#same old shtick

[fieriframes]

[We're living in repetition. Content in the same old shtick again. Now the routine's turning to contention. Like a production line going over and over and over, roller coaster.]

[starry-bi-sky]

Danyal Phantom Doodles uhhh i’ve got a handful of Danyal Al Ghul drawings that I like enough to share.

[comradecowplant]

Holy cow Gen V is like The Boys if The Boys was a show that had main characters whose motivations/stakes/development are actually interesting??!?

[artdcnaldson]

okay but PLEASE elaborate on Olympics!Art AU

TeeHee

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v), feral obsessive behavior, infidelity

A/N: And you would do it too, that’s all I’m saying. Also IMPORTANT note: I love Tashi, she is a mother to many. However this fic has a very obsessive reader who just wants to fuck a married man, at Tashi’s expense

Maybe you were a bad person.

You’d met Art and Tashi Donaldson before— a year back at an event held for Tennis’ rising stars. That was you, some other guys who had done well in the Juniors, a girl from an Ivy League, and more people that fell into the blind spots of your interest..

You must’ve looked so sweet in your formalwear, approaching the couple with shaking hands so you could say just how big of a fan you were. You had no ill intent then, not when you were face to face with two people you’d idolized since you were twelve and watching the Junior US Open. That night you’d taken a deep breath as you stared at the ceiling of your home, feeling like you’d made it.

Sure, Art was handsome, and you’d lived the past decade harboring a massive celebrity crush on him, but he was married, he was untouchable. Art Donaldson oozed that sweet, devoted husband shtick. Anniversary posts, birthday posts, Valentine’s Day posts, Mother’s Day posts. He had a daughter, he posted about how much he loved being a dad.

You were fine accepting that your fantasies of fucking Art Donaldson were strictly fantasies. But that was before you qualified and had to see him every fucking day.

Art Donaldson, who held open doors for you, who talked to you casually, like he might an old friend. Art, who stood in the long line in the food court with you, ate something he probably shouldn’t have, and asked that you don’t tell Tashi.

And you’d smile conspiratorially, and assure him his secret was safe with you. The implication being that you’d keep that secret, and more. As many as he’d ask you to, really.

You’d see him on a practice court, running drills with his wife, and feel the heat of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. You’d turn away, focus on your own game, practice until your hands were aching and sore.

“Where’s Mrs. Donaldson?” You asked one night after you’d been sexiled and had to sit out in the hallway waiting for your roommate to finish up. Art leaned against the wall, standing tall above you, so you had to crane your neck. You liked that point of view, on your knees looking up at him, you wondered if he liked it too.

“Oh, she’s staying in a very nice, very expensive hotel room with our daughter right now,” he said with a grin. “As soon as my events are done, that’s where I’ll be too.”

“Oh,” you said, bringing an easy smile to your lips. “Well, we’re all glad you’re here now.”

“We?” He questioned.

You gave a coy smile, batting your lashes so sweetly. “Maybe just me.”

There was a strange expression on his face for just a moment. Then he laughed like it was nothing. He wished you a goodnight and good luck in your matches the next morning, and disappeared into his own room.

You medaled in women’s doubles. They published photos of you and your partner biting the silver between your teeth. That same day, Art Donaldson took home gold. You were there to see the very end of his last match— every single collision of racket against ball, every step, every grunt of exertion. Your thighs clenched as you watched, fists balled up in the fabric of your skirt.

You wanted him in a needy, desperate sort of way. Like a groupie for a rock band, or a virgin being sacrificed on a mountaintop. You watched him celebrate with a kiss from Tashi and felt that same need like an open wound. Jealousy was festering in you like a rot.

The dive bar wasn’t what you’d expected. Something Art had found with a quick google search and a few minutes with a translation app. He’d knocked on your door to invite you, wearing the beaming smile of someone on top of the world.

“So you’ll come?” He asked after he told you all about it.

“Mhmm,” you said, heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ll come.”

And there you were— in a dress that hardly qualified as such— standing so close to him that you could smell his expensive cologne. His arm would brush yours, he’d glance over and apologize with a warm hand to your arm. You’d clench your thighs together and peer at him through your lashes. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

A few of the other players disappeared to play darts, or watch the late night coverage of the other sports still competing. You stuck by Art’s side, happily allowing his attention to fall on you completely.

“I saw parts of your doubles final,” he said finally. He was drinking a brand of beer you’d never seen before— something local, you supposed. “You looked beautiful out there.” Your eyes lit up, and then he added. “The way you were playing, I mean— it was phenomenal.”

“Well, I’m no gold medalist,” you said. You let your hand rest on his arm, and looked up at him. The fingers on your other hand toyed with the edge of the medal, warm from where it had been flush against his chest.

He swallowed. You felt his muscles flex beneath your touch, but he didn’t discourage it. Not one fucking bit.

It wasn’t lost on you that Tashi wasn’t there. Not that it was really her type of venue, from what you had gathered. It wasn’t lost on you that Art Donaldson was at a dive bar, drinking random Brazilian beers, instead of celebrating with his wife, with his daughter. Fuck all those posts on his instagram— if he really was a good husband, a faithful one… that’s the only place he’d want to be.

“I saw your match too. I ran right over after my ceremony to watch,” you confessed. It was hard to concentrate on anything else— you were standing so close to him that you were nearly pressed completely into his body.

His lips twitched in interest. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Mhmm. It was incredible. You were so dominant out there, just taking what was rightfully yours.”

He swallowed again, gravitating closer. Your tits were practically spilling out of your dress— he probably got the perfect eyeful when he eased you closer with a firm hand on your lower back, when he looked down at you through blown pupils.

“You looked so fucking hot out there, Art,” you said, lips brushing against his jawline. “You can’t even imagine how it felt sitting there, watching you win. How turned on I got… how wet.”

Art exhaled a shuddery breath. “Jesus Christ.”

It must’ve been a while since he had someone want him this bad, you thought. Clearly he needed it— needed a pretty, sweet thing to tell him just how much they wanted him. You could be that. You could do that.

“I’m not wearing panties,” you whispered in his ear. His grip on you tightened and you had to suppress a giddy smile. “You can feel if you want. I won’t tell.”

He swore under his breath and glanced around. Everyone was too occupied or drunk to give a shit about what the two of you were up to.

He grabbed your hand, pulled you away into the bathroom. You looked pretty even then, in the flickering lights, sat up on the edge of the sink eagerly awaiting his attention.

When he wrenched your thighs apart, he was greeted by the pretty sight of your glistening cunt— sticky with arousal and need. His hand fit there perfectly, right where you needed it.

“Fuck,” you gasped. His fingers rubbed through your slit— wet and hot and aching for him. Your head fell back, knocking against the dirty mirror. “Want you to use me— whatever you want, just take it.”

And you meant it too. This was your teenage idol— a man you’d touched yourself to the thought of countless times. He owned your body, your sexuality, as much as you did. It was only fair he took from it whatever he pleased.

You watched with hungry eyes as he fumbled with the button of his pants, then shoved them down just enough to free his dick.

Your mouth fucking watered with the need to feel it on your tongue, nudging against the back of your throat. You weren’t opposed to begging— you nearly started before you got it into your hand.

Warm, thick, pulsing. Precum beaded at his tip, so you smeared it around the sensitive head of his cock with your thumb. He groaned, bucked into your fist once, twice before he moved your hand.

“Spread your legs wider for me,” he said, slapping the inside of your thighs. You obeyed wordlessly, spreading yourself out invitingly. He pressed closer, so you felt him rutting his dick against your pussy, coating it in your arousal. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

The words came out with equal parts disgust and awe. He probably thought you were a slut with the way you were throwing yourself at him. You wished he’d just call you that, spit it in your face.

Your cunt pulsed with need, aching to be filled up finally. The culmination of years of fantasizing. Art pressed himself against your entrance, sinking himself into you with the slow reverence of a man who liked making love.

He buried himself inside of you and had to stop moving to keep from cumming then and there. He was a perfect image of restraint— the way his fingers dimpled the flesh of your hips in a bruising grip.

Art wanted to be a gentleman— to give you time to adjust to the size of him, to ease you into it and let the pleasure be a slow, soft burn. He pulled out nice and easy, slid himself into your wet, throbbing cunt. That was all fine and good, but you knew it was just pretense. You were laid out and wanting, begging for him to use you as his own personal toy.

“I’m not your wife, Art.” You met his gaze, locked your ankles around his waist. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The first thrust, the first real one, knocked the air from your lungs. That silence didn’t last long— because you got what you wanted— he was really fucking you, bullying his cock into your pussy with the same need and desperation that you felt.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve— fuck— you’ve got no fucking self respect, huh?” He pounded into you, leveraging his grip to pull you against him, really impale you on his dick.

The moan that escaped you was pornographic. If he kept talking to you like that, if he kept fucking you like that, you’d cum.

“You don’t even care, do you? This fucking pussy’s squeezing me so tight— you fucking love this,” His voice was strained, interrupted by groans and pants.

You moaned, eyes rolling back. “Love this,” you echoed. When you looked down, at the sight of him splitting you open, of the ring of creamy arousal circling the base of his dick, you felt dizzy. Like you were standing on top of a tall building and looking down. Sort of out of body, tethered in the present by brutal thrusts into your pussy and the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies joining.

Your fingers moved between your thighs, rubbing needy and insistent at your clit. So close to finishing that you wanted to cry and just ask to start over again, that you’d savor it more a second time.

“Gonna cum,” he groaned suddenly. You felt him start to pull out, to leave. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck— not yet, you didn’t want it to end like that. “I have an IUD,” you lied through your teeth. You used your legs, pulled him closer, deeper. “Just keep going, don’t stop. I’m right there.”

He moaned against your throat— holding you tight, fucking into you with animal need. Your fingers moved against your clit with an insistent need. It didn’t take much to push you over the edge. Your moans so loud that Art had to put his medal between your lips to shut you up.

And you were so pliant— letting him drill into your aching, used cunt, your mouth tasting like metal. You felt his rhythm falter— one, two harsh thrusts that knocked muffled moans from you until he came, painting your insides thick, creamy white.

He stayed buried inside of you for a while— panting, doing his best to catch his breath. You spat out the medal and it fell back against his chest, spit slick and shining. You reached up, ran your fingers along his face, reverently, sweetly. A lock of hair fell into his eyes and you tucked it away with delicate fingers.

When he pulled out, you felt that sinking feeling of loss and jealousy in your chest. He redressed in silence, turned away like he couldn’t stand to look at you, or the mirror. Shame rolled off of him in waves that you wanted to brush away.

It wasn’t bad, you’d assure him. You’re a tennis star, you’re the greatest in the world. You should have whatever you want, whenever you want it.

But you didn’t say that. You just tidied yourself up as best as you could and slipped back out into the bar. If anyone noticed, they said nothing.

[kyxhiin]

Captain Marvel but people discover he joined the JL a teensy bit too young like. 20 years later

It will go a bit something like.

After 20 whole years. The Justice league is hosting a retirement party, where all the past great heroes take a leisurement into their old lives. Letting the new generation of superheroes take over. Surprisingly, only those who looks like they haven't aged at all was Captain Marvel and Wonderwoman. But nobody beats around the bush with it, why? Their related to God's and stuff!

Billy now after 20 Years, have reached the age of 28 (he joined the JL when he was 8 in this.) Thought that it would be a great time to reveal his identity. I mean he has nothing to hide! He's a fully grown man now, has a job and all that shtick.

So right now he has gathered up all his oldened colleagues, heroes, and vigilantes. To tell them something important. (Batman knows what this is about and is happy for once about FINALLY learning what Cap's identity is.)

Captain Marvel: SHAZAM!

A roaring thunder came in, clashing with the banquet hall. As the smoke cleaned up the people expected an old man. Like Bruce, only to see a man who looks strikingly simular to cap but younger. Like have only reached his late 20s younger.

Captain Marvel, now Billy: So this is me, My name's William Batson. But you can all call me Billy.

Batman: Cap- William. How old are you?

Billy: I don't see how that's relevant..

Superman with the same concerned look as B: Mar-Billy, please answer the question.

Billy: Uh This is totally not relevant at all, why should I?

Green Lantern (Hal): Cap' just answer it.

Billy: Well... 20.. 8?

The JL just combined: WHAT.

Superman: Captain, it's been 20 years since you joined the JL..

Flash: How in the hell did an 8 year old look like that.

Batman: You should've told us. William. It was a very irresponsible thing to do. Even if your an adult now.

Flash: Don't just skip over my question-

Green Lantern: Cap' you've had world ending powers since you were 8?

Billy: I- uhm..

All the Female or Male heroes who tried to flirt with Cap Back then: Oh.. Oh God. OH GOD.

Billy: It's best not to panic.

Short story, they all panic.

[fairestwriting]

Hello there! Love your writing! How about my sweet Savanaclaw boys finding out that their crush (or S/O) sleeps cuddling a plushie of their respective animals (like a wolf for Jack). Thanks! I love Jack so much :)

me while jumping at the opportunity of writing the man: i hate leona

Leona Kingscholar

He is canonically a very smart and perceptive guy. But somewhere in my heart I just know he wouldn't fully make the connection for a while. Just trust me on that one.

Kind of pokes fun at your "cat" plushie. What's with that thing, Herbivore? Aren't you a little too old for stuffed animals? Though he steps back if it makes you genuinely upset, which isn't what he's going for, he's just being an ass as a joke again. A part of him thinks it's really endearing, even before it really clicks for him.

He kind of feels vaguely jealous of the plushie. If you bring it while you two are sleeping together he'll pull the what do you need this thing for, I'm right here kind of shtick.

Confused on why you sleep with a plushie in the first place, more confused about why this stuffed cat looks so weird... oh, wait.

He's stupidly proud when it actually clicks. Of course he won't tell you it went over his head for the longest time, but all of a sudden, he's all smug whenever he sees you with the plushie, saying you could've just called if you missed him so much.!

Ruggie Bucchi

Takes a hot second to make the connection, but a lot less than Leona. The delay is mostly because he's never expected to see a hyena plushie of all things.

Actually loves it because it reminds him of the kids back home a little. He asks where you bought it, how much it was, tells you a little story about a kid he knew who wanted one just like that.

He won't explicitly ask to hold it but you should offer it, he loves your little buddy, he's already said you should come to him if you ever need to get a tear patched up. Doesn't even have it in him to make a joke about it being childish, at most tells you he'll keep it a secret if you look embarrassed.

When he does notice though, while poking at the plushie's little ears absentmindedly, he's the one who gets flustered. Oh no, that's really cute kind of realization.

He wants to sound cool when he says that, you know, if you want to sleep with him, you can just invite him over, but he does fail pretty hard. He can't help it, though, it's just way too endearing to him.

...Besides, he's already offered to co-parent the toy. If it doesn't have a name, it's just a matter of time before Ruggie asks and "jokingly" comes up with suggestions.

Jack Howl

Only one who thinks it might have to do something with him... but he's kind of too flustered to say anything about it for a good while.

He bashfully reassures you there's nothing wrong with keeping plushies around even if you're not a kid, maybe letting it slip that he thinks the little wolf is pretty cute... then pretending he didn't say anything.

Jack overthinks it a bit. Wolf plushies aren't that uncommon, right? You probably had it before you met him. He's too shy to ask if you had it before you met him.

He'll settle on... asking about the plushie itself. It might not have anything to do with him, but he knows pretty quickly that he wants it to. If you're not dating yet, he'll use the almighty excuse of asking about it because he needs to get his little siblings a gift.

Either way, though, the next excuse he gets, whether it's Christmas or your birthday or whatever, you find yourself with a very neatly wrapped box in your hands, and Jack nearly hiding behind it. Just saw it in a shop near home and thought you might like it, he says.

Whether your previous plushie was based on the exact same type of white wolf he is doesn't matter. If it is, it's getting a twin. You bet he scoured the shops to find it, blessing his luck on wolves being animals plenty of people love. He has a small, shy smile on his face when you take it.

if you wanna support my work, you can buy me a ko-fi or commission me!

[supreme-leader-stoat]

Urban fantasy series where, technically, the only unrealistic element present is that vampires exist. In practice, the writer is very clearly trying to find out how many different supernatural creatures they can cram under the umbrella of "vampire" before their editors call their bluff.

You've got your standard Draculas, your Varneys, your Carmillas, your Orloks and so on. Revenants and zombies are easy to fold in as a kind of humanoid undead. Werewolves aren't too much of a stretch, some old folklore already equates the two kinds of creature anyway. Jiangshi are already often localized as a kind of 'vampire' anyway. El Chupacabra's whole shtick is that it's a blood-drinking monster. Same with the Yara-ma-yha-who, with the added benefit of it being able to turn humans. Yuki-onna are where things start getting kind of weird, but you know, it's a monster that drains a vital resource from someone, the similarities are still there if you squint.

Things start getting real weird after a unicorn's horn is explained as a hollow, blood-draining tusk.

[blushweddinggowns]

“Your boyfriend,” Chirssy sighed as she picked through Nancy’s clothes, “Y’know, Steve?”

Robin blinked at her, “You think I’m dating Steve?”

That was a silly question, “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? You guys are all over each other.”

They were. Piggy back rides, cuddling on the couch together, constantly invading each other’s personal space. The only person worse with Steve was Eddie, but Chrissy figured that just came with being best friends for over a decade. She didn’t exactly have a frame of reference for that, considering her first real friends were barely six months old. 

Chrissy just hadn’t expected Robin to burst out laughing. Hard enough to double over.

Robin wiped at her eyes, barely managing to speak through her own cackles, “That’s-oh my god. How have we fucked up this badly?” 

Chrissy could feel a flush creep up her neck, embarrassment kicking in. She hated when she wasn’t in on the joke. It usually meant that it was actually on her,  “Don't be mean.”

“No!” Robin rushed out to say, effortlessly catching on to the look on Chrissy’s face, “No! I-I don’t mean- you’re not stupid! I am. We are. For… reasons. But we aren’t dating.”

That didn’t make any sense. Unless… was Steve leading her on? Was he the type of guy to do that?

Chrissy raised a brow at her, “So what are you doing? The two of you are attached at the hip. Unless he just drives you around everywhere for fun?”

Chrissy could tell Robin was still trying not to laugh. She was failing at it too, obvious as she hid it behind her hand. 

“Stop laughing at me,” Chrissy grumbled. 

“I’m not! I’m just laughing near you,” Robin said quickly. She turned to Steve, “Hey babe, can you come over here for a second?”

He came trotting right over, leaving Eddie to argue with Nancy in his place. He kind of reminded her of a dog, but in a cute way. Like a golden retriever boyfriend. 

Robin wrapped an arm around his shoulder the second he was within reach. She grinned at him, shaking him the slightest bit, “How would you feel about us going out some time?”

Steve stared at her, obviously confused, “Huh?”

“You, me,” Robin went on, “The whole boyfriend girlfriend shtick. What do you say?”

Chrissy didn’t expect to Steve physically cringe, like the idea completely disgusted him, “Ew, no.”

Robin scoffed but she didn’t look very surprised, “Fucking rude.”

“No!” Steve said, raising his hands to placate, “I don’t mean you’re gross! I mean it would be like banging my sister!”

It was Robin’s turn to cringe, “Dude, ew.”

“See!”

Chrissy didn’t understand what was happening. She stared at them, blurting the question out, “You guys aren’t together?”

Robin did a set of jazz hands, “Nope. Absolutely zero attraction between us. See?”

“But why?” Chrissy asked, looking between the two of them, “You both seem so perfect for each other.”

“Hey Eddie,” Steve called, a weird smile on his face, “What do you think? Are Robin and I perfect for each other?”

Suddenly Robin had that same look, “Yeah. He knows Steve better than anybody. Let's have him weigh in.”

Eddie groaned as he came over, clearly eavesdropping the entire time. He left Nancy to dig around her closet, walking up next to Steve with a sigh, “Are we really doing this? Really?”

Robin gasped, faking a faint, “Are you implying that I’m not good enough for Steve?”

Steve gasped right along with her, joining in with the dramatics while Chrissy was still lost, “I think he might be.”

“As fun as this little game is,” Eddie sighed, “I think we should just tell her. I’m tired of keeping my hands to myself anyway.”

Steve looked at him, head cocked, “You think so?”

“Why not?”

Steve shrugged, his eyes landing back onto Chrissy. His voice dipped down, more serious then before. He was talking like he was speaking to Eddie, but Eddie wasn’t the one he was staring down as he spoke, “It makes sense. I think the chances of it going badly are pretty low. The alternative wouldn’t be very wise.”

Chrissy was reminded, not for the first time, why she thought Steve was the scarier one of the best friend duo. 

But then Eddie was clamping a hand onto Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer as he mumbled in his ear, “Put the claws away angel. I highly doubt she's like that. Plus she's been through enough for one day. Don't you think?”

It was actually pretty impressive, how easily a few words had Steve’s face transforming from scarily defensive to pleasantly neutral. It nearly looked like the words made him shiver, “I-you're right. Sorry Chris. I'm just… sensitive about it “

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Chrissy said, completely unable to accept an apology that she didn’t understand, “What is happening?”

And what did Eddie just call him? 

Eddie went on, “Well… we kind of have this thing when we’re in a near death experience. Or at least adjacent to it. Where we, well, kind of let loose? So we might as well warn you about what you’re going to see beforehand.”

Chrissy stared as Steve leaned further into him, nearly too close. No, definitely too close. He was basically nuzzling the side of Eddie’s face as he spoke, “You’re making it sound like we’re going to commit public indecency in front of her. And I’m the one who needs to calm down?”

Chrissy still didn’t get it. But her brain was still trying to work it out, fitting the weird pieces together. The way they were leaning into each other. The fact that Steve, for some bizarre reason didn’t want the best girl in the country, despite the fact that Robin was right there. How Eddie was instantly able to calm him down. 

Angel.

Oh. 

Oh. 

OH. 

“Uh, you okay there Chris?” Eddie asked, watching right at the realization hit her.

She was not okay. Not because of Eddie and Steve, but because this meant Robin was single. And she had been the entire damn time. 

Chrissy shook herself out of the stupid thought, just because she wasn’t taken didn’t mean she had a chance-

“Yeah, we’re kind of the queer trio over here,” Robin added, effortlessly grinding Chrissy’s train of thought back to a halt, “I um, probably should have told you sooner but piggybacking on their coming out seems appropriate.”

Nancy snorted, her outfit choices formalized as she walked over, “If you’re the queer trio what does that make me? The straight fourth wheel?”

They were all talking about it so casually. Like the thing that has plagued Chrissy’s mind for years, filling her with guilt and doubt, didn’t matter. It was normal, it was fine, and Robin liked girls.

She was pretty sure she was going to faint. But before she could her mouth was opening, “That’s- I - Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

Her voice came out more forceful than she expected. Though in her defense, she just found out that she had a real shot with her best friend the same day her life was in danger. She was feeling frazzled, but she corrected herself when she was met with silence, “I-I’m fine with it! Really! I j-just wish I had known.”

Nancy looked at her sympathetically, “Did you have a crush on one of them too? I get it, Steve got me the first time we started getting close. But I promise it’s not that hard to get over it.”

“No!” Chrissy said quickly, again with too much force, “I’m just surprised. T-That’s it. Everything’s fine.”

“Think you got the wrong category there Nance,” Steve mumbled under his breathe, yelping when Robin pinched his arm with a sharp glare. 

“Ignore him,” Robin said with a sad smile, “He doesn’t get everyone doesn’t have the gay gene.”

Chrissy nodded, her eyes trailing the flush that was going up Robin’s neck. Suddenly her mouth felt dry, the urge to correct her coming out full force. She shouldn’t tell them, right? It was wrong, it was bad, it didn't make sense. Because she knew they weren’t wrong. They weren’t bad. And Chrissy was so, so, tired of other people’s words invading her own thoughts. 

Nancy was laying the clothes out, the only one capable of getting everyone back on task, “Since it looks like neither of you were actually looking. I picked these out for you-”

“I have it,” Chrissy blurted out, her eyes still on the clothes on the bed. She refused to look up for any of their reactions, “The um, what you guys were talking about earlier. Me too. And I like the blue skirt.”

Nancy was the only one who didn’t miss a beat, “Ah, so now there’s four. Good for you. And I agree with the skirt, it will make you look a little taller with the heels and the elongation. We can get you to pass for a college student for sure. Robin, what do you think about the pink?”

from the next chapter of this fic

[deconstructthesoup]

Personal Ranking of the Fantasy High Moms, From Worst to Best:

Arianwen Abernant: -19999/10. She's not as bad as Angwyn, since she's convinced herself she's a good mother, but her "I just want the best for you" shtick isn't any better, and the fact that she's ignorant about how horrible she is doesn't make up for years of neglect. And she also attempted to rope her daughters into raising a being of pure nightmares because she lost her status, so.

Donna Applebees: 0/10. Conservative, racist, judgmental, only loves her kids conditionally... you get the gist. Also, she's absolutely a Karen.

Hallariel Seacaster: 3/10. Yes, I know, she's a MILF, she's got such an iconic vibe, she's a badass with a sword, but none of that excuses years of being emotionally absent from your son's life. She's not a bad person, but she unfortunately doesn't know how to be a mom. Sorry, Hallariel. I wish I could rank you higher.

The Last Phoenix: 5/10. Bird. She's a bird. We don't know enough about her except for the fact that she is the last phoenix, she started out as a "haha Arthur Aguefort is a crazy motherfucker" gag, and she gave us the incredible gift that is Ayda. I cannot rank her fairly, but given that she is Ayda's mom, she goes on the list.

Roz Last-Name-Unknown: 6/10. Same deal with Gorbag---we don't know enough about her for me to properly rank her, but we do know that she was a teen mom, and she's made the choice to reconnect with her son and be in his life. Props for that.

Sandralynn Faeth: 7.5/10. I am ranking her realistically, but let it be known that I love her so much. She is such a beautiful example of a flawed person who consistently tries to be better, and even though she does relapse into old behaviors, she's still growing---and outside of the serial cheating (that is a response to trauma, by the way) and occasional lapses in social skills, she's a pretty damn good mom, all things considered.

Cathilda Ceili: 8/10. She's the parent that Fabian needed, even if he didn't always realize it. She's sweet, she's caring, and if anybody hurts her boy, she will fucking rock your shit. (Also, the reveal of Cathilda being an incredibly fearsome and ruthless pirate outside of Solace was one of my favorites.)

Wilma Thistlespring: 9/10. She's a caring and supportive mom who writes songs, is sex-positive, and loves her son! Again, she does need to recognize when she's embarrassing Gorgug, and she needs to recognize that he's gotta learn how to be angry, but still! We all love her!

Lydia Barkrock: 9.6/10. While she doesn't quite get the full score due to the fact that her son was briefly an ass, it clearly was not her fault, and from what we've seen of her, she is a fantastic mom. She's a badass disabled powerhouse who cooks incredible spreads and cares about her son and his friends a lot. I love her a lot. She's amazing.

Sklonda Gukgak: 10/10. She took that spot in her very first scene, where she poured water in her cereal so Riz could have milk in his, and she's been holding it up ever since. Despite the fact that she's constantly swamped with work, Sklonda is literally one of the best moms you could ever ask for. She deserves the world and it's a constant injustice that she's not getting it.

Bonus: Garthy O'Brien, while having transcended gender and therefore not being able to fit into either of the "mom/dad" rankings, is an 11/10 parent---not just to Ayda, but to everyone younger than them who they've essentially adopted. Words cannot express my adoration for this person.

[roxannepolice]

One of my favourite things about RTD's writing, and probably why he's having so much fun writing god/god-like characters, is his really good grasp of the tension between the essence and the form. Like, you can almost feel him poking with his finger in some unfathomable depth, looking at what's under his fingernail and wondering hm, now how would you present yourself to intelligent life in specific space and time. There's a lot of atheistic appreciation of social functions of religion to it, studying it like a bug in a jar, and also how it gets misinterpreted (think mr Copper looking at Euroatlantic christmas and figuring out it's about cannibalism). It's this sort of, sorry for allusion, idea of family gathering watching tv as the contemporary version of worshipping the hearth, a shopping mall as the temple of consumption, concept of death taking on the form of what happens to be worshipped as embodiment of death.

I think this was put to particularly good use with the Toymaker, where he also reinterpreted the character's original racist feel by making the parodic Mandarin just one among a French mime, German shopkeeper, English tin soldier and American pilot, all national stereotypes as toys. Mr Ring-a-Ding/Lux Imperator, the whole concept of cinema as worship of light, like is it really a coincidence that the episode aired on Easter Vigil (coincidentally same day in both western and eastern churches), the worship of resurrecting light yes I'm saying Alan Cumming played evil 2D Christ.

And this is what I keep saying about his writing of the Master, it's less the case of "he's just a misogynist prick" only of "what would the character whose whole shtick is power be like in the era of postpolitics", like really, Harold Saxon has less to do with Tony Blair than with Silvio Berlusconi. But it's also the case with the Doctor, this whole "what would it be like to have the knowledge of all of pasts and futures while in bodies tailored to the tastes of 2000s and 2020s teens".

It's not the matter of there's performance and then there's the essence, only of performance is the essence, form shapes the meaning, medium is the message, etc.

Basically, RTD seems to be having a lot of fun putting almighty gods in the bodies of old half blind turtles, and I think it's beautiful and also I so very deserve a grant to write a book about phenomenology of religion in mass culture.

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Well, it's out of my system and out in the world. I don't want to look at it any more. I don't think anyone should. Consider this my Pandora's box, with hope being something that makes it all worse.

Hurt with no comfort. Both physical and emotional pain. Good luck in there.

It happened so swiftly they all thought it was a joke.

One minute they were walking in straggled groups to the hotel; Tempest had outdrank Mountain and the big guy was keeping her tethered so she didn't float off and alert the humans something unnatural was lurking. Cirrus and Aurora were with Rain a little ways behind discussing the pros and cons of various skincare items and routines. and Dew was limping along on his crutches like a good sport half-listening to Aeon tell Swiss something stupid. Good stupid. The kind of stupid that was funny in a drunken haze and would no doubt become another one of the many private jokes they had with each other. Hearing Swiss laugh, Dew smiles faintly. Things were different with Lus and Aether gone and a new Papa and ghoulette to work around and into their group. But good different. He could handle the tour if it kept going like this. Even with a broken foot, it wouldn't be as hard on him as last time and Cirrus had his strength to draw on.

They come to the end of the avenue. Mountain looks both ways before he starts to cross the street, giggly Tempest in tow. Dew shifts on his crutches, wishing he could light up and walk at the same time. He'd given anything for a human dose of nicotine right now.

He's about to call Swiss' name to pester him for a smoke when it happens. Swiss is replying between laughter, clapping a hand on Aeon's shoulder and saying something like “That's nothing, this one time I saw-”

Aeon never hears what Swiss saw. He's gone in the blink of an eye, in the space between breathing. There's nothing to mark his disappearance; no gust of wind or flash of light.

He's just.

Gone.

“Woah…” Aeon slurs, turning around to squint at Dew with his mismatched eyes, his scar puckering as he frowns. “Where'd he go?”

“Around.” Dew says nonchalantly, balancing on his good foot to use a crutch to gesture idly at their surroundings. “Been a while since he did his shadow shtick. Surprised he's risking it here.”

But that was always Swiss, wasn't it? Pushing the limits, testing his luck.

“Oooh…” Aeon says with a toothy grin. “Right. Shhhadow shhhtick.” He looks around with exaggerated movements, high and low. “Swiss? Where did you goooo? That's soooo crazy, he was right here!”

Dew rolls his eyes and takes Swiss' spot next to Aeon, resting his head on the kid’s shoulder for a moment. Debates asking for a bit of quintessence but decides against it. Maybe at the hotel.

“I got your man.” Dew announces to a particularly suspicious looking shadow. “He's mine tonight if you don't re-claim him.”

Swiss doesn't reappear.

“Jackass.” Dew mutters, but fondly. Things had been so tense lately with the transition, he's a little bit glad Swiss is pulling his usual tricks. Not like Dew will ever tell him though. Alright, maybe he will. When this cycle is wrapped up and they have their last night out before heading home. Maybe. Maybe Dew will tell him.

They keep up the game as they walk to the hotel, talking like Swiss isn't hovering in the shadows five feet behind them. Swiss, can I use your cologne tomorrow night? Oh, did you see that? I think that was a yes. Swiss, can we trade bunks? I don't think it's fair you got to pick first. Did you hear the wind? He's being so generous tonight!

Each time they expect him to pop back up, take Aeon's elbow and berate them in his usual manner for stealing all his stuff. Each time he doesn't and while Aeon is drunk enough to think he's dragging it out, Dew feels the faintest tinge of unease in his gut.

Something isn't right.

“Swiss.” He says before they head into the hotel. “It's old, bud. Come on, let's put this brat to bed.”

Aeon protests at being called a brat, at the implication he needs a bedtime but Dew doesn't hear him. He's got his eye on a liquidy shadow in the dim alleyway. Strange animalic eyes reflect luminously at him and for a moment, Dew’s shoulders drop. There he is, the bastard.

“Swiss-” he calls, only to startle, genuinely startle as the black cat leaps from the top of the trash can and into the light, hissing as it goes between his boot and his crutch. Aeon’s snickering but as Dew turns to watch it flee, all he feels is dread.

“C’mon man.” Aeon says, smacking his back. “He's up in the room waiting for us, I bet. What a jerk.”

“Yeah.” Dew says as Rain and the girls shoulder past them, still talking. Unaware of the shift that has subtly taken place. “Yeah.”

Saying anything else doesn't feel right because he already knows. He already knows as soon as Aeon slides his key card in and throws open the door, asking Swiss to come out with a laugh and is greeted with silence. He's not there. His stuff is, his duffle and a half-finished bottle of water with black lipstick drying on the rim.

But no Swiss.

“Go to bed, kid.” Dew says quietly, shifting his weight to take the pressure off his armpits. Fucking crutches. “I'll track him down.”

Aeon goes down like a puppy, tail wagging and big eyes closing innocently. He trusts Dew, which makes the lie hurt even more.

“Tell’im he's a jerk.” Aeon says into his pillow. “I wanted snuggles.” Then, as if to clarify, “Swiss snuggles. Swuggles.”

He's still giggling over it when Dew closes the door, leaning against it so he can pull out his phone to check their room assignments. Heads to his own first, just to make sure they didn't guess wrong, cussing under his breath the whole time at Swiss for making his handicapped ass hobble around like this. The anger feels good. A distraction from the nugget of fear.

But it only grows bigger, a deep pit opening in his stomach when his own is empty. Mountain's in the shower and it sounds like he's alone. Dew leaves without tipping him off and heads to Aurora and Rain next. They both confirm they haven't seen him but they'll keep an eye out.

He doesn't have to tell Cirrus when she opens her door. She instantly clocks something's wrong by the look on his face. Dew can feel his expression faltering, worry creasing his brow.

The decision to keep V out of it is mutual. The usual excuses of his newness feel wrong but they're still said. It only takes an exchange of glances to know they don't trust V with this, not yet. Pack handled pack shit. They would get this sorted out and if…and when they found Swiss, they'd both tear into him for making them worry.

Dew texts Mountain while Cirrus goes to grab Aurora. The little ghoulette is one step ahead of them, already sitting crisscross on the bed with her eyes aglow when Dew and Mountain join them. Rain’s filing his nails by the window, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world but Dew recognizes the way his tail is twisting around itself and so does Mountain. The big guy goes to stand by him, putting a hand on his shoulder in such an eerily similar way to Swiss that it nearly sends a shudder through Dew. He puts his crutches against the wall and collapses into the cuck chair, stretching his legs out, wincing as a jolt of pain streaks up his calf.

“Where did he vanish?” Aurora asks, sounding strange and ethereal.

“At the crosswalk.” Dew says. He gives her his hand so she can see his memory and at the moment of Swiss vanishing, she screams.

“No!” She cries, scrambling to get up, reaching out into empty space, into the memory of the past she cannot change. “Swiss!”

Before any of them can catch her, she tips over. Going down on the thin carpet hard, hitting her skull with a sickening noise and by the time Mountain’s gotten to her, helped her up, checked her over, she's shaking and sobbing, dry-heaving as she tries to explain and only makes herself cry harder.

“He's gone!” Is all she can repeat, rocking back and forth. “That stupid, stupid…He's gone!”

When Dew looks at Cirrus and Mountain, he knows with grim certainty it's no longer pack shit.

________

“What do you mean he's gone?”

In any other circumstances it would be funny. V in his bathrobe with a bare face. Copia on the other line, seething with fury. Speaking at the same time with the same words.

“I would've-” Aurora gasps, wiping away tears. “If I had seen, there's a, there's a moment where you can grab them back when they go and I could've, if I had seen, if- if Aeon had seen-”

Aeon hadn't seen. He'd been laughing too hard, too drunk to realize. No one wants to be the one to go get him for this. Tempest is an afterthought. She should be involved. She's one of them now.

No one moves.

“His summoning contract.” Aurora says in a low voice to keep it from breaking. “Up for renewal before we left. But there wasn't any time and he forged the renewal paperwork with my help, he told me not to worry and that he knew what he was risking, he told me it would work out!”

Her voice cracks and they lose her again as she buries her face in her hands.

“You're telling me you lost one of my best ghouls.” Copia growls and to V’s credit, his own voice is steady when he answers,

“Seems like this happened under your watch, Frater.”

Copia swears a bluestreak at V, who stands with his hands together like he's about to give a speech. Dew’s neck prickles at the way he seems to be studying them.

“Let me go look if we carry proper ceremonial equipment to resummon a ghoul.” He simply says and turns away from them to take his leave.

“I'll see what I can do on my end.” Copia mutters, and hangs up.

It's probably for the best if the new guy keeps his space. Already Dew feels better as V opens the door, let them mourn but Dew’s heart sinks again when he hears the sleep-scratchy voice of Aeon just outside.

“Where is everybody?” He asks with a jaw cracking yawn. “I got the weirdest feeling I don't want to be alone right now guys.”

“We have lost one of our band mates tonight.” V says succinctly. “And I am off to see if we can summon him back.”

Suppose there was no way to break it gently to him. Aeon goes from sleepy to stunned in a heartbeat, staggering into the room looking at V as he walks away. Turning to them all with shock etched in every line of his body.

“He's gone?” He asks quietly.

Dew nods slowly. He thinks the others do too.

“But I was…” Aeon walks to the bed on unsteady feet. “He was standing…and I was there, I didn't even…”

“There's nothing when we leave.” Aurora says softly. “It's like when humans die. One second we're here and the next…”

“Why do you know.” Mountain says, sounding utterly heartbroken and Aurora's face crumples. “Out of all of us, why do you know?”

“I don't know why he picked me to help him!” She snaps, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “He said he didn't want anyone else to worry, okay? Like it's okay to make me feel like this is my fault. I trusted him to make things okay!”

“We all trusted him.” Rain says. “And he trusted us too.”

“Not enough.” Dew says cynically and hates himself for it. He has the grace to avoid the dirty look Cirrus gives him and taps his good foot against the bad to make it hurt.

“He could have told me too.” Aeon says, dropping onto the mattress like a stone sunk in water. “We could have kept an eye on him, Rory, I could-I could have helped, right?”

There's something in the way Aurora curls up in on herself that sends a message to Aeon none of them can interprete.

“You bitch.” He says quietly, so angrily it makes Aurora lean away from him.

“I'm sorry.” She whispers. “You're too much of a risk, we wanted to keep you safe,”

“Is that how you all feel?” Aeon demands wildly, standing up and swaying on his feet. He pushes back his shock of white hair, forces the eyelid of his blind eye open, glaring at all of them as he digs his nails so hard into the ropey tissue of his scar that it hurts Dew to look at it. “You all think I'm a fucking liability? Just cause of this?”

“No one thinks that-” Mountain starts.

“My powers work fine!” Aeon shouts. “I was cleared by Omega after the fucking dust settled! I'm sorry I was too excited to be up here with everyone. At least I only hurt myself.”

He jabs a finger at Aurora.

“You promised no secrets.” He spits. “And Swiss promised he wouldn't leave so I guess you two are fucking made for each other.”

He's crying by the time he storms out the door, stomping down the hallway. Dew struggles to stand, reaching for his crutches but only succeeds in knocking them down loudly on the floor. Distantly, some part of his brain points out the noise complaints they're all going to receive.

“What do we do?” Aurora asks, looking to Cirrus for guidance. “Just wait? Wait around and see if we can get him back?”

Cirrus' expression is tight as she sits next to Aurora, awkwardly filling in the role of comforter Cumulus so easily played. Cumulus would know what say here, Dew thinks. Cumulus would have chased after Aeon and calmed him down. But she's not here and all Cirrus does is rub little circles into Aurora's back as her eyes fill with tears again.

“What if we can't?” Aurora asks. Dew wishes she would shut the fuck up. Each word out of her mouth makes everything worse. “What if we can't get him back?”

“Show goes on.” Dew says, sounding hollow. He lifts his bad leg and drops it down heavy, the pain so quick and intense it makes him a little nauseous. Anything to keep him from thinking about the future stretched out before then now. “The show must go on.”

[lewismcqueen]

written in red.

vampire!lh x reader

intro 01 summary: you're an investigative journalist down on your luck, and take a passing interest in the disappearance of celebrated f1 driver Lewis Hamilton, decades later. a passing interest soon becomes an obsession that leads you to find the missing legend. not only is he alive and well, but he hasn't aged a day--and it's clear he doesn't want to be found. a/n: like i said before, very self-indulgent fic. this is more of a set-up for the story to test the waters - i hope y'all like a bit of mystery :)

It was 11pm, and instead of watching your favorite series or finishing the bottle of white wine you had been gifted for your birthday last week, you were writing what was possibly the most boring article of your short freelance career.

“Just keep it simple” was what the email from Julie, your editor, had advised when you were commissioned to write a profile on some fresh-faced up and coming singer (singer? rapper? You couldn't be bothered to remember) whose whole shtick was that he wore a black fencing mask to hide his identity. As if a masked singer was some revolutionary idea. 

You had added a reminder on your phone to actually sit down and listen to his music later. 

At any rate, the focus of the article was his background and rise to fame, which did not require a deep dive into his discography. You were halfway finished with the piece, it was so easy, and you texted Julie telling her as much. 

A small draft had made it into your room, but you couldn’t be bothered to get up and adjust the only sort-of-operational thermostat. It’d interrupt your flow, and you were in The Zone.

Instead, you twisted a bit in your chair to grab your dad’s old Ferrari jacket that hung from the back of it. It was still that same bright red so vibrant and unmistakable that the shade carried the team’s namesake. You held the sturdy, waterproof fabric between your fingers for a moment, the name emblazoned on the back in white giving you pause. Hamilton. 

Your old man had been obsessed with the driver, though that same enthusiasm for motorsports had failed to rub off on you (Formula One drivers to you were just rich or soon-to-be rich men taking joyrides). Still, watching the only black driver on the grid strut down the track in crisp sneakers and neat braids kept your eyes glued to the television as a teen.

Out of nostalgia, you momentarily abandoned your work to pull up an interview from the 2022 season.

The man was a charmer, for sure—a megawatt smile with a gap tooth that gave his face a bit of character and distinction beyond just being another handsome lightskin with tattoos. 

That was hardly the most arresting thing about him though—Hamilton maintained eye-contact with his interviewer with an intense gaze. If you were a journalist around that time, you might have found him a bit intimidating despite the well-mannered speech and kind smiles. 

Curiosity tugged at the back of your mind. You'd stopped watching F1 with your father a while ago, and he was long gone. The same was likely true for the racer as well. How had he spent the tail end of his career? 

You typed his name into your browser and—

Missing.

There was a birth and death year for the man on his Google profile, but it seemed to be a mere estimate. Just below, the top article was a news headline that announced that Hamilton had ‘disappeared’. You clicked on it.

An empty mansion (with all his things intact), no body, no witnesses. Just gone, like an autumn breeze that leaves as suddenly as it came.

That tugging became a strong pull. People don't just disappear into thin air.

Scrolling down through the search results even farther, you found an interview he gave on a talk show regarding his retirement. Based on the upload year, he would've been about fifty-five.

Needless to say, the man did not look his age.

Sure, “black don't crack” as your dad would often joke, but this was a bit ridiculous, no? No gray hairs, no wrinkles besides the faint crow's feet around the eyes, not one smile line. 

His skin was as smooth as ever, albeit a bit duller, like he had lost blood or spent too much time indoors.

One last photo had been taken of Hamilton before he stepped away from the public eye for good, almost a decade later. He wore a long black trench coat and a tie the same hue as your jacket, the rings on his fingers catching the light as he waved at the camera. A thin smile, weary but still kind. 

And his face had not changed at all. 

The longer you stared into his eyes, the deeper a sudden chill settled into your stomach. Whether the man was still alive or not, there had to be more to this story than the media cared to find out.

Julie would have to get her first draft tomorrow.

[kwonkissed]

TWO SLOW DANCERS ☆ C.A.

As the Singles Champions of Wimbledon, you and Carlos have to partake in the traditional opening dance. But as sparks fly, judgments must be made. word count: 1.6k - also, mitski reference!! warnings: fluff, the usual friends to lovers shtick, Spanish I remember from my sophomore year

If he was going to be honest, Carlos was tired of holding his trophy. He was tired of the camera flashes, people telling him where to stand, and all the awkward shuffling about. But he was happy all the same. He'd won Wimbledon by sheer will and talent, and nothing, not even his face aching from smiling so much, would take away from his joy. His night could always get better, though.

"You look nice, Carlitos," you called from the top of the stairs. Carlos quickly turned around to see who was speaking to him. He'd known it was you by voice alone, and he couldn't hide his smile as he handed off his trophy and bounded up the stairs.

You weren't wearing your usual windbreaker and skirt, nor your jeans and t-shirt. No, you were wearing finery for your special occasion. The dress was a beautiful golden color with ornate beading along the neckline. Its thin straps and open back allowed your faint tan lines to be on display. You held your trophy casually at your side, appearing to have just come from your own photo shoot.

"Gracias," Carlos said with a smile as he straightened his suit jacket and fiddled with his cufflinks. You made him nervous; he could admit that. But in this light, there was something different about you. Shaking the confusion from his head, Carlos offered his arm. You obliged, and the two of you descended the stairs. "I'm glad you're the one I have to dance with," you say lowly. "You know, instead of some old man." Carlos chuckles as he leads you down the stairs, the two of you arm in arm. "That's nice, but I have something to confess."

"And what is that?" He shyly gazes at you with his big brown eyes. "I can't dance," he whispers. You smile at him and pat his arm. "Don't worry, my friend. Just follow my lead."

You take it upon yourself to explain the steps of the waltz to Carlos as joint trophy pictures are being taken. "It's just a simple three count, honey," you say through your teeth as the photographer snaps his pictures. Carlos side-eyes you and keeps smiling. "Lo que digas cariño," he mumbled. His words make your ears burn.

The two of you struggled not to laugh as you took the other's hand, and the music started. A pair of drained, overly enthusiastic young adults dancing for an eager audience. What person in your position wouldn't let out a small giggle?

"You're almost as tall as me tonight," Carlos whispered.

"Oh, hush," you reply. "Focus on your feet, or I'll have to step on you with these big heels." Carlos took your words to heart, and a calm silence fell over you. Carlos' hazel eyes locked into yours as you led the two of you in small circles across the floor. His eyes are so...captivating, you thought to yourself. You allowed yourself to get lost in them, and the rest of the room melted away. It was just you two. Nothing else mattered. You were so busy thinking about Carlos' eyes that you almost didn't know he was looking into yours the same way: pupils blown, face full of wonder. An overwhelming sense of washed over both of you. Carlos' hand on the small of your back was suddenly heavy. Every flutter of your eyelashes felt like a gust of wind. You smiled at each other, hoping it could be played off as friendliness.

"Everyone give our two thousand and twenty-four Wimbledon champions a hand," a woman said into a microphone. And just like that, the moment was over. The two of you separated and waved at the applauding crowd.

"You weren't as bad as you implied," you said, clapping for your dance partner and looking at your audience. Carlos' face flushed. "Well, I did have a good teacher," he said quietly.

The rest of the night goes as planned. People eat, drink, and make merry, all for you and Carlos. You hear a thousand 'congratulations' and 'you played amazing's, shaking everyone's hands and pressing kisses to their cheeks in gratitude.

At some point, you found yourself sitting at Carlos' table, next to him in fact, watching him laugh and speak animatedly with his hands. He glances at you, subtly inviting you to join in on his conversation, but you flashed him a tight-lipped smile and shook your head. In an instant, you grab your clutch off the table and stand up.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," you say politely to the group. Their eyebrows raised a hair, a bit shocked that you'd acknowledged them. You dip down to Carlos' ear and place a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to get some fresh air," you say softly. Carlos watched your figure retreat into the crowd and out the door.

Weighing his options, the young man stood up, excused himself, and followed you.

The unusually warm London breeze ripped through your dress as you sat down on the stone steps. You watched cars go by and thought about how all of them were going about their lives at...you checked your phone. 12:17. Jesus, where'd the time go? You shrugged, tucking your phone into your clutch and pulling out a small tin box. Bamboo Toothpicks. "Well, a toothpick is the closest thing I'll probably ever get to a cigarette," you mumbled to yourself, rolling the little piece of wood over your bottom lip.

Carlos emerged from the hall. He watched you, steadily chewing on your toothpick and listening to the sounds of the city with your head thrown back. There was something so rugged, so beautiful about you—a young woman full of contradictions. You were graceful yet curt; a loud personality and a quiet mind. Sitting there on the (presumably) dirty ground in a dress that had to have cost thousands of dollars without a care in the world. He was thoroughly intrigued.

It was Carlos' turn to call to someone from atop a flight of stairs. "Out here all alone?" You turned around to look at him. He'd loosened his tie, undone the top buttons of his dress shirt, and had the sort of gleam in his eyes that one can only get from drinking a little too much champagne. Hm, sexy, you thought. You stood and watched as he descended the stairs to meet you.

"What are you doing," he said, sitting down just as you had been a second before. You sat beside him and tucked your chin into your folded knees. The two of you were practically shoulder-to-shoulder. "Nothing, really. Thinking, I guess. Watching. Chewing my toothpick." Carlos smiled at the last part. "Why did you leave? ¿Demasiada gente?," he asked, the words in Spanish slowly drifting off his tongue, like he was talking to himself.

"Si, mi amigo. Demasiados," you answered with a smile. "Too many people too late at night." Carlos' eyebrows rose. "¿Tú hablas español?" he asked, slightly taken aback. You giggled at his surprise. "Solo un poco," you reply casually. The two of you shared a quiet laugh. A strong gust of wind blew a curl into your face; Carlos tucked it behind your ear. "There's so much we don't know about each other," Carlos said gently, fiddling with the hem of your dress and looking at you bashfully. "Yeah, it seems to be that way," you say, pressing a hand to his face, reveling in the way his stubble pricked your palm. "God, I wish I knew what you were like in high school," you whispered. "It would probably explain a lot."

"Cariño mio," Carlos chuckled. You smiled back at him. "We can stay out here. Talk for a little while if you'd like," he said, almost begging you to say yes. You chewed the inside of your cheek as you considered his proposal. It would be so wonderful to sit in the night air and chat with Carlos, it really would. But you had obligations to attend to, something you cursed yourself for typically being so involved and invested in.

"We shouldn't keep the people waiting, Carlos," you said, patting his cheek and flashing him a bittersweet smile. "But I promise, I swear to you, we will talk later." You stood, towering over Carlos' crouched form. "I'll be expecting you to deliver, hermosa," he said, readying himself to stand up. You held out your hands to assist him. He placed his rough, calloused palms in yours.

"Don't worry honey; I keep my promises," you replied assuredly. "Especially when handsome young men are involved." Carlos blushed at your compliment. Satisfied with your arrangement, you turned to the door but hesitated for a moment.

"Here," you said, grabbing your box of toothpicks from your clutch and dropping it into Carlos' open hands. He looked up at you, eternally confused by the action.

"Now I absolutely have to come back and see you," you said, answering his unasked question. "Oh, and before I go." You grabbed Carlos' face and pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling his breath hitch at the contact of your lips to his skin. They were soft and warm, just as he thought they would be.

"Buenas noches, mi amor. Te veré pronto," you whispered.

As you turned and walked up the stairs, Carlos reached for your hand, catching the tips of your fingers with his. An affectionate smile spread across your face as you pulled away, leaving him on the steps to look at your receding form for the second time in one night.

translation:

lo que digas cariño - whatever you say darling

¿demasiada gente? - too many people?

si mi amigo. demaisados - yes my friend. too many

solo un poco - only a little

cariño mio - my dear

hermosa - beautiful

buenas noches, mi amor. te veré pronto - good night, my love. I will see you soon

author's note: there were so many instances where this could have ended and it just didn't lol. will there be a second part? only God knows at this point

[fastboatsmojito]

Nightmares - Scott Miller

| a/n; this isn’t technically for Moontober bc nightmares is day twenty seven and I have something different planned, but I woke up about an hour ago from a nightmare myself and this felt like the appropriate response tbh

| cw; just some angst and a little fluff, talk about nightmares, probably very self-indulgent idk what to tell you, one bed trope whoops, not super proofread as per the tags <3

| wc; 800

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You woke up suddenly, out of breath and sweaty, sitting up and trying to will yourself into thinking about anything else.

“Jesus, you alright?” There was an unfamiliar softness in his voice, probably just from being woken up by your panicked breaths, though you jumped anyway, shaky as you looked over at him, uncharacteristic worry on his face as he sat up.

“Shit sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Just a bad dream.” You mumbled, words caught in the back of your throat proving difficult to come out, both exhausted from a restless sleep and energized from the pure panic and anxiety. That was always the worst part, being too scared of your own subconscious to go back to bed, involuntarily keeping yourself awake to stop yourself from drifting back into the personal hell you’d found yourself in before.

“Do you.. want to talk about it?” His voice still came out low, though the gruff from not having talked on purpose quite yet was peeking through. He wasn’t too sure how to comfort anyone at all - questioning himself more than you, you weren’t so used to it either; his words rather than his voice alone surprising you this time.

You shook your head, less responding to his question - though it sufficed, more trying to shake out the mental picture and get your brain to function correctly because it wasn’t difficult to understand nightmares but understanding why they happen didn’t seem to help much.

You had a sleep journal, you corrected them as best you could in your head after writing them down, you drank stress relieving tea and read articles and books on dream study and what it all means and it helps but it doesn’t fix the deepest, strangest anxieties that build up over time. The bizarre collection of everything you’ve thought about in the last month coming back to haunt you in a way that feels personal because it is.

Your brain knows the absolute worst combination of everything you’ve thought about or seen or heard, and if you eat too much fucking dairy or think about one specific thing for just the right amount of too much time, none of the rest of it matters anymore. And maybe you weren’t doing enough but maybe you just needed someone to tell you that it wasn’t real because hearing it from yourself so often was getting a little old and -

The tears were sudden - they usually are, soft and warm running down your face and you didn’t notice until a tear dropped down onto the hand still clutching your chest.

And then a warm hand was cautiously rubbing your back and your overly-worried coworker was trying to understand. Surprising himself again when a simply reassuring ‘you’re alright’ found its way out of his mouth, yawning quietly after and probably trying not to roll back over and fall asleep - bless him.

If it were just a few days ago you would’ve been shocked at the mere fact you were even in the same bed - a little mixup caused by none other than Javi, but sharing a room was excuse enough to get a little too comfortable for ‘professionalism’.

You gave up on the whole ‘oh I’ll just sleep on this tiny, uncomfortable chair for a few days until it’s sorted’ act days ago, diluting your dignity and climbing into bed with your similarly less than enthusiastic coworker who gave up on that shtick after the first night.

He wanted to go back to sleep - he really did, his eyes were practically closing themselves. But he surely couldn’t sleep next to someone actively crying and though he could be mean and - more accurately; a dick, he wasn’t completely emotionless. In fact he found himself scared that you were hurt or something was wrong and he had no way of fixing it when he woke up to your rushed breaths next to him. He still wasn’t sure he could really do anything, he didn’t tend to have dreams very much at all let alone bad ones.

There was no protocol to go over in his head about comforting a coworker-turned-roommate after a nightmare. He couldn’t exactly control your brain for you, though after a second thought he would if it’d help more than the apprehensive hand on your back.

Once you’d calmed yourself down enough and wiped the slowest string of tears from your cheeks you turned to look at Scott with something akin to a smile in the darkness.

Hoping that it made up for the lack of spoken gratitude that was clouded up in the panic in your head for the quiet comfort he wasn’t really looking to be thanked for anyway.

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

With the benefit of hindsight, do you think Ladybug and Chat Noir removing their timers by "growing up" (regardless of any inherent problems with the scene) was so the crew could handwave away Lila pulling the same old butterfly shtick without detransforming, or was that just a convenient coincidence?

Actually, now I'm curious. How do the butterfly and peacock work in the context of detransformation anyway? Does the timer start from the moment they create the Akuma/senti, or from the moment it's defeated? Sentimonsters and Akuma's clearly stick around even after the wielder detransforms (Simon Says, Feast, Felix & Adrien), so it has to be tied to the creation process, but I don't recall Argos being forced to change back in Emotion. Thoughts?

I think the nonsense "growing up" scene was something they added when season five was the last season and then, when the show got renewed, they just didn't remove that scene because they wanted the final fight to let Ladybug use as many lucky charms as she wanted. They didn't need to have them grow up for Lila to work because they've always been happy to stretch the timer rules to whatever they need to be when the holder is still in their one-use phase.

Some examples: the mouse miraculous seems to let you be in multi-mode for as long as you need to be and the timer only starts whenever you reform to your big version. At the very least, Kwamibuster and Mega Leech have no discussions of timers. And, in the season four final, Felix's timer apparently didn't start until he fetched Ladybug's yo-yo implying that he had as much time as he needed after setting up the power.

Given all that, Lila could have just had a timer that only started after the akuma was defeated. Heck, since you don't need to be transformed to maintain an akuma, she could have even just made an akuma, quickly recharged, and then got back to business. They could have even made just her an adult since she's apparently an orphan or something and you could argue that she had to grow up too fast or something.

In summary, assuming that this was done for Lila's sake feels like giving the writers way too much credit. My money is on it being done for the season five finale and the writers not thinking past that.

[nomeniko]

when i said how many months ago that i dont think shidou being a stand in for kazuis childhood friend/bartender has canon implications at the current stage of the storyline i Lied. kind of. i still believe that ‘kazui treats and cares for shidou the way that he did bartender’ is just speculation, but otherwise i think the stand in thing is true, just in the form of kazui holding shidou in high regard

high regard bc kazui has directly admitted that he looked up to his childhood friend in his interro. that and the copycat theory if it holds true (kazui looking to his friend as a guide for how he shld act as an adult man e.g. getting married bc HE was married (the gold ring @ the wedding), possibly alcohol (bartender and all), the weirdly similar hair and beard and presentation etc etc)

you know who else kazui compares himself to when it comes to being an adult lol

which. shidous current shtick when it comes to his duties is that he acts under the guise of doing what the 'adults' must do and never under his own accord and self interests, which makes sense when its the whole conflict with his character. 'adults' is his perception of the standard that he embodies, 'adults' is the person that he represents as a whole. its been years since the last time weve seen him talk about anything else but his responsibilities

and when it comes to the man whos obsessed with being what an adult must be, who else is there for kazui to look up to but mr adults himself. kazui even treats helping the prison as synonymous to helping shidou. not the prison or even mahiru, when thats who yunos caring for? whats wrong with you

so i do think the shidou childhood friend stand in speculations are accurate enough. kazui looking to be of use to shidou because his image of shidou (the hardworking one) is the kind of person he believes someone like himself should be, probably in the same way he looked up to his old friend