbunny]

𝜗𝜚 soft!kook!reader has begged bf!rafe to slip it in while she's asleep, one day she wakes up to him fulfilling her wish.

loosely insp by this plink (not twt)

c!w; mdni !! consensual somnophilia, established relationship, dom!rafe, soft!kook!reader, 'unprotected' sex, p in v, kinda fluffy?, cum eating.

notes; kinda short but we always love a somno piece tehee

you'd told him he could do whatever he wanted to you whenever he wanted. especially if you were asleep, but he'd always brushed it off, saying something about him always needing to know if you were okay with it. it was sweet that he cared so much, but you just dreamt of waking up full from his cock.

until one day you did.

rafe had come home late at night from a bad day, investors being vague and properties having issues. you were already asleep when he got in, which was the icing on top of the steaming pile of a day he'd had. all he had wanted to do when he got home, was be all over you and at least sleep well.

but here he was, standing over his bed with you on your stomach, sleeping soundly in it. his jaw ticked at the sight of you, so peaceful and still in the night, an angel encased in linens. your bare legs gleamed in the dim light of his bedroom, he slowly tore the cover back, revealing more of your still body in nothing but a cami and your panty clad cunt.

a low groan rose in his throat and he ran a hand through his hair, darting his tongue between his lips before unbuttoning his dress-shirt and pants. he pulled his shirt from his body and tore his pants down, leaving him in only boxers as he shifted your legs apart.

he finally clambered over your small frame, taking a minute to lower his face to your ass, he licked a thick stripe over both your holes and slid two fingers through your folds slowly.

situating himself over you he tapped your weeping cunt before coating his cock in your juices, and sliding it into your unconscious body. rafe slowly rolled his hips, thrusting deeper into your pussy as he held himself above you, a possessive hand gripping your hip as his eyes rolled back at how tight your pussy was squeezing him.

he picked up his speed, thrusting into you at a faster pace, strangled groans escaped his lips, his mind dizzy. he slipped out slowly, now re-adjusting your body to have your knees nearly against your chest while he situated himself against your back.

rafe slipped his cock back into your throbbing pussy, eyes rolling back at the feeling as his jaw slacked, his pelvis slowly meeting your plump ass as he filled you to the hilt. he began picking up his pace, the feeling intoxicating as you lay there oblivious.

rafe's breath shook as the sticky sound of your sopping hole and his cock filled his bedroom with every thrust, "fuck princess, this pussy loves me even when you're dreaming." he whispered into the cool night air.

he shifted over you again, wanting a deeper angle, your pussy clenching him so tightly he thought he could cum any minute when your eyes finally fluttered open. you smiled when you realised what was happening, how wet you felt, how full you felt.

"hey baby..." rafe cooed leaning in to plant a sloppy pussy drunk kiss on your lips, you grinned into the kiss as the speed of his thrusts picked up. soon you were a moaning mess, your hips meeting rafe's as he relentlessly fucked you in missionary now.

you could feel his cock twitching inside you, causing your body to shudder, "you g'na cum rafey?" you whimpered, he was pounding into you, eyes rolling back as all he could respond with was a nod.

you watched his orgasm course through him and he pulled out, finishing on your lower tummy with a drawn out groan. his chest rose and fell rapidly as you swiped your fingers through the cum, licking it off your digits with a smile. "told you you'd like it. 'nd i loved feeling so so full when i woke up," you gushed as his hand ran through his hair.

"you were made f'me pretty girl" he rasped, planting a seering kiss on your lips, tasting himself on your tongue.

[wheneverfeasible]

A Birthday Miracle

wc: 2.3k || rating: T || cw: child neglect, period typical misogyny and homophobia || tags: Steve Harrington has bad parents, platonic Stobin, implied future Steddie || brief summary: Steve’s birthday is December 25th and is always ignored, until Robin gets him a birthday present. || ao3

Steve, much to the disappointment of everyone, was born on Christmas Day.

Over the years, Steve learned to ignore his birthday. Despite what others may believe, he never received double the presents any year, and in fact by the time he was thirteen was just given a lump of cash and told to buy his own present. The Harringtons were far too busy planning their annual Christmas party, something that Steve’s birth had put a delay in that first year and which had never been forgiven.

It wasn’t that his birthday was ignored completely of course. At least not always. It just never was acknowledged on his actual birthday. As he got older, he might have done something with Tommy and Carol during the winter break, but they always had plans with their families on Christmas Day for obvious reasons. Even when he started dating Nancy, family took precedence over a boyfriend’s birthday.

Steve’s Christmas was always very simple. Wake up and get dressed in an outfit that his mother approved of, take posed photos in front of the wrapped but empty boxes before the tree, be handed his envelope of cash, and then make himself scarce as the caterers began arriving.

It was the winter of ‘85 when something different happened.

Steve was in his room, outfit for the Christmas party (different from the outfit he wore for the morning pictures) hanging from his bedroom door, something he would have to change into soon actually. Instead, he was laid starfished on his bed, staring up at his ceiling with that familiar sense of apathy regarding the day.

A few days previously the group had had their own little Christmas party, something where they wore casual clothes or even just their pajamas, crowding into the Sinclair basement to exchange gifts and share (kid friendly) eggnog and cider.

Steve had even managed to get Jonathan to take a special picture of the Scoops Troop, feeling more at ease with his arms around the people he rode an elevator to hell with than he knew he would in a few days in his own home. Erica had protested, but her grin was a little too genuine to make it anything more than a token attempt to remain aloof. Steve knew that feeling well.

So really, Steve had been expecting much the same as every previous year. He would attend his parents’ party just long enough to be the proper, well-behaved son, then he would escape with whatever leftovers he could pilfer from the caterers (they usually made him a plate) and sneak back into his bedroom to wait things out. Tomorrow, he might try to see if anyone wants to hang.

At least, that was the expectation.

Plink!

A small furrow etched into Steve’s brow at the soft noise, turning his head towards the shuttered blinds of his window. It had been a sound he was familiar with, just never on this end of things. When a soft thud came next, Steve let out a small snort and rolled off his bed, moving towards the window to pull open the blinds and look outside.

Robin Buckley had her arm arched back, a look of concentration on her face as she stood on the back patio, and even from this distance Steve could tell she had her tongue poking out slightly as she squinted one eye to make her shot. It explained why the previous one missed the mark and hit the siding by the sound of it.

Robin’s face lit up when she saw Steve, causing a flare of warmth to spread through Steve’s chest. He’d known the strange girl for half of a year and he’d be lying if he didn’t say it was the best six months of his life. Sure, the start of their genuine friendship had come about because of some crazy Russian scientists, an alternate dimension full of monsters, and a bit of physical and psychological torture, but all of that was worth it to be best friends with one Robin Buckley.

Still, he huffed faux annoyance at her, pointing at her through the window pane until she shrugged unrepentantly but dropped the small rock she’d been about to throw all the same. He hesitated only a brief moment before he mimed at her to head towards the basement garage, causing her to grin again and flash him two thumbs up.

A small bit of hushed bickering, sneaking around the caterers and decorators getting the place ready, and avoiding his parents ended with the two of them stumbling through the doorway of his bedroom with muffled giggles. Steve quickly shut and locked his door, turning to give Robin a fondly exasperated look as she began perusing his bedroom.

She’d been there before, of course, but less than a handful of times. He could see the way her gaze paused as it took it in the swimsuit model poster, grinning at her when she suddenly hurriedly looked away with a blush. She scowled at him, but he was glad that she no longer looked hesitant when he was reminded of the fact that she liked boobies.

Of course, it wasn’t really something he ever forgot, but he was glad that she felt safe with him. Felt like she could be herself without fear of retaliation. Sure, he could acknowledge that he still had a bit of a crush on her, but that was his problem, not hers. And he loved her more like a platonic best friend than he did as a silly crush.

“What are you even doing here? Don’t you have family visiting from out of town?” he asked with a shake of his head. They had already exchanged Christmas presents at the Sinclairs’, and they were more than likely going to meet up tomorrow after whatever family shit Robin had.

Robin rolled her eyes. “I told them I had somewhere important to be but that I’d be back in time for dinner.” She slid off her backpack she was wearing to rifle around until she pulled out…a lumpy package wrapped in white wrapping paper designed with balloons in rainbow colors. A big yellow bow was taped to the top.

“Happy birthday!” Robin exclaimed with a grin, dropping the backpack to thrust the package—the gift out towards Steve.

Steve physically startled at the exclamation, his mouth dropping into an ‘o’ of surprise as he took in the present that looked nothing like a Christmas present. No, he could see in between the balloons small script that repeated happy birthday! amidst tiny confetti bursts.

“Wh-what?” he gaped, certain he had misheard in some way.

Rolling her eyes again, Robin closed the distance and pushed the gift into Steve’s hands. “I said, ‘Happy birthday,’ dingus,” she laughed.

“But…you already got me a present,” Steve pointed out, because she’d just bought him Freddie Mercury’s new solo album Mr. Bad Guy for Christmas, which was perhaps one of the best if not the best presents he had ever received.

“I got you a Christmas present. This is your birthday present,” Robin stated like that should have been obvious.

Oh.

Steve’s fingers tightened on the present, the wrapping paper crinkling under his grip. There was a suspicious burning behind his eyes, but his father had told him only girls and queers cried, so he blinked rapidly for a moment to rein it all back in. It was just…

He couldn’t really remember ever receiving just a regular birthday present. Even by his friends. Tommy and Carol had always said their gift was a little bigger because it was for both, and even Nancy hadn’t really done separate gifts the one Christmas they were together. It was just never something he ever expected.

Yet here was Robin, his best friend, leaving her family on Christmas just to wish him a happy birthday and give him an honest to god birthday present. He swallowed thickly, more than just incredibly touched.

Before, he might not have said anything. Before, he might have just laughed it off and opened the present and been secretly grateful that someone had thought of him. But this was Robin.

Robin.

His best friend. God, he loved her. It didn’t matter if it was only platonic (with a capital P at that); it didn’t make it any less profound or true. He loved her. He didn’t think he had ever loved anyone as much as he loved her. Even back when they had bickered all the time at Scoops, there had been something there. He had just confused it for something else at first.

But they had clicked immediately, even back then. Even back when Robin had still thought him the same asshole he’d been back in high school, and potentially homophobic. Even she couldn’t deny that. Like they were meant to find each other. He just wished they had found each other a lot sooner.

But then, he hadn’t been that great of a person back then too. Maybe they found each other exactly when they meant to, like the universe just knew.

“No one…no one’s ever gotten me a birthday present before,” he softly admitted. “Not just a birthday present, I mean. Not one that wasn’t also a Christmas present.”

Robin’s gaze softened, and almost like they were reading each other’s mind, they reached out at the same time to grasp each other by the elbow in a gentle cradle. She didn’t look at him with pity, however. She knew that wasn’t what he needed.

“Well, of course I would be the one to do it first, dingus,” she lightly teased, squeezing his elbow briefly before letting him grasp his present with both hands again. “You’re my dingus. I love you,” she softly added, and the words helped heal that crack inside him that wondered if maybe he was still unworthy of love, just like it did every time she uttered those words.

“I love you too,” he replied, just like he always did. They didn’t say the words often, but they never let them go unanswered.

Robin grinned at him then, and it was that same grin as in the bathroom, when they suddenly knew that they had found their other half after all. “Open your birthday gift, Stevie,” she chided, spinning around to find the edge of the bed before plopping down with a clap of her hands.

“Dork,” he scoffed, but it was full of affection. He knew he was just as much of a dork. They both knew it, truly. He grinned down at the birthday gift in his hands, taking a deep breath before ripping the paper away.

“Bucky, you didn’t,” he gasped, his grin growing as he looked up at his best friend who was grinning back.

“It took ages to find the right one,” she confessed. “I made my mom take me all over for it.”

Steve hurriedly pulled the red puffer vest from the rest of the wrapping paper, careful not to drop the small toy figure resting on top. This? This right here? Christ, he had thought the album Robin had gotten him for Christmas had been the best present ever, but this certainly took the cake.

“Oh!” Robin exclaimed, and then like she could read Steve’s mind again, she was once more diving for her backpack. She pulled out a small cardboard box from the bakery downtown, followed by a blue candle.

“I don’t have a lighter,” she said apologetically as she opened the lid of the box to reveal a cupcake that was a little worse for wear from being in her bag, but still noticeably a cupcake. That she stuck the candle in. “But I know that you do, so hand it over and let’s light it up.”

Steve felt that burn behind his eyes again. A birthday present, one that symbolized something so important to them, and a birthday cake. On his actual birthday. He had never loved Robin as much as he did in that moment.

Huffing a small laugh that was only slightly wet, Steve carefully moved to set the little packed figure on his desk, propped up against his bowling pin he’d stolen with Tommy one year, and found his lighter to hand off to Robin.

“Happy birthday to you,” Robin started singing as soon as she had the candle lit, holding the box up with both hands. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear dingus. Happy birthday to you. And many mooooore…” Robin’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Make a wish, Stevie.”

What more could he possibly wish for when he had the best friend he could ever hope for giving him the one thing he’d never had before?

I wish for Robin to get all the happiness and love that she deserves, he decided, wishing for that with all his heart, and then he leaned forward and blew out the candle.

Next year, after the earthquakes, his parents canceled their Christmas party for the first time in two decades. They were done with Hawkins, they decided. And Hawkins, or at least the people in it important to Steve, were done with them too.

Steve’s friends convinced their parents to celebrate Christmas the day before, allowing them to throw Steve his first ever actual birthday party whose sole focus was just him.

But if Steve used the opportunity of a stray piece of mistletoe still hanging from the Munsons’ new house to kiss the boy he had a crush on, well, he just considered that his birthday present to himself.

After that, Steve never had to spend a birthday alone again, or have it ignored, even when they celebrated Christmas that day too. With one arm wrapped around his Platonic soulmate and one arm wrapped around the man of his dreams, Steve knew that he had somehow found the happiness and love he deserved too.

And it was the best birthday present he could have ever wished for.

~

Hostage Hotties (open):

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @honeii-puff @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-wierdlife @everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes @lawrencebshoggoth

[mediumgayitalian]

Plink.

“Psst, hey! Nico!”

Plink. Plink.

“Nico! You up?”

Plink.

Plink plink plink. Plink —

“What in the world,” Nico hisses, yanking open his window, “is going — oh.” He blinks. “Will?”

Will grins. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he says, voice not nearly quiet enough for someone who is at direct risk of being devoured. “Thought I’d drop by. Can I come in?”

If Nico were smart, he would say no, actually, it’s like four in the godsdamn morning, go the hell back to your cabin. What is wrong with you.

Instead, he says, “We live in the same neighbourhood, dweeb-face, this is a camp,” and opens his window all the way. Will grins at him, wide and glinting in the dark, and yanks himself in head-first, somersaulting onto the floor and staying there, sprawled on the polished marble floors.

“Hi,” he says again, grin shifting into something more crooked.

Nico breaks away, hiding a smile with rolled eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s ridiculous to want to see you?”

“Before dawn? Yes!”

“Aw.” He settles against the ground, tucking his hands behind his head and letting half lidded eyes trace over Nico’s form, over the sleepy shape of him. Nico shivers. “I was awake, you know. I dreamt of you.”

Cool the fresh hell down, Nico screams at his brain. Out loud, he says, “Shut the fuck up,” and ignores Will’s snickering. How dare he, honestly. For someone who gets clowned as often as he does he is not nearly humble enough. Apollonian genes, indeed.

“What, you don’t dream of me?”

When Will lies, his throat swells up and he breaks out in hives. Nico is at the top of the leaderboard for getting the reaction out of him, with Cecil at a close second and Kayla no slouch in third place. Will is highly manipulable. It’s a good time for everyone around (even Chiron, who is, to his own irritation, lumbering behind at spot #42).

Nico, however, has no such holdups. Nor is he inclined, at any point in time, to fluff up Will’s ego, no matter how he looks when he’s cocky. Nico has self control. Mostly. (Well, at times.)

“Of course not. My subconscious would never do that to me.”

“You’re mean to me, di Angelo.”

“You like it.”

Nico watches, fascinated, as Will’s loudmouth snaps right shut; as his face burns sacred cow right in the low light of the cabin, as he squirms.

“Oh,” he says, gleefully.

“Can it, di Angelo —”

“Oh ho ho ho —”

“I’m gonna curse your ass with haiku disorder, do you know what that is, ‘cause I’ll show you, dickhead —”

Nico crouches down and pokes Will hard in the cheek, and he doesn’t even flinch — he just goes redder. Nico guffaws.

“Dude! Have some — dignity, oh my —”

“Shut up! Shut up! You’re so horrible, gods, I am leaving —”

“Oh, come here.” Will is dragged easily from the windowsill, because he is a big fat faker. There are actual claw marks on the infirmary door from the last time Austin brought Nyssa to drag him out.

“I don’t wanna stay where I’m unwanted,” he laments, bouncing on the bed when Nico shoves him. He takes the inch Nico gives him and burrows deeply under the blankets, throwing a melodramatic hand over his eyes. Nico rolls his own eyes, hoping if he rolls then hard enough Will can tell regardless of whether or not he’s looking, and crawls in after him. He makes sure to kick him at least thrice. “I can take a hint, you know.”

“Medical arts were the wrong career path for you. It’s not too late, you know. I’m sure you could shadow Nicholas Cage or something —”

“I am going to kill you with hammers —”

Nico evades gus clumsy attacks with ease, snickering as he pins him to the bed, smirking when he gives up fighting with a huff.

“I’m glad you came when you couldn’t sleep,” Nico says, after a moment for them to catch their breath. “But the point of that agreement is for you to then shut the fuck up and sleep. Here. So.”

“I’m trying,” Will grumbles. “But you’re being mean and it’s crushing my soul. How am I supposed to sleep with a crushed soul?”

“Oh my gods.”

“Okay, okay! Put the pillow away, jeez, I’m sorry. Meanie.”

Nico rolls his eyes again, settling down next to him. Will takes longer to settle, because he’s annoying, but right before Nico is ready to smack the shit out of him again, he calms down, burrowing stilling once he’s turned on his side.

“…Thank you.”

“Whatever, goober. Go to sleep.”

The smile is obvious in his voice. “Goodnight, Nico.”

“Goodnight, Will.”

“In the morning can we —”

“Goodnight, William.”

“Okay, okay. Night.” He pauses. “Love you.”

Nico shoved his grinning face into his pillow. “Love you too.”

[proheromidoriyashouto]

headcannon that Witchers are obligate carnivores and it means they can't just drink normal tea they have to brew that shit with bones in it or something or else it upsets their sensitive tummies.

like whenever Jaskier is brewing tea in camp and turns away for a second Geralt tosses in little bones he won't notice until its time to drink up and little pieces of white bone just plink into his cup. trying to get answers out of Geralt for something like this is a fool's errand so Jaskier just has to figure out why this is happening over time.

made all the more frustrating by Geralt getting miffed about Jaskier not eating the little bones and calling him wasteful and taking them for himself to eat. "the crunchy bits are the best part of tea."

but Geralt will not just call it soup. will not just ask for bone broth with herbs in it. it's "tea" and special "Witcher tea" when Jaskier won't let it go. and people think Jaskier is the dumb and pretty one of their pair.

but the other Witchers all do it to some degree, and if Jaskier wants a hot drink experience that doesn't taste wildy off and like shit he has to start just making broth or soups. crushed rosemary and garlic and a hefty helping of salt along with a big marrowy bone at least.

if he wants his own tea he has to brew it after Geralt is asleep or meditating or off on a hunt becaus he ALWAYS sneaks little bones or chunks of meat into it even when its only for Jaskier. he complains enough about it that Geralt buys a little tea pot Just For Jaskier that he promises not to mess with (but still does because surely the bard will die without animal fat and protein in every cup. Jaskier has to burst into tears for Geralt to stop in truth).

Geralt is delighted that tea is good now--he had no idea humans knew how to make a good Witcher tea! ah the bard has been holding out on him the strange little herbivore. glad he finally saw sense.

now if Jaskier would believe Geralt when he says he can't taste sweet things and stop trying to feed him pastry and wasting their hard earned coin on things that aren't even real. like sugar.

Ciri gets bit by a tick when she's on the run from Nilfgaard the first time and becomes deathly allergic to meat and it is SO upsetting to the Witchers. why even live.

[lostintransist]

Boys' Home - Part 3

AO3

Simon worked the rest of the day with the guys, hauling out as much junk and stripping back walls as much as they could before dark fell. They would be buying a generator and more tools the next time they were in town. The sun had started to dip in the sky. Before Soap and Gaz hopped in the car with Price to head for the hotel for the night he asked them to look into you.

“I’m staying back to observe tonight. I don’t like that a woman that young has four boys.”

Soap put up a hand before Gaz could ask the question clearly in his face.

“You got it. We will bring breakfast for you in the morning. Come on Gaz. Let’s go.”

Soap knew him well enough at this point to know that kids were a hard line for him. He would explain it to Gaz. Simon turned and jogged into the twilight stealing trees and followed the trail to the edge of your yard. He settled in until the darkness left the only light seeping from the windows.

He watched you in the kitchen, windows cracked to let a breeze through the old house.

A boy’s voice followed you around as you shifted and spun around the kitchen, presumably to get dinner ready. The fourth time you ran into the boy you yelled.

“Seth!”

The boy jumped and Simon straightened, ready to get involved. To his surprise, you covered your face with your hands and took three deep breaths. That done you moved your hands to your hips and looked at the boy.

“I am sorry for yelling at you, that wasn’t cool of me. I would love to listen to you but right now I need you out of the kitchen so I can finish getting dinner ready.” Simon is wary of your calm and even tone.

“But why did you have to yell at me?” The boy has tears in his voice.

You let out another breath and glance at the ceiling. “Do you remember how I told you that my parents hit me as a kid?”

“Yeah,” Seth sniffles.

“They also yelled at me. So sometimes when I get overwhelmed my brain does something that it thinks will fix the issue before I can get ahead of it.” You pause looking at the boy. When he nods you continue. “That is sometimes why I ask for space when I am angry because my brain is saying that hitting will make the problem stop but you and I both know that won’t fix it.”

“Right because that is not kind and hitting people makes bigger problems.”

“Correct. Now, can I sit down with you after dinner and listen to you tell me about your Minecraft world?”

“I guess.” Seth sounds dejected even from across the yard.

“Do you want a hug, a wave, or a high five?”

He sighs big, “A hug.”

You pull the boy in instantly, hugging the boy who reaches your shoulder tight. He returns the touch before disappearing further into the house. Simon watches you, narrowed in on the movements he can see from the distance he has.

Pulling your hair tie out of your hair you redo your bun, somehow making it look worse than before. Leaning both hands on the counter you talk to yourself.

“Okay, we only have a few more hours until bedtime. You can do this. You love your children. You will love them more in the morning when everyone has had some sleep.”

Distant plinks have your shoulders drooping in defeat. You turn to face the interior of the house and shout.

“Boys! You clean those marbles up! I told you to stop sending them down the stairs, that can break them!”

A chorus of ‘Sorry Mom’ reaches Simon’s ears. He doesn’t know what to think of you. Every opportunity for compliance via punishment with your children had been met with honesty and empathy. He wanted to walk away now, his skin stretched too tight across his bones.

Simon watched for hours. You bit back more yelling and apologized to more of the children while gently guiding them through their routine. Shower, brush teeth, bed, no you don’t care if you take a tablet to bed they will all turn off at ten, yes even in the summer. When at last the only lights on in the house belonged to the kitchen Simon watched you pour yourself a drink and slid into a chair just beyond the reach of the kitchen light.

You stared into the darkness, eyes sweeping over him again and again. When at last your glass is nearly empty you set it down to the side of your chair. Scrubbing your eyes you talk to yourself again.

“The first week is always the hardest. They will get back into the groove of summer soon. We are going to Costco tomorrow. That will help with their jitters out. We can get a Lego set and the muffins. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. Hot dog and a drink for them and then they should pass out on the way home and play outside until dark so I can finish pulling the lathe out of the top room.”

You continued to mutter to yourself as you gather up your glass and head inside. Simon watches you drift through the house by the change of lights on the windows. When you finally settle he decides that must be your room.

Seeing no better option Simon turns the chair you had used to stare into the forest to face the house, settling in to doze for a few hours.

He opens his eyes because a light has turned on in the house. Must be a bathroom light, the small window positioned between the two rooms in use. After the light flicks off your shadow against the darkness traces through the house. After placing a basket on the back step you shut the door and head back to bed without turning on any lights.

Curious Simon lets you settle before he creeps up to the step. He smells it more than three steps away. One of the boys had peed the bed.

The only time he had ever felt this discombobulated before had been when as a boy he had been tossed from a horse. His grandfather’s neighbor had a horse in the field next to the house. No one had told Simon the old mare would rather murder than nurture. She sidled up the rock fence and let him climb on her back before taking off like her ass was on fire.

The wind had been knocked out of Simon and he stumbled home. Thinking about it now he is sure he had a concussion from how hard he hit the ground. He cuts off the train of thought before he has to relive the memory of his father coming to drag him and his mother back. That would be the last time she tried to leave her husband.

🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏

Soap delivered on his promise of breakfast. Gaz brought a change of clothes and a pack of wet wipes. Price only delivered him a shake of the head before heading inside.

“What did you find out?” Simon asks as he wipes the back of his neck. He had already removed his shirt and would be cleaning himself up the best he could before starting another day of tearing out walls.

“She’s got a killer playlist,” Gaz offers.

He and Johnny both look at Kyle.

The man catches their stares.

“What? You said check her out, you can learn a lot about a person from their music choices.” He settled the new tool belt on his hips and continued, “She has all the kids legally, is listed as their legal guardian with the state. Can’t figure out how they ended up with her since none of them have original birth certificates, just delayed ones.”

“House was an inheritance, and she is a teacher at the local school like she said. She teaches science and auto shop.” Johnny adds. “What did you learn last night?”

Something in his stillness must alert them. Both men pause their respective tasks to look at him.

“She doesn’t hit them.”

Kyle and Johnny glance at each other before settling back on him.

“She apologizes when she yells. One of the kids wet the bed in the middle of the night. There was no screaming or hitting, took less than ten minutes to get the kid back to bed, and the laundry settled for later.”

Simon stretched his pecs before stretching his shoulder blades, trying to dislodge the pain between them.

“Huh,” Kyle looked at the ground, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t know that was an option.”

Johnny ran a hand over his mohawk, jaw working back and forth.

“If you grannies are done gossiping there is work to be done in here,” John yelled out from the second floor. He effectively filleted the tension that had risen in each man.

They didn’t pick the conversation up again until Price had taken his turn in the shower at the hotel. Every bit of your life that had been recorded in an accessible way had been poured over. They were looking for what witchcraft made you a better single mother to four boys you didn’t birth than any of the biological parents that beat and ruined the three men who ran from their problems with bullets and tactical vests. They didn’t find the answers they were looking for.

Part 1 | Part 4

Masterlist

[softshuji]

Ran knows something is wrong.

There's a certain stillness in the air when you come home today and he- ever the observant one- notices it the minute you demurely shuffle into the house.

He's used to the clatter, the hustle and bustle of bags and shoes, your keys with too many keychains, a loud thump as you throw your coat over the arm of the sofa and drop your handbag and boots to the floor, a weighted and audible 'i'm back!' that he looks forward to every day.

He thinks he's used to your footfall by now, soft on the stairs as you make to the bedroom and toss your clothes to the bed, half on and half off and just as messy because you always have been like that, accessories piled on the dresser for later and headphones tossed onto the laptop on the desk. Here you are now, quiet still though, and heading straight for the en suite to wash your face and Ran pokes his head around the bedroom door to watch you kick off a skirt and trudge to the bathroom.

He follows easily, quietly, a fox stalking a rabbit, picking up your clothes and piling them on the chair before he leans on the bathroom door and watches you wash your face before pressing your palms to your eyes, holding them there as the water drips and slides along your chin with a plink against the white porcelain sink.

'Princess?' he says and breaks the silence, his baggy shirt falling over one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted in concern as you lean against the sink, close enough for you to catch the faint watery puff of redness under your eyes in the mirror now fogging up with your shaky breath. 'You good?'

You avoid him like you always do, because you hate that he sees through you so easily sometimes, that he's smart and clever and you wish he wasn't so when you put up enough walls for him to have to fight them down. So you shrug and turn away towards the cabinet to put your soap back, to rearrange things uselessly just so you can avoid turning back to him again, the outline of you stiff in a loose shirt of his.

You sense him move and a part of you quails because you know he is nothing if not persistent and maybe that's what it is, years and years of having to grow up too quickly, of constantly having to be more than enough for others that has changed and matured him in ways he shouldn't have to be, but that exist anyway. You wonder absent-mindedly sometimes, in the lower moments whether it all comes from Rindou, from Sanzu even. All the lessons learned in how to parent by himself because Rindou needed a father and a brother both and Ran always steps up.

His shadow looms behind you and you stiffen when he runs his hands along your sides, to your shoulders where he presses his palms, a smooth and reassuring pressure along your shoulder blades and back, running to your neck and down again, a tug that has your back hitting his chest and his head resting against yours.

'Bad day?' he says, his breath a whisper against your ear, warmth tickling the faint hairs on the nape of your neck as his hands come around to your stomach where they rest against the hem of your sweatpants.

'Maybe,' you say, non-committal and tense still, refusing to show it, refusing to lean into him because it burns you somewhere inside that he gives himself to you so freely and that you have an issue accepting it anyway, that it's a weakness to let yourself be cared for by him in the way he is so eager to give so often. You fall back on this a lot, the same thoughts, the same reasonings, the same love you wish was easier to accept from someone who wants to give it.

He hums with a press of his lips to your temple. 'Yeah, me too. Total shitshow today.'

'You okay?' you turn to him then, quickly, a bunny ensnared in the trap he has so easily lain, all pretense forgotten and he clicks his tongue at it all.

'See I knew you'd do that.'

'Do what?'

'You do it a lot. Forget about yourself if you think someone else needs you more.'

A chill runs along your spine, tickling the base of your neck. 'Because it's true and I don't like talking about it.'

'It's not.'

'Not what?'

'True,' he says, his hands now skimming over your arms, settling on your hips that he pulls to bump gently against his own, thumbs grazing the soft flesh that slivers between the shirt and the hem of your sweatpants. 'None of it. There's nothing noble in constantly ignoring yourself, not when you need care too.'

Something stirs in your throat, tears unbidden and swallowed, a twitch of your eyebrows that has your ears ringing and you hate him, hate that it must feel easy to him to peel you back like this, as if all the time you've spent carefully curating yourself doesn't mean anything.

'I don't,' you say, stubborn as ever and shaking your head, a forceful willingness to push the hurt and ache down, to quell the tears that he brings so freely. 'I don't need anything, and nothing is wrong.'

He raises an eyebrow at you then, a lift of his chin and a slow shake of his head, purpling strands of silky hair curling over his forehead and it makes him look boyishly handsome, beautiful and open and endearing and honest and you would kiss him till he knew and believed if you could.

'Don't,' he says. 'Don't do that. We don't do that Princess, you know we don't.'

You look away then, escaping from the heat of his stare, all knowing and terrifying and direct, the flash of lilac and lavender that sees through your tough skin, your tough and stubborn exterior. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

He lifts a finger, holds your chin between that and his thumb, smooth circles from left to right and so soft, so reassuring, even now when you're convinced he must be annoyed, must be bothered by the bother of you. 'We don't do that Doll. We don't be mad and then not talk about why and expect the other to magically know, and then get angry at them when they don't. So tell me what's wrong yeah?'

You mumble, a slip of words that crumble at the end, the weight of all his softness, all the learning, all the reassuring gathering with the tears at the back of your throat. 'You're not upset at me? You don't think I'm bothering you?'

You like when he smiles. Just as he's about to. You like it even more when he holds the back of your head and tucks you against his chest like so, your voice muffled by the cotton, by the warmth and constancy of him, his heart beating against your cheek, a steady tap that melts into the rhythmic circles drawn against your back. He leans his head against yours, lips caught on your hair, the vibration of his deep and sultry voice reverberating in your chest.

'Did I ever say I was?'

'No, no you didn't.'

'Then don't you think it's unfair to assume that I am Princess? Make my decisions for me?'

You clamp your lips shut, opting instead to lift your arms around his back, press him into you, curl around him as a cat would, soft muscle and fine bones that make him so real and so tangible under your touch, that you could spend hours marveling over alone. 'Just dumb that's all. I had a shitty day and my coffee press broke and I got wet in the rain and I'm tired.'

'Mhm, go on.'

'And I'm angry and want a bath and I feel bad for complaining when it's not that bad in the grand scheme of things y'know?'

'Mhmm who said though? Who said it's not that bad? It's relative don't you think? Bad shit is bad shit, I wouldn't ever expect you to be happy with it.'

'I...I don't like needing things, you know this.' You turn your cheek, lay it flat against his chest, the tap and boom of his heart thrumming against your ear.

'I like needy Princess, I like being there.'

You hate him, you love him, you wish it were easier to undo all the old lessons beaten into you, especially when you know he's so eager to please, so eager to be needed by you, so eager to give if only you'd accept it. You wonder how it happened. How a man with one family member, who has seen enough death for a lifetime can hold you like this- gently- soft, fingers that move deftly across your skin, a feather touch to your spine, to your chest, to your hips that he lightly squeezes at, pulling the hurt from you with every press of his lips to your hair.

'Sorry.'

'No need Princess, nothing to be sorry for. Now how about that bath?' and he pulls you back, tears soaked into his shirt for him to toss later, the effort of his love shining through when you give him a watery and shaky smile, the edges of your eyes still puffy and red rimmed but calmer now, holding his hands against your cheeks.

It never hurts and he never gets tired and you wish you were able to talk about it more. That you think he has fixed some part of you left dormant, left broken, and even if he hasn't, you can admit his hands feel good, feel nice when he runs them across your skin, and across every painted and embellished scar.

As if he doesn't see the multitudes of jagged edges, as if he loves them anyway. He does.

reblogs appreciated!

I had a terrible day and needed to make myself feel better lol

[luveline]

hello jade! you are so talented and i love how you handle Miguel, so here comes my request: miguel overworking himself and tinkering on stuff and fem!reader pretending a accident happened, just to lure him away and force him to rest, while someone else takes over

thank you!! and thank you for your request ♡ fem!reader x boyfriend!miguel

Miguel's eyes are the kind of dry where you can actually physically tell from the edge of the platform you've just yanked yourself onto. His undereye area is sunken and dark, and his lips are pressed together tightly as he breathes in. He has some strange technology in his hand, a screwdriver in the other. It's unusual to see him working with physical tech these days, and whatever it is has been keeping him busy. 

"Hey, Miguel," you say finally, breaching the quiet. Margo looks up from her desk at the sound of your voice, and something in her gaze says, Oh, good, you're here. Fix him. You nod tightly. "Miguel?" 

He looks up for a split-second, if that. "What?" 

"What are you doing?" 

"Calibration." 

He doesn't explain the tech beyond that. You're a Spider, you should be able to guess what it is that he's working on. You've created web-shooters yourself with extremely complicated and delicate makings, but the longer you look at it the more confused you feel. 

"Do you need anything? Water? Something from the cafeteria?" You edge into the room, footsteps measured. "A nap?" 

"Nope." 

You frown and approach his side. He's sitting down, so there's that. The most important thing is that he's resting in some capacity, but the second most important thing is that his hair is in hand's reach. You put your hand on his shoulder to test the waters. Miguel doesn't react. Pleased, you push your fingertips into his hair and scratch gently at his scalp. His hair is a little dirty. He isn't taking care of himself, and this deep into a project it's unlikely he will be anytime soon.

You decide it's morally okay to lie. "I need a favour," you say gently. 

He looks up, finally noticing your hand in his hair. His head tips into your palm, his eyes softening, his crows feet wrinkles erased ever so slightly as he asks, "What do you need?" 

"I smashed the window in my room, and it's really, really cold, and I can't find a vacuum," you say, setting a false shame into the line of your mouth and eyes, your brows pinching up at the starts. "I'm really sorry, I don't know what to do." 

It's your apology that finally tugs him out of work mode. He lets the doohickey he'd been tinkering with plink flat onto his workbench, a rare but not uncharacteristic kindness in his voice. "Don't be sorry. We'll get it fixed. I know where everything is." 

"I know where everything is," Lyla says. 

"S'what I said," Miguel says. You know he laughs to make you feel more comfortable, and the guilt for lying to him festers. 

That guilt quickly wanes on the walk to your room. He's yawning and blinking the entire trek, big hand over his mouth to hide it. The Spider Society is really shaping into something amazing, and more and more Spiders arrive everyday. They've started construction on a dormitory for worldly visitors and refugees, but you've been lucky enough to get your own room near Miguel's. It's hard work for him to undertake such a huge project. He doesn't realise he's not doing it alone.

"How'd you break your window, anyway?" he asks through another jaw-cracking yawn. 

"You know me," you say, laughing nervously as you open your door and reveal a lack of both a broken window or smashed glass. 

Miguel squints through tired eyes at the room's cleanliness. "The smashed window?" he asks. 

"What do you mean?" you ask. 

"You know what I mean, the– you smashed a window? You wanted a vacuum?" 

"Did I?" you ask. 

"She lied," Lyla says, blinking in and out of view.

"I gathered that, thanks." 

"Okay, I'm sorry, I did lie. I just want you to take a break," you say, sitting at the top of your bed in what you hope is an enticing display, hand rubbing the empty space beside you. "Come and sleep, Miguel." 

"I can't," he says gruffly, then less so, "I can't, I have things to do." 

"Just for a bit," you say, eyes wide and pleading, your very best approximation of puppy dog's. "Please, baby. Just for an hour." 

Miguel stares at you for a moment, his shoulders sagging, before he closes your bedroom door and wastes no time in lying down next to you. You're startled at his willingness to do as you asked, but then you notice his flushed cheeks, tanned skin darkened by a rosy blush. 

You open your mouth to say something smug. He senses it, and says, "I can't sleep if you're talking." 

Your lips snap closed. 

Miguel lays motionless for a while. His breathing evens out. Sure he's asleep, you lay down beside him and dot a chaste kiss against his temple. 

His lips flicker. Not smiling, but almost. 

[ghcstao3]

prompt from @juggalomary :

“A teenaged ghost who often shows up to places with bruises and cuts. Who is a regular visitor of the homeless shelter by the soccer pitch popular with the local grammar school boys. Soap who is a troubled student from the grammar school who plays keeper in soccer matches with his friends.

One day ghost missed the final call before they locked the shelter after a late night argument with his dad. He slept on bench for the home team at the pitch. Soap being soap was up at that ungodly hour playing soccer when he accidentally hit ghost with his water bottle.

Next thing they knew ghost will either throw rocks at soaps windows or just walk through the front door when he can’t sleep at home.”

-

Plink.

Johnny frowns, tearing his gaze away from his homework for a moment to wonder if he’d really just heard something. But when nothing happens for at least another minute or so following, Johnny resumes his work and chalks it up to his imagination.

Plink.

There, again. Johnny turns to the window where he’s sure the sound had come from, if it isn’t just in his head, and watches. Mindlessly twirls his pencil between his fingers and waits… for nothing. Another drawn out silence.

Plink.

Just as Johnny is making for his second dismissal, there’s a flash of grey bouncing off the glass that catches his eye. He slowly sets his pencil down and stands from his creaky desk chair before creeping toward the window.

There, on his lawn, with a bruised jaw and a toothy grin, is none other than Simon Riley.

Johnny hastily pulls his window open, leaning over the sill to whisper-shout, “Were you throwing rocks?”

“Maybe I was,” Simon whisper-shouts back. He less-than-discretely empties his hoodie pocket of an arsenal of pebbles now that he’s gotten Johnny’s attention. “You have room for one tonight?”

“Your dad kick you out?”

Simon shrugs a shoulder, grimacing. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Right, well—“ Johnny casts a quick glance back to his room, winces at the state of it, then decides Simon probably wouldn’t care, “—I’m sure my Ma won’t mind. Just wait there a sec.”

His Ma wouldn’t mind, sure, she loves Simon—but Johnny doesn’t imagine she’d be all too pleased to be disturbed at this hour, either, so he’s silent leaving his room to quietly greet Simon at the front door to let him in.

It’s the first time he’s ever come this late.

Johnny immediately shushes Simon once he’s ushered inside, though Simon has yet to say anything. He lets himself be led toward Johnny’s room without a word, dutifully following Johnny’s silent instruction to sit on the bed and wait while he retrieves the First Aid kit from the bathroom.

The bruise is worse, up close, though it’s old. Nothing Johnny can fix.

What he can fix, however, is the cut on Simon’s temple and the one through his bottom lip—all it requires is some gentle blotting of a cloth soaked with cold water to clean, and butterfly stitches on Simon’s head because it’s either that or Johnny’s wee sister’s princess bandaids to keep the wound covered.

Which, Simon jokes, would make him look too tough. But they both know the real reason he can’t use one.

When Johnny realizes he’s still leaning too far into Simon’s space, even now having finished tending to his cuts, he reels back before Simon can notice the blush that begins to bloom across his face.

Johnny hangs his head, picking at a loose thread on his pyjamas, doing his best to ignore the warmth burning from ear to ear.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” He mumbles.

He can feel Simon staring at him, something he always seems to be doing whether or not Johnny notices. Johnny continues picking at the string.

“Not really,” Simon says. “Can we sleep?”

Johnny nods, standing to push his desk chair back in place. He can hear Simon moving back on the bed, crawling underneath the covers like he’s now done so many times. Johnny clicks off his desk lamp and blindly wanders to the unoccupied side and gets into bed along with Simon.

They sleep back-to-back, always. And also like always, Johnny fights his exhaustion until he can be sure that Simon’s breathing has evened out; that he’s actually getting a proper rest.

Johnny knows he’ll have to deal with his Ma in the morning, but he doesn’t care. He just wishes it were easier for Simon to be safer like this every night, and not just the few he ends up staying here.

Johnny is still happy to provide any bit of help he can, though. God knows Simon needs the support.

Satisfied when he hears quiet snores escape Simon, Johnny, too, falls asleep.

[milkyplier]

Hey guys, I’m gonna stay off Tumblr for a hot minute.

I promise I’m fine, but I think I’ve needed a break for awhile and I decided I’d take it now when I have school to finish. It’s just five chapters of History, so I may be back as soon as I finish them, maybe later, maybe sooner, but it definitely won’t be a very long time! I hope to get back into my creative stride while I’m gone; I know I haven’t been drawing or writing a lot lately so I hope a brain break from Tumblr will help me with that XD

Cheers!

[itssliyahhxoxo]

𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐡 || pt 2 ||

(𝐁𝐖𝐖𝐖)

(𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐆𝐄 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑)

“Girllll you are on fireee” angel your friend laughed shoving her phone in your face. You took it confuse when you did you saw there was a picture took of you and Paige having the conversation after the game and some were of the eye contact you too had that night.

“People get on my nerves sometimes,and you’re one of them” you mumbled walking past her “you know you love me” she giggled following after you “yeah,yeah” you rolled your eyes.

You walked to your room when you got a phone call from you agent “hey what’s up” you answered “you free tonight” she asked hope in her voice “yeah why”. “Great I was hoping you would do an appearance tonight at some club,it’s really cool you’ll be in and out promis” she plead “yeah and the last time you said that you got me drunk” you laughed.

“This time I promise there will be no alcohol” she chuckled You paused thinking about it it has been a while since you been out or made any appearances. “Sure”

(Ur outfit,you can imagine something else if you like)

Paige/3rd pov

“Come onnn it’s just one night please” kk cried. She had wanted to got out sense they had a free night and there was nothing else to do azzi,ice,and nika had already agreed to going but they were all waiting on Paige now.

“I said no” she told them not looking up from her phone and what she was looking at may you ask..edits..of you.

Some were from the your new movie and some were form interviews. All she could do was admire your beauty with a soft smile “whyyyy you’ve been locked up in here for days,live a little” kk cried plopping down next to Paige “it wouldn’t be a party without youuu” kk sang trying to convince her. Paige signed putting down her phone looking at her “if I say yes will you shut up”.

“Yes” kk rushed out with a smile “fine I’ll go,but you’re paying for my drinks”.

Pulling out the club they saw how crowded it was with a sigh Paige got out the car following after everyone “who knew it was gonna be the crowded” azzi wondered. “I think I know why” kk mumbled eyes wide staring ahead “what are you-“ Paige breathed hitched.

You were walking towards the club fans and paparazzi screaming your name as you smiled and waved trying to make your way through. Her breath almost stopped when your eyes met hers you smiled at before turning to angel telling her something before making your way toward her.

“B-be cool” she turned to everyone behind her panicking “more like you be cool” azzi laughed everyone else laughed with her. “Hi” you smiled stopping in front of her her mouth was opened but nothing came out.

Kk hit her back snapping her out of it “hi” she blushed “what are you doing here” you ask softly laughing at her face “uhh p-partying” she answered leaning her Hand on the wall beside her clearing her throat trying to keep her cool. “She losing it” kk mumbled to the others she all nodded agreeing watching their friend make a full of herself.

“In line” you asked confused “yeah-I m-mean no were waiting” she rushed out you plinked at her. “okayy” you answered confused,you paused for a moment looking at how long the line was you softly smiled looking back at her.

“How about you all come with me,I could even get you in VIP if you want” “WHAT” they all shouted surprise “w-what WE mean is you don’t have to do that right” Paige softly shouted looking back at them. They all looked away mumbling to each other.

Paige rolled her eyes looking back at you “it really no problem besides it just me and my friend” you pointed behind you were angel was with the paparazzi snapping as many photos as they could get of you and Paige “you sure” she asked “ totally,it no problem” you smiled taking her hand in your walking towards the entrance, the rest following behind her with smiles on my faces.



(I know it’s a little short but the next will be a little longer andddd..Paige gonna get a little jealous 🤭)

[shadow4-1]

Imagine being part of the 141, and the shitty safe house you're laying low in has only a twin sized bed and a pull out couch.

You're there for three weeks.

It's you, Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Price.

It's such a small space that you have no choice but to throw all of your kits onto the rickety kitchen table. There's a medium-sized box TV in the living room that has three channels and static. The windows don't open, and it is so cold and wet you wouldn't even if you could.

The bathroom consists of a shower head, a singular spigot, and another hole in the tiled floor for everything else. And the kitchen barely has a working stove. The sink plinks with an annoying as hell leak, and there's a brown stain in the linoleum where there should be a refrigerator. No cups, just bowls. And no central heating either.

It's nothing but cold, miserable, and cramped quarters while waiting on permission to get the hell out of dodge.

A week in you joke that you want to kill yourself. But is it really a joke?

You're usually the one in charge of keeping up morale during times like these. And usually it's so easy.

You always keep a deck of cards handy (with a sheet of paper detailing several different types of games). You give Gaz the idea to jury-rig the TV to a burner phone you keep on hand. Unfortunately, your music playlist and phone games only keep interest for so long. The boredom eventually gets so grating you find yourself playing delirious pattycake with Soap.

The only escape is sleep.

Due to the shitty circumstances and lack of room, everyone (but you) takes shifts to sleep. Price says you should sleep whenever you need it since if shit hits the fan, you're the only medic they have. You suppose he's right. But you also suppose he knows that the thin shred of morale left is only being upkept because of your presence.

You find yourself sleeping a lot, and it's easy to. Nonstop rain and the quiet chatter of deep, rumbling voices soothe you. And it's nice that every few hours, you always have a different body willing to cuddle up to you. Lack of heating makes it downright necessary. Even if you aren't interested in being held tight, you don't have much of a choice.

You're all so far away from home and in such shitty circumstances. Familiarity is what you all need. And they find it in you, in your body, in your arms. Their appetites for you never dip into unprofessional territory, but sometimes you catch something swimming around underneath the surface of their eyes. It's at times like these you realize that as much as they belong to you...

You belong to them.

[meguwumibear]

togame x reader writing warm up

It's nearly midnight when the first of many rocks ricochets off of your first story window with a sharp plink. You don't even need to draw back the curtain to know who's waiting for you on the other side, likely still wearing his yellow shades despite the late hour.

You don't know if the man is stupid or suicidal.

Not one to reward poor behavior, you decide to wait him out. Togame will grow bored of tossing rocks at glass eventually.

Or not.

The next rock thrown splinters the pane with a quiet crack. The asshole never could take a hint.

You're not prepared for the sorry looking face that meets yours as you yank back the curtains. Togame's nose is practically smushed up against the ruined glass as he surveys the damage he's done, warm breath fogging up the window. The colorful specs he dons do little to hide the raised purple bruise forming under his left eye.

"Shit," you swear, as you fumble with the lock, "you gonna give me a matching shiner if I say I told you so?"

Togame has the nerve to look offended.

"When have I ever put my hands on you, huh?"

Never. Togame is known for his violence but has ever only been gentle with you.

"Tch, first time for everything."

You turn your back on him as he shimmies gracelessly into your room. If you keep looking at his ruined face, you might forgive him too soon.

"This mean you won't kiss it better?" he asks.

Damn him and his ability to make light of even serious situations.

"Does Choji know how you cool off after a fight?"

"Does Umemiya know who keeps your bed warm?"

A fair hit. You did throw the first punch.

"Baby, I don't wanna fight," he sighs, moody little pout making him look like something the cat dragged in. "If I'm not getting any kisses, I'll settle for some ice."

He closes the distance between the two of you, draping himself across your back. His long arms wind their way around your waist, leeching any lingering bitterness from you with their heat.

You wish it was easier to stay mad at him.

The expression you're met with as you twist around is soft, hopeful even. Apparently, it isn't easy for him to stay mad at you either.

You remove his glasses gingerly, placing them down on your crowded vanity. Green, green eyes watch you set them carefully aside.

"One kiss," you relent.

"Two"

"This isn't a negotiation, Romeo. And you owe me for the window."

"What if I say please?" he asks, following the question with the plead before you can even respond.

Fuck. Fine. Whatever.

The black eye is punishment enough. Now need to rub additional salt into the wound.

You slot your lips against his slowly, and he smiles into the kiss, victorious. You have to stand on your tiptoes to reach his mouth, despite the fact he's made himself small for you.

"More," he moans as you playfully nip at his bottom lip. "Please, baby."

He's already semi hard against your hip. It's always so easy to work him up. You wonder if yours is the only kind touch he knows.

You pull back reluctantly. His lips chase after yours, but you still them with a finger.

"Ice first."

"But-"

"Ice first," you repeat.

He frowns as he flops face first onto your bed, burrowing into your pillows and blankets. When he lifts his head it's to say, "fine, but I expect much more than kisses once you're done playing nurse."

And that, at least, you two can agree on.

[the-last-thread-of-my-sanity]

Little mini-Aruani fic that’s been *dancing* around in my brain

****

Armin rolls his shoulders as he shucks off his coat, the sound of his keys plinking in the bottom of the porcelain dish reminding him that he’s home.

There’s a chill in the air just behind the glass of the front door, but he can smell the lit fire from the den and somewhere in the house he hears a record being played.

Something orchestral and grand- different from the simple village folk music he grew up with in Paradis.

He smiles, peeking down the stairs into the lower floor of their brownstone style house. They had left it open, unfurnished- nothing but the waxed reclaimed wood floors and some sheer curtains on the window.

“Let’s discover what it can be,” he had said to Annie. “We can grow into it.”

After so long in small squalid living quarters, or in communal style barracks- having a house with three floors and a maid’s quarter seemed excessive. Two private bathrooms? A grand showy living area for guests and a private intimate one for the owners? A dining room with a table set for ten? It made him feel too self-important.

He was a soldier- utility made sense to him, not comfort. And certainly not luxury.

So, the empty space on the bottom floor felt right. It felt like an unanswered question. An ellipses at the end of the sentence.

He steps quietly onto the first few stairs beneath the landing, peering through the banisters until he can see Annie.

He stoops to a crouch, lingering.

She’s dancing, he realizes.

A few months ago, he had paid for a ballet instructor to offer her private lessons- as a gift. She was too fit, too flexible, too physically disciplined to be idle- but he wanted her to discover something about herself other than fighting.

She resisted at first, insisting she wasn’t poised or graceful enough. But her instructor, an aging man who smoked thin cigarettes and spoke with a crisp and lilting accent, adored her. He spoke effusively of her ‘lines’ and her core strength.

But Armin had never seen her dance. The instructor came and left while he was at work in the government office down the street- only running into Armin on the sidewalk as they were coming and going.

Now, he watches, his breath slowing and his heart stilling.

She looks as though she’s floating, he thinks. Weightless. Just an ephemeral being gliding across the floor as though she’s skirting on the air.

She pirouettes and leaps and moves her arms along gracefully unseen lines, her eyes closed and head tilted as she gets lost in the music.

Armin swallows- feeling a heavy sensation sinking into his chest. It’s awe, he knows, but also something else.

Gratitude. That she’s alive. That she’s here with him now. Dancing, moving, breathing, sighing… instead of frozen in time and in place.

He’s so grateful that she has this life.

He doesn’t feel the same way about himself. He drags his perceived debt to the world, to his parents, to Mikasa, to Hange, to Erwin.. to Eren.. everywhere he goes.

He could never be as light as Annie looks right now.

But it’s not his job to be, he realizes.

Finally, she stops, and he can see her breaths moving deeply in and out, her ribcage visible in the thin dance clothes. He looks at the arch of her spine as she holds a pose- and then she drops it, shoulders sagging, rolling her neck on her shoulders.

She clears her throat, stretching her arms above her head as she walks over to lift the needle from the record and the music stops.

She turns, and stops short with a little yelp when she sees him on the stairs.

Armin can’t help but laugh.

“You watched me?” She asks, accusing. “I made so many mistakes.”

Armin shakes his head, rising to stand and walk down the stairs. “How would I know? I’m no dancer.”

“Neither am I.” She says, bashful as she looks away from him out the window. The wind is swirling the sycamore leaves from outside along the sidewalk, filling their view of the street with bright yellow shapes catching the late afternoon sun.

“Nonsense.” He says, opening his arms for her to walk into his embrace. She folds into his chest as easy as any other reflex. As easy as blinking or breathing.

He smiles, leaning his cheek on her head as she buries her face into the collar of his shirt, inhaling deeply. Her daily ritual- breathing him in like it was soothing to her lungs.

He understands, he thinks, as he runs her silken hair through his fingers absently. It’s not enough just to see her or hear her alone. He needs to fill his senses with her to reassure himself that she’s truly there.

“So that’s what this bottom floor is now? Your dance studio?” He asks conversationally.

“For now,” she says, tilting her head back to look at him, “until I decide that it’s something else.”

Armin’s lips quirk into a small smile.

“Still want to leave things open-ended, then?” He jokes.

She hums, and he extends his arm up for her twirl underneath it playfully. “I just want to take our time.” She says quietly as she stills.

He nods in understanding, pulling her close again to press a kiss to her lips.

She can be whatever she wants to be. A dancer one day. An artist the next. A musician. A seamstress. A connoisseur of baked pastries…

Just as she was a fighter, first, and then a lover.

Certainly Annie can be anything in the world… as long as she is his.

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: guns, death

“Just tell me,” the superhero spits, and the villain laughs in his face.

The hero is free. The hero is free, and nothing the superhero does to the villain can change that. The villain admitted too much whilst the superhero was listening in, and they’ve rectified it. The hero will never have to see him again, and the villain will die here to make sure of it. The superhero has nothing.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” he continues, as if this is a new and particularly heartbreaking insult. “Tell me where they went.”

“Out, I’d presume.” The villain’s face twists into a snarl. “Do you really think we laid out exact plans in the middle of a prison break?”

The door squeals open behind the superhero, and he whips to the entrance with a growl before remembering himself. “What?” is the nicest tone he can manage.

“You, uh,” the guard starts uncertainly. She doesn’t look particularly happy to be the one bringing him news. “You might want to come see our… visitors.”

And with a bark of orders and a step of raw fury, the superhero is gone. The villain is left with only silence for company.

The silence only lasts for a couple of minutes. Gunfire, far off. Running footsteps. The villain swallows nervously and twists their hands testily in their cuffs.

They were prepared to die to keep the hero safe. Kind of. They wouldn’t have liked it, and they’d probably have embarrassed themself by going out crying and begging for mercy, but they would’ve died with the hero’s safety in their hands, and that’s all that would’ve mattered.

This, though. This isn’t the hero. A bullet plinks off the door loudly and the villain flinches. Gunfire sprays closer. They pull at the cuffs a little more desperately. Please, please, just break—

The door is flung open with a strong kick, smashing a hole into the opposite wall. A breath of a whimper escapes their mouth before they can think to stop it. They screw their eyes shut and wait for the feeling of the bullet searing through them. They’re trembling, but they can’t find it in their last moments to care.

There’s no feeling of metal tearing their flesh. No blinding flash of gunfire. Low voices exchange incoherent words. The villain doesn’t want to open their eyes in case the people here are cruelly waiting for them to face their killers. They can’t. They won’t.

Something touches their arm. They flinch a lot harder than they thought they could.

“[Villain],” says a familiar voice. Soft, worried. The touch on their arm solidifies into a gentle hand. “You’re safe now. You’re with us.”

The villain opens their eyes slowly, as if this is a trick they don’t trust. The hero throws them a lopsided smile, genuine and exhausted. This is definitely a trick. The hero isn’t stupid enough to come back.

That doesn’t mean the villain can take their eyes off them, though.

“Let’s get these cuffs off,” the hero continues after a moment. They set their gun on the table to root through their pocket.

“Yes, please get those things off,” says someone from the doorway. Also familiar, less tight than they recognise. “I would like to leave as soon as possible.”

The villain’s gaze snaps to the supervillain, lounging in the entrance with her own handgun pointed into the hallway beyond. The slightest hint of a smile sits at her lips, something the villain hasn’t seen in years.

The hero jabs the end of a knife into the villain’s cuffs, earning a second startled flinch. “Sorry,” they say shortly as the cuffs click open. “I don’t have the key. We’re mostly improvising.”

“You’re telling me,” the supervillain says with a huff of a laugh, and once the villain is on their feet she’s off ahead of them into the corridor.

“Are you okay?” the hero asks as they swipe the gun from the table and set off after her. “Did that bastard… do anything to you?”

Of course he did. That seems to be the superhero’s thing. They don’t want the hero to worry about them any more than they already have, though. The idiot came back.

So they give them a smile that’s blatantly, tragically forced, and simply say, “Nah.”

The hero clearly doesn’t believe that but they’ve no time to question it. The two of them follow the supervillain into the corridor. Round a corner. Up a flight of stairs. The supervillain shoots someone and the top and the villain hates that they flinch at the noise.

The main doors are so close. The three of them waste no time running across the foyer. Something clatters to the floor and the hero yelps. The supervillain and the villain turn to find the superhero behind them, an arm around the hero’s throat and a gun to their temple.

“Now,” he says. His breath is short, panting. “Let’s not be stupid here, hm? Anyone tries anything and I’ll blow their head off.”

The supervillain hesitates. The villain’s stomach clenches with familiar fear. 

The superhero smiles, blood soaked into his teeth and staining his lips. “We’re all going to be good people and allow the law to win, aren’t we?”

The hero wriggles in vain in his grip. “[Superhero], please, you’re not—”

“Shut up,” the superhero spits. “I made you. You really think you’re better than me? You gave criminals information on us, you traitor.”

His grip on them tightens, delighting in the choked gasp that tears from their throat. He’s distracted. 

The villain lurches for the supervillain, earning a surprised yelp and snatching the superhero’s attention. He turns his barrel on them but it doesn’t matter. The villain tucks the supervillain’s gun under their own chin.

“Let go of them,” they say fiercely, “or I swear to god I’ll fucking kill myself.”

The hero’s eyes are wide with horror. “[Villain], no—”

The superhero’s grip on them stops them. His own face is contorted like he’s nothing more than vaguely pissed off. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The villain’s hand is shaking. They can feel that this thing is loaded. Their finger is hovering precariously close to the trigger. “You need me,” they say like it’s obvious. “If I die, you’ll never figure out what all my paperwork says. I’ll die with all that information and you can’t do shit about it.”

The superhero scowls, kind of. It's a much more enraged expression than the villain can put a word to. His gaze flits obviously to the supervillain. “She won’t tell you shit,” the villain continues. “Less than I would, in fact.”

The superhero’s arm loosens slightly on the hero, the reality of his predicament clearly catching up to him. The hero is only looking more grieved by the second.

The villain meets their eye. They let their gaze flick down, hoping to convey a semblance of a plan, to the hero’s abandoned gun on the floor. Back up. The hero’s own gaze follows theirs, almost subdued, and nods ever-so-slightly.

Everything happens so fast. The villain tips their gun down to the superhero. He doesn’t have time to react before they set it off with a deafening clap. He shrieks as the bullet buries into his thigh. His grip on the hero loosens and they burst free from his hold. They scoop their own gun from the floor, kicking the superhero’s out of his hand. 

The supervillain leaps forward to grab the superhero's gun before he can think to snatch it back, and suddenly he’s defenceless, surrounded by three armed people who hate him more than anything in the world.

No one needs to speak to know what the plan is. The superhero’s gaze snaps up at the loud click of a magazine disappearing into the hero’s gun.

A laugh bubbles out of his throat, the sound choked on fear. “[Hero], come on,” he says softly. “You’re not a killer. You’re better than that. You’re better than them.”

The hero glances to the them they’re supposedly better than—the supervillain, paralyzed by fear, scared for herself for also for her own; she who had leapt to her feet when the hero came to her with a way to fix things. She who grieved the whole way here that she couldn’t have saved more of those she cared about so much.

And the villain. The villain, who’d had a perfect opportunity to make themself something to the supervillain and let their humanity win. Who’d let the hero stay as a cruel joke and let them leave as a survivor. Who’d threatened their own life for the hero despite their terror of what lays on the other side.

The hero is no better than them. They don’t want to be.

The gun angles at the superhero in their hands. Defeat doesn’t even seem to cross his mind. Only painfully familiar frustration. “[Hero],” he says a little harsher. “Look at what they’ve made you into. You can be so much more than this.”

The hero sets their jaw and tilts their head up defiantly. “I don't want to be anything more.”

The gunshot rings in their ears. None of them have time to watch the superhero even drop to the floor. No time to mourn—no grace to even think about him. The hero is thankful for that as they burst through the front doors and into freedom. Freedom, freedom, freedom.

The supervillain, free to really grieve her losses. A new superhero will be put in his place, of course, but she can gather the villains around her and rebuild everything she’s lost.

The villain, free of the bindings of the superhero’s torture. Without the supervillain's fears hanging over them. Without their own.

And the hero. Free to live without their puppeteer tugging the strings. Finally free to live.

(last part!)

Taglist:

@runarelle @thiefofthecrowns @morning-star-whump @epiclamer @tekanparadiae @yourslimeologist @greengrassandflowers @subval01