#sky tate imagine

[amberbeach]

'GIVE AND TAKE'

gif belongs to me

You had listened to Sky's declarations that he would be a great Red Ranger and endured many, many, speeches in which he ranted about his day with his new team leader and you had nodded along, knowing he needed a place to vent his frustrations to avoid taking it out on the other Rangers.

While Sky had warmed up to Jack in the few months they had been working together, the two still had their disagreements and you would let him pace a hole in the floor as he told you about it.

One day, however, you couldn't endure it because you were dealing with problems of your own and wishing he paid enough attention to see that you needed someone to talk to. But every time you tried he would keep talking and your frustration finally boiled over.

"He is the Red Ranger! Accept that you didn't make the cut because of how arrogant and oblivious you are to other people's feelings!"

Sky was surprised by your outburst but quickly recovered, the silver on his tongue cut deeper that day, and you left the room he shared with Bridge, hiding your tears.

The Blue Ranger was smart enough to know that approaching you would only lead to another argument and waited for you to cool down, but as time ticked away and he hadn't heard or seen you in three days, Sky began to worry that maybe he had missed something.

His solemn mood began to affect his ability in the field and Jack knew that he had to step in before someone got injured. He knew you were actively avoiding Sky after Syd told him about the fight and decided to catch you off guard.

You walked out of the training simulator and Jack stepped off the wall, causing you to spin on your heels, raising an eyebrow at the Red Ranger. Your expression shifted when you saw the look in his eyes.

"What is it? What happened?"

"It's Sky." He sighed. Jack had an hour to think of a lie that sounded remotely believable and when you asked where your boyfriend was, he knew you did.

When Jack told you where to find Sky, you immediately set off to find your boyfriend and expected to find him resting due to injury but instead found him doing push-ups on the ground. Sky got to his feet when the door opened, surprised to see you standing in the doorway.

"Is this some kind of joke? Because it isn't funny."

"What?" His brow furrowed when he saw the tears in your eyes.

"You -" You turned away and Sky quickly placed himself in front of the door and you glared at the Blue Ranger who held his hands up.

"You need to fill in the blanks for me." He said, lowering his hands. "You burst in here after dodging me for three days and I can't tell if you are going to kick my ass or smother me with hugs."

You stepped back and a sigh left his lips as he watched you walk to sit on the edge of his bed. "Jack told me you were wounded in the field. Confined to a bed."

You looked at your boyfriend when he didn't speak and when you raised an eyebrow he blinked out of his thoughts. "I didn't know you cared."

"Of course, I care." You crossed your arms, lowering them with a sigh when you knew how defensive it appeared. "I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's just..." You looked at your hands and Sky frowned as he moved to sit beside you. "I'm sick and tired of being a cadet. You're out there where the action is and hearing you complain, just made me explode. It had less to do with you, and more about how I felt."

Sky nodded slowly, "So...you don't think I'm arrogant?"

You turned your head to meet his gaze, feeling your lips twitch upwards when you saw the slight smile on his lips. "No, you are. But you are a great S.P.D Ranger. And I know how important it is for you to become the Red Ranger. I'm sorry for sounding callous before."

Sky shook his head as he reached out to hold your hand on your lap, squeezing gently. "I'm sorry for always talking about my problems. I want you to know that I will listen more."

You smiled softly, "Can I pace the floor, complaining about Jack like you do?"

He chuckled, nodding, "Sure."

You rested a hand on his cheek, closing your eyes as your lips met. Sky lifted a hand to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer before pulling away to meet your gaze.

"I thought you wanted to complain about Jack?"

You shrugged, "I can do it later. I missed you."

"I missed you too." He smiled as he reignited your kiss and you leaned into his chest as he deepened it.

He understood relationships required a certain amount of give and take and would talk less and listen more. You felt as if your training was slipping? He would train with you. He felt like he needed to decompress after a stressful day? You would help take his mind off of it. While he never said it aloud, Sky was grateful that Jack stepped in and lied to get you in a room together to work it out.

He hated arguing with you, but he loved making up afterwards.

[theonottsbxtch]

I LOVED YOU FIRST PT3 | FC43

part one | part two |

an: this is the most requested part three. i fell asleep so many times writing this but i’m waiting for tate’s new song so it gave me something to do. not proof read.

wc: 8.3k

It was nearly dawn when Franco turned off the engine, but the silence felt hollow. He sat motionless in the cockpit of his car, his hands still gripping the wheel even though he had finished his lap over an hour ago. The empty track stretched before him, a stark grey line splitting the waking sky, and for a fleeting moment, he considered taking off down it one more time, just for the noise.

That had been the only reason he'd even bothered coming out this morning. Noise. Anything loud enough to cut through the thick numbness that had settled over his life the last two years. Even racing—his childhood dream, his only real thrill—felt distant, just another repetition in an endless loop of things he used to care about.

He let go of the wheel, his fingers stiff and aching, and slumped back into his seat. The inside of the car still smelled new, though he’d driven this car all season. But everything in his life felt new in the wrong way, like he was breaking in someone else's skin.

Franco closed his eyes, but there was no escape there either. As much as he tried to avoid it, the image still came easily: two years ago, his wedding day. The hushed gasp of the guests as he had walked back down the aisle alone, the weight of his father-in-law’s hand on his shoulder. And her eyes—his childhood best friend, his first love, his confession to her still raw in his throat. He'd bared his heart, thought he was finally doing the right thing, only to watch her turn him down, her gaze steady and unwavering.

It was strange how clearly he could remember it. She had moved on. He was too late.

And yet here he was, two years later, sitting in the emptiness his choices had carved out. His marriage was the result of the aftermath—inevitable, unstoppable, once her father had coerced him into making it right. He’d been a fool to think he could live with it, that he could somehow build a life out of that hollowed-out choice. But every day he woke up, and every day it was the same. A stranger beside him, a public charade. He was trapped in a marriage more binding than he had ever imagined, one that had closed off any other life he might have had.

A tap on the side of the car startled him out of his thoughts. His agent, Eddie, looked at him expectantly, his face creased with concern. Franco forced himself to meet his gaze, pulling on a blank expression he’d perfected over the last two years.

"You good, man?" Eddie's voice sounded so distant for some reason.

Franco forced a nod. “Just getting in some practice.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "You finished over an hour ago."

Franco shrugged, not offering any other excuse. What could he say? That he no longer felt the rush, that even the raw thrill of racing at 200 miles per hour left him feeling nothing? It would be admitting too much. He wasn’t sure he could handle what Eddie would say if he knew.

As he finally climbed out of the car, his gaze drifted toward the track, that endless stretch of asphalt, and for just a second, he felt a flicker of what it used to mean to him. Freedom, purpose, maybe even love. But that had been before her—before he had thrown it all away, thinking he could have her back. And now all he was left with was this: the shadow of a life he hadn’t chosen, the memory of a love that had been real once, and a future he couldn’t bring himself to face.

Franco shook his head, stuffing the thought away. "Let’s just get through today" he muttered to himself, the words a quiet vow.

Tomorrow, he’d put on the act again.

The house was silent when Franco walked in. He closed the door softly, slipping off his shoes out of habit rather than any real desire to keep the peace. She was there, sitting in the dimly lit living room, curled on one end of the couch with her legs tucked under her. A book lay open on her lap, though her eyes weren’t moving over the words.

They hadn’t spoken much in days, maybe even weeks, except for the occasional small-talk exchange over morning coffee or at some public event. When they were alone, it was as if they were two strangers who’d agreed on a routine. She looked up as he walked in, and he wondered if she was waiting for him to speak first.

But he didn’t. He simply nodded, moving past her as if it were just another evening in this quiet, loveless house. He heard her shift, a quick intake of breath, and he paused, feeling her eyes on his back.

“I cheated,” she said, her voice flat, almost as if it were a statement she’d practised a thousand times, something she needed to let out before it grew stale.

Franco slowly turned to face her, letting the words settle, though he didn’t feel anything sharp or raw. Instead, there was just the dull, familiar weight of something like resignation. He studied her face, waiting for the anger or betrayal to come, but there was nothing. Just the same emptiness that had been there for two years.

“Okay,” he said, his voice calm, resigned.

She blinked, her expression faltering. “Okay?” she repeated, as if she hadn’t expected that response. Her brow furrowed, and she set her book aside, sitting up straighter. “That’s it? Just… okay?”

He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “What do you want me to do about it? You’ve already done it.”

She searched his face, a flicker of frustration and hurt sparking in her eyes. “Why aren’t you angry, Franco?” Her voice was louder now, cracking slightly. “Why don’t you care? Why don’t you… love me? What did I do wrong?”

For the first time that evening, he felt something stir. Not anger, exactly, but a kind of distant ache. He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the exhaustion in her face, the years of pretending, of building a life on a foundation that had never been real. And he knew, somehow, that she felt as trapped as he did.

“This isn’t about what you did wrong,” he said quietly. “I just… I don’t have it in me to love you, not in the way you want.”

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with frustration. “But we were supposed to be in this together. My father… Your team. The whole world expects it. I have tried, Franco. I’ve done everything I could to make this work. I just wanted you to see me, to try…”

He sighed, looking away. “We’ve been pretending for two years. It’s not that I haven’t seen you—I just don’t think we were ever meant to see each other this way.”

Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. She stared at her hands, twisted together in her lap. “So what now? We just keep living like this, sharing the same house, putting on a show for everyone?”

Franco didn’t have an answer for her. He didn’t know what they were supposed to do, what the next step would even look like. They were bound together by more than their vows—by the expectations, the pressure, the image of a life neither of them had chosen. He knew she deserved better than this emptiness, the hollow echo of what might have been.

After a moment, he sat down across from her, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

She looked away, biting her lip, and for the first time he saw the loneliness in her eyes. "I don’t know," she murmured, her voice quiet. "I don’t know if I ever knew."

She looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, and then let out a long, quiet breath. "I’ll speak to my father," she said, her voice steady. “We’ll break it off. There’s… someone else. For me, I mean.”

Franco nodded, feeling only a strange sort of relief. “Okay.”

She gave a small, sad smile, as if she’d expected more—anger, maybe, or regret. “I’ll make sure he keeps the sponsors on your team,” she added, her voice softening. “It’s the least I can do.”

Franco shook his head. “He doesn’t have to. I don’t want you worrying about that.”

For a moment, she looked at him with something almost like sympathy. “Franco… it’s not your fault,” she said.

He frowned slightly, unsure what she meant. “What isn’t?”

She looked away, gathering her thoughts, and then back at him, her gaze unwavering. “It’s not your fault you still love her after all these years. Some things… they just don’t go away.”

His throat tightened, and he couldn’t find the words to respond. Her words hung between them, exposing something he’d tried to bury, something he hadn’t even admitted to himself. His silence was answer enough.

“She was a very lovely woman when I met her,” she continued, her voice softer, almost wistful. “I’m sure she hasn’t changed. I’m sure you two would be perfect together.”

He looked down, swallowing the ache in his chest. For all their distance, she’d seen more of him than he’d realised, even if they had never truly belonged to each other. Maybe she’d known all along. Maybe that’s why they’d been drifting from the beginning, like two people playing their parts, waiting for the script to finally run out.

He stood up, running a hand over the back of his neck, his voice low. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”

She nodded, her eyes full of an understanding that somehow made this harder. “Okay. Goodnight, Franco.”

He gave her a brief nod, then turned and headed down the hall, his footsteps soft against the hardwood. The walls of the house felt like a cage, closing in with every step, but he knew that maybe, for the first time, there was a way out—for both of them.

Franco closed the door to the guest room, feeling the weight of everything settling over him. He felt like a visitor in his own life, just as he had every day for the past two years. He slipped off his watch, set it on the nightstand, and reached for his phone to set an alarm.

Just as he did, his mother’s name lit up the screen. She called him every night, their routine barely wavering since he’d left home all those years ago to chase his dream. He answered, feeling a bit of the tension ease from his shoulders.

“Hey, Mama.”

“Oh, finally, you picked up! I thought I’d missed you tonight, hijo.” she said, her voice bright and warm, filling the room with a bit of comfort he hadn’t known he needed.

“Sorry. It’s been… a long day,” he replied, not sure where to start even if he’d wanted to.

“Oh, mi amor, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, sympathy lacing her voice. She paused, her tone shifting to something lighter. “Well, you’ll never guess who I ran into today.”

He smiled slightly, settling back against the pillows. “Knowing you, mama, it could be anyone.”

“You flatter me,” she laughed. “But no, this one you’ll want to hear. I ran into your chiquita's mama at the market this morning.”

At the mention of his childhood best friend, Franco’s heart gave a small, involuntary jolt. He kept his voice casual, though he could feel his pulse quicken. “Oh yeah?”

“Guess who’s moving back home?” she said, her voice bright with excitement. “She’s coming back without that boyfriend of hers—what was his name, Angelo or something? Anyway, I don’t know what happened there, but her mama didn’t say much, just that she’ll be moving back in soon.”

Franco fell silent, her words sinking in. She was moving back. Back to the same town, back to where they’d both grown up. It was strange hearing it now, after all this time—especially tonight. He tried to imagine her there, close by, after years of being nothing more than a memory, a lingering ache. She hadn’t been in touch since his wedding. They hadn’t spoken, not really, since that day he’d confessed everything.

“Franco?” his mother asked, her voice pulling him back. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I’m here. Just… surprised, I guess.”

“Well, I thought you’d be pleased to know,” she said gently. “I don’t know why she’s moving back, and I suppose it’s none of my business, but I hope she’s doing alright. I always liked that girl.”

“Me too,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

He wondered what could have happened to bring her back. She’d seemed happy, at least in the few times he’d seen her in the public eye over the last two years—smiling, vibrant, that spark still in her. Whatever had drawn her back, he doubted it was anything good.

“Anyway, I just thought I’d tell you,” his mother went on, a hint of cheer in her voice. “I’m sure you’ll see her around when she’s back. Goodness knows you two could catch up. I’ll let you get some sleep, though. You sound tired, love.”

“I am,” he said honestly. “Thanks, mama.”

“Goodnight, mi amor,” she said softly. “Try not to worry so much. Things have a way of working out.”

He hung up, setting the phone down on the nightstand, but his mind kept circling back to her, the unanswered questions piling up. Why was she moving home? Why now, after everything?

He lay back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet gnaw at him. For the first time in a long while, he felt something stirring beneath the emptiness—something that he hadn’t let himself feel since that day two years ago. A flicker of hope, of curiosity. And maybe, just maybe, the faintest hint of longing.

Franco woke up to an unsettling silence the following morning. The kind that felt thick, heavy, and somehow different from the usual quiet he’d grown accustomed to in this house. He rubbed his eyes, groggy, his mind still tangled in the remnants of last night’s conversation with his mother. She was moving back home. The thought had settled somewhere deep, like a stone sinking to the bottom of his chest, and he hadn’t stopped wondering why she’d come back.

He rose slowly, crossing the hall toward the master bedroom to grab his things, but as he reached the door, he noticed it was open just a crack. There was an odd stillness inside, an emptiness. Pushing the door open fully, he froze.

The wardrobes were wide open, their shelves bare, nothing left but empty hangers. He scanned the room, taking in the strange absence of her things: the jewellery stand, her perfumes, even the photos from the dresser—all gone.

On the bed, her wedding band glinted in the morning light, sitting atop a folded sheet of paper. Heart pounding, Franco walked over and picked up the note, her familiar handwriting scrawled across the page in clean, deliberate strokes.

"Go live a life you’ll enjoy. Go get the girl."

He read the words over and over, the reality slowly sinking in. She had really left. It was over, finally—no more strained conversations, no more pretences, no more empty rooms they shared out of duty. She had made the choice for both of them, letting him go in a way neither of them had been able to until now.

He let out a slow, deep breath, feeling a strange mixture of relief and regret. She had given him a way out, but he felt a twinge of sadness for the life they’d tried and failed to build, and for the woman who’d known him well enough to let him go.

After a moment, he picked up his phone and scrolled to his agent’s number. It rang twice before Eddie answered, his voice thick with sleep.

“Franco? It’s barely morning. You okay?”

Franco ran a hand through his hair, still processing everything. “Yeah. Listen, Eddie, I need you to book me a flight.”

“A flight? Where are you going?”

“Home. To Argentina.” He paused, and for the first time in two years, the words felt right. “I just need to go home.”

Eddie hesitated on the other end. “You sure about this?”

“Yes. I’ll figure everything out when I get there,” Franco replied, feeling a resolve he hadn’t felt in years.

Eddie sighed, but there was something like approval in his voice. “Alright, I’ll get it sorted. You’ll be on a plane by tonight.”

“Thank you, Eddie.” Franco hung up, glancing around the room one last time. He pocketed her note, her words still echoing in his mind.

True to Eddie's word, Franco was on a flight six hours later. The journey was a blur of cramped seats, stale air, and the faint taste of regret that clung to the back of his throat. The turbulence was relentless, like some cosmic joke, as if the universe itself wanted to remind him that nothing had ever been easy. He tried to sleep, but the aching pull of everything he’d left behind in that house—his marriage, his choices, his dreams—kept him awake, staring out at the dark sky, thinking of all the roads that had led him here.

By the time he landed in Buenos Aires and caught a car for the long drive north to his family's old village, the exhaustion had crept under his skin, weighing him down like a thousand unspoken words. But the quiet beauty of the countryside—the sun setting over fields that stretched on forever—started to soothe him, even if just a little.

The car ride seemed endless, every minute dragging with the weight of his thoughts. But when the familiar sight of his family’s village finally came into view—cobblestone streets, thatched roofs, the scent of freshly baked bread hanging in the air—something inside Franco began to shift. The city felt miles away, the noise, the crowds, the weight of his past life all falling away as he crossed into the place that had always felt like home.

The moment he stepped through the door of his childhood house, all of that exhaustion seemed to vanish. The house was exactly as he remembered it—warm, full of life, and alive with the kind of energy he hadn't felt in so long. His mother’s soft humming from the kitchen filled the air, the scent of her cooking familiar and comforting in a way nothing else ever had been.

“Mama?” he called, stepping into the kitchen.

She looked up from the stove, a warm smile spreading across her face as she caught sight of him. It was like the years had slipped away in an instant, and before he could even move, she was across the room, enveloping him in her arms.

“Oh, hijo,” she said, pulling him in tight. “You’re home. You’re really home.”

Franco closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the comforting smells of garlic and simmering stew. It was the same as it had always been. His mother’s embrace felt like a balm, her steady, familiar presence filling up the spaces in his chest that had been empty for so long. He let himself relax into the hug, feeling like he could finally breathe again.

“Yeah, mama,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m home.”

She pulled back, looking at him with concern now, her gaze soft but knowing. “You look like you’ve been through a storm. What happened, Franco?”

He shook his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “It’s… been a hot minute.”

She stepped back, eyes still lingering on him as she turned toward the counter, gesturing for him to sit. "Come, sit. You must be starving."

As he slid into the chair at the table, his mother’s eyes flickered to his left hand, where the ring had once sat. The absence of it didn’t go unnoticed.

"Franco," she said softly, her voice delicate but insistent, “Where’s your wedding ring?”

He froze, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the spot where the band had once been. The question hit him harder than he expected, like a weight on his chest.

He took a deep breath, his words coming out slow, almost reluctant. "I… I never loved her, Mama. Not like I should’ve. Not like I should’ve loved the person I married."

His mother didn’t flinch, didn’t offer a shocked look or try to comfort him with false reassurances. Instead, she simply nodded, as if she had known all along. The silence between them was calm, understanding.

"I knew," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "I knew from the start, Franco. I could see it. You were never... you were never right with her."

He exhaled, a small weight lifting from his chest. His mother didn’t judge him. She hadn’t expected him to make some fairy tale of a marriage. She had always known him better than anyone.

"Why didn’t you say something?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

She smiled softly, her hand brushing his cheek. "You had to learn it on your own, cariño. I couldn’t take that from you."

He sat back in his chair, letting her words sink in. This was home. The quiet understanding, the unconditional love. The very things he had been running from for so long. And now, in this moment, he felt like he was finally allowed to come back to it.

His mother leaned in, brushing the hair from his forehead as if he were still that little boy who had left for the big city years ago. "You’ll be alright, Franco. I know you will. You always find your way back."

He smiled, his heart full, and reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "Thanks, Mama," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I think I’m ready to find it now."

His mother studied him for a moment, as if weighing whether to say more. The comfortable silence stretched between them before she finally spoke, her voice casual, but with a slight undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite place.

“You know, she moved back this morning,” she said, a soft note of curiosity in her tone.

Franco looked up sharply, his stomach tightening at the mention of her. “She did?”

His mother nodded, stirring a pot on the stove. He shifted in his seat, trying to steady the flutter of emotions that were beginning to rise in his chest. She was back. The thought of her living just next door made his heart ache in ways he wasn’t prepared for, especially after everything that had happened. It felt like a sign, but it also felt like a question—one he didn’t know if he was ready to answer.

“I don’t know what’s happened,” he said, the words coming out quieter than he intended. “But I’m sure it’s for the best. She’s probably just trying to figure things out.”

His mother gave him a thoughtful look before turning back to the stove. "It’s not easy, you know. Coming back here after all those years. Maybe she just needs some time. Things haven't been easy for her, either."

Franco nodded absently, his mind already racing, a thousand thoughts flooding his mind. He’d always wondered what it would be like if they were close again—if the years between them could just vanish, and they could pick up where they left off. But that was before everything had changed.

Before he’d made a mess of everything.

“I’ll give her space,” he said after a long pause. “She clearly needs it if she’s come back home. I don’t want to crowd her, not like this.”

His mother looked at him for a long moment, her gaze soft and full of the kind of love only a mother could offer. She didn’t press, but Franco could tell she was seeing more in him than he was letting on. She always had that way of reading him, even when he didn’t want to be read.

“I think that’s wise, Franco,” she said quietly. “But don’t wait too long. Sometimes, the right things—people—can slip away if we don’t take the chance when we can.” She gave him a small smile, her eyes gentle but full of a mother’s wisdom. “Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

He swallowed hard, looking down at his hands. The right things... people. Was she talking about her?

He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that he had already lost so much—lost the girl he had once called his best friend. His true love. That much was clear.

But he couldn’t make the same mistake again. Not with her. Not now.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I won’t. I’ll give her the time she needs… and then, I’ll figure out what comes next.” He forced a small smile, looking back up at her. “But first, I think I need to settle in here, Mama. Just for a bit.”

She smiled warmly at him, nodding as she moved to set the table. “Take your time, cariño. You’ve earned it.” Then she added softly, almost to herself, “And when you’re ready, you know where she is.”

Franco nodded, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a promise he wasn’t sure he was ready to make. He had to sort through the years of distance, the pain, the confusion, and the mess he had made before he could even think of approaching her again.

That night the house was quiet as Franco prepared for bed, the kind of quiet that settled deep into the bones. The weight of the day’s emotions, of the journey—of everything—pressed on him like a physical force, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was still missing.

He stood in front of the mirror, his eyes scanning the reflection—a man who hadn’t truly looked at himself in a long time. His face was a little more worn, the years of racing and the strain of the past two had carved lines into his features. And yet, there was a boy in those eyes too—the one who used to laugh freely, who used to dream of more than just what life had given him.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the quiet ache of the past two years swirling in his chest again. Where did it all go wrong? He’d asked himself this so many times, but the answer had never been clear. His life had seemed like it was on track, until it suddenly wasn’t. Until it all came crashing down, leaving him here, in his childhood home, looking at a version of himself he didn’t recognise.

Where did it all go to shit?

He turned away from the mirror, needing a moment of peace, a change of scenery. The night air felt crisp as he stepped out onto the balcony, the soft night breeze brushing against his skin. The village was quiet, the distant sound of crickets filling the silence. The stars above him were impossibly bright, as if they had been waiting for him to step out into this space to show themselves.

For a moment, he just stood there, taking it all in. The vast sky, the deep silence, the comfort of being home, of being away from all the chaos of the life he’d left behind. He closed his eyes for a beat, letting himself breathe.

Then, he froze.

From across the yard, on the roof of the house next door, a figure was sitting—her silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the stars.

Franco didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. The sight of her—after all these years—was like a jolt to the chest, a flood of old memories and emotions crashing over him.

At first, he considered turning back into the house, pretending he hadn’t seen her, pretending the universe wasn’t trying to push him into a conversation he wasn’t ready for. But his feet stayed rooted to the ground, his eyes locked on her figure, so familiar, so her. He hadn’t expected to see her tonight, especially not like this. Not sitting on the roof, in the same place they used to sit together as kids, watching the stars and talking about everything and nothing.

He had no idea how to approach her.

Before he could make up his mind, she spoke, her voice drifting through the night air, quiet but unmistakable. “Staring’s rude, you know.”

Franco’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening at the sound of her voice. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and yet it felt like no time had passed at all.

He stayed where he was, still unsure, a little frozen by the way his heart was racing. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he finally said, his voice coming out quieter than he intended.

She tilted her head slightly, but didn’t look directly at him. “I always notice,” she replied, a faint smile playing on her lips, though her tone was more playful than anything else.

He let out a small laugh, a bit surprised by her nonchalance. It was just like her to act so casual, even in the middle of something heavy.

“I wasn’t planning to interrupt,” he added, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Just thought I'd leave you to it."

She didn’t respond right away, but he could see the way her gaze flickered toward him, though she didn’t move. After a beat, she spoke again, her voice quieter now. “You came home.”

“I did,” he said, his heart racing as he stood there, not knowing where to go from here. “Took me a while, but I’m here.”

She nodded, the soft rustle of her hair catching the starlight. "Good. I didn’t think you would."

Franco swallowed, the weight of the unspoken words hanging thick between them. "I... didn’t think I would either."

There was another pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... heavy, in a way that felt like they were both waiting for something. Waiting for the moment when they could go back to being what they once were. But Franco knew, deep down, that it wasn’t going to be that simple. Too much had happened between them, too many years spent apart.

Her voice broke the quiet, her words soft but inviting. “There’s space next to me. You should come up here.”

Franco hesitated for a second longer, unsure, but something in her tone, a subtle pull, urged him forward. He glanced around briefly before deciding to take a chance.

Carefully, he climbed over the small stone wall dividing their balconies, his fingers finding familiar purchase as he pulled himself over. The moment his feet hit the roof, the memories of their childhood came rushing back—sitting on the very same roof, talking about everything and nothing, watching the stars as if they were the only two people in the world.

It felt surreal, like no time had passed at all, even though everything between them had changed.

She was already sitting cross-legged, her back turned slightly toward him, but she patted the spot next to her, silently urging him to join her. He moved toward her, then sat down, the cool roof beneath him grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

When he finally reached the top, she shifted to make room, and before he even fully settled beside her, she was resting her head on his shoulder. It was as natural as breathing, a comfort he hadn’t realised he’d been starved for.

The night seemed to stretch on forever as they sat together, not speaking, just sharing the same space, the same memories that lingered between them like a soft, delicate thread. It was as though the silence held all the things they couldn’t say out loud.

Finally, it was her who broke the quiet, her voice low and tinged with regret. “Sorry I never replied to your letter.”

Franco’s heart stuttered in his chest at the mention of the letter. He hadn’t expected her to bring it up, not after everything that had happened. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her, his voice barely a whisper. “You... you received it?”

She nodded slowly, lifting her head from his shoulder but not fully pulling away. She stared up at the stars, her fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes in the air. “Four days ago,” she said, her voice soft and distant, as though the words were hard to say.

Four days ago.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. The letter. The letter he’d written years ago, before everything spiralled out of control, before the wedding, before he called it all off. The letter where he had laid bare his feelings for her—telling her everything he’d never had the courage to say before. Telling her that he loved her. That he’d leave his fiancé for her. That he wanted to be with her.

The letter had been the final step, the desperate confession that he couldn’t hold inside any longer.

“I… I didn’t know,” Franco muttered, his throat tight. “I sent it because I thought you needed to know. I thought you needed to hear it.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t expect you to just—ignore it.”

Her breath hitched slightly, and she looked over at him, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made him ache. “I didn’t ignore it,” she said softly. “I didn’t know about it. Angelo hid it from me.”

Franco froze. Angelo. The same guy she’d been with all those years, the one who had kept the letter from her. The weight of it hit him hard, a cold knot in his stomach. “He hid it?” His voice barely came out above a whisper.

She nodded, her eyes not leaving his. “I only found it four days ago when I was packing.” She paused, as though weighing whether or not to say more, then sighed. “He kept it from me, Franco. Told me it was nothing, just some silly thing from the past. But it wasn’t nothing. It was you. It was everything you were trying to say. And I didn’t even know until hours before your wedding.”

Franco could feel his chest tighten, the words he had written, the words that had been locked inside of him for so long, echoing in the space between them. He had no idea she’d never received it. No idea she had been living in that oblivion, thinking that nothing had changed when, in reality, everything had been laid out for her years ago.

Franco closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling over him. His entire life had been built around the lies he’d told himself, and in the end, he had only hurt the one person who had always been there for him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was staring at the sky, the stars so far away. “I never stopped loving you,” he said quietly, the confession falling from his lips before he could stop it. “I never stopped thinking about you, even when I thought I should. Even when I tried to move on, I always... always thought about you. About Monza.”

Her voice was soft but steady, a quiet confession in the night air. “I shouldn’t have come to that wedding,” she said, her words hanging in the space between them like a breath held too long.

Franco blinked, his heart stuttering slightly in his chest as he turned to look at her. “Why?”

She sighed, her eyes focused on the distant horizon, her expression unreadable in the soft glow of the moon. “Because I thought I was over you, Franco. I really did. I thought that seeing you get married to someone else, someone who wasn’t me, would help me move on. But when I watched you declare your love for me in front of everyone... it hit me all at once. I felt like I was coasting through a lie with Angelo for two years.”

Franco’s chest tightened at the mention of Angelo again, but he didn’t interrupt. He knew this was something that had been simmering beneath the surface for a long time, something they had never really spoken about. She took a slow breath, her fingers playing with the hem of her shirt as she spoke again.

“I couldn’t give him all of me,” she continued, her voice wavering for the first time, just the slightest crack in her calm demeanour. “When you still had half my heart.”

Franco felt a lump form in his throat at her words. She still loved him. Despite everything, despite the time apart, despite the man she had been with, a part of her had never truly moved on.

He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t find the right words to express the swirl of emotions inside him. The guilt, the confusion, the longing. All he could do was listen, his heart aching with each word she spoke.

“Amor…” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, trying to find his grounding. “She cheated on me. My wife.” He added as though she needed clarification.

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide with surprise, but she said nothing. She waited for him to continue, her breath catching in her throat.

Franco stared out at the stars, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t feel much at first. I think I expected it. In some way, I always did. I’d been living in a marriage where I wasn’t really present for a long time.” He paused, his eyes distant as he recalled the feeling of his world unravelling. “But... when I found out, I couldn’t feel anything. It was like I had already shut myself off from it all.”

She studied him, her gaze soft but piercing. “Really? You didn’t feel... anything?”

Franco’s heart twisted, “I felt guilty,” he admitted, his voice low. "I didn’t feel hurt or anger. I just felt... guilty."

She frowned, the confusion and concern evident in her eyes. “Guilty? Why? You didn’t cheat. You weren’t the one betraying her.”

Franco chuckled bitterly, a hollow sound that felt foreign to him. “No, I didn’t cheat. But I’ve been mentally cheating on her for years now.” His voice cracked slightly, the admission slipping out before he could stop it. “With you. I’ve been thinking about you. Wanting you. Wondering... what could have been.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his confession hanging between them like an invisible force. The air was thick, heavy with the things they hadn’t said, the things they had both buried for too long.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the distant rustle of the trees, the wind whispering through the leaves. Then, she shifted slightly, her fingers brushing against his, tentative, like she wasn’t sure if it was okay to reach out. But Franco didn’t pull away. He let her fingers weave through his, and for a moment, they were back to the way they used to be—close, without words, just a connection that had never truly faded.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking the silence again. “I didn’t mean to make things more complicated for you. I never wanted you to feel guilty.”

Franco shook his head, his fingers tightening around hers. “You didn’t. It’s my fault. I should’ve been honest with myself. With you. With everyone.”

Her hand found his, her grip soft but reassuring. “We can’t undo the past, Franco. But maybe... maybe we can stop running from it.” She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for something—maybe a sign that they were on the same page, that this wasn’t just a momentary lapse, but the beginning of something else.

Franco’s heart skipped a beat. The ache inside him—this pull, this longing—felt more real now than it ever had before. But he couldn’t let himself get lost in it. Not yet. Not before he figured out what came next.

“Maybe,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Maybe we can.”

But for now, they stayed there, hand in hand, watching the stars as the night stretched on—together, but not quite ready to bridge the distance between them. The future was uncertain, but in that moment, with her close to him again, it felt like the possibility of a new beginning was still there.

And maybe that was enough.

She shifted slightly, pulling her knees closer to her chest as she stared up at the night sky, the stars scattered above them like little pieces of a puzzle they couldn’t quite put together. Her voice broke the quiet again, this time more introspective, tinged with a kind of sadness that Franco couldn’t shake. “Why are we like this?” she asked softly, the question hanging in the air between them. “Why can’t we ever get it right? Why does it feel like we keep missing each other?”

Franco felt a lump form in his throat as he turned his head to look at her. He had no answer. No easy explanation for the years of missed opportunities, the broken promises, the things left unsaid. All he could do was let the silence stretch for a moment before he spoke, his voice thick with regret.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, his words barely audible, but full of the weight of everything he had kept buried for so long.

Her hand tightened around his, her fingers warm and steady against his skin. She didn’t look at him immediately. She just stared at the stars, letting the night take them both in. But when she did speak, her voice was clear, almost a little too sharp, as if she were trying to distance herself from the ache inside.

“I know,” she said, her words simple, yet filled with the unspoken truth between them.

Franco exhaled slowly, his chest tight with the unrelenting guilt that seemed to follow him wherever he went. “I really don’t,” he added, his tone heavier this time, the words more raw, like they were scraping against his very soul.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes soft but steady as she met his gaze. “But you’ll always have me anyway,” she said, her voice gentle, almost a whisper, but strong in its promise. “All of me. Even if you think you don’t deserve it, even if you feel like you’ve lost me, I’m still here. I always will be.”

Franco closed his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to reach out and pull her into him, to hold on to the promise she was offering, but he knew that he had to fix everything first. He had to prove to himself, to her, that he was worthy.

After a long moment, his mind shifted, a question bubbling up to the surface, something that had been nagging at him for a while now. “What happened to Angelo?” he asked, his voice quiet, but urgent with curiosity.

Her gaze flickered away, her expression becoming unreadable for a brief second. She didn’t speak at first, but then, she sighed, her voice small as she turned her head back toward the night sky.

“He proposed,” she said softly, her words hitting Franco like a punch to the gut. “He got down on one knee, right there in the middle of a restaurant, and asked me to marry him.”

Franco’s heart sank. He had imagined the two of them together, but hearing her speak those words, hearing the finality in her tone, made something inside him shift. His breath caught in his throat.

“And you didn’t say yes,” he whispered, the realisation washing over him slowly, painfully.

She shook her head, her fingers grazing the edge of her sleeve as she gathered her thoughts. “I couldn’t bring myself to say yes,” she murmured, her voice distant, like the memory still held weight over her. “I couldn’t lie to him, and I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. Not after everything. I just... I couldn’t. And when I looked at him, I knew something wasn’t right. I knew that the whole time, I had been lying to both of us, pretending that he was enough when I wasn’t even sure of myself.”

Franco felt his chest tighten, his heart aching with understanding. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He wasn’t sure if he was apologising for Angelo, for her, or for himself, but it felt like the right thing to say. “I’m sorry for everything.”

She didn’t respond right away. She just sat there beside him, her head back on his shoulder, her fingers still twined with his. The night stretched on, both of them lost in their own thoughts, but there was something in the air that felt different now. It wasn’t just the weight of their shared history or the unsaid words that hovered between them. There was something else.

Something that, for the first time, felt like the beginning of something new.

After a while, she spoke again, her voice barely audible. “I never wanted to hurt him. But I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not when you’re still here, not when you’ve always been here, Franco.”

Franco closed his eyes, his fingers tracing the curve of her hand. “I understand,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he did. He wasn’t sure of anything right now except that he needed to make it right—whatever that looked like.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, the quiet stretching between them, neither of them in a rush to break the stillness. The night air was cool against their skin, and the stars above seemed to twinkle with the same quiet understanding that hung in the air. For the first time in years, it felt like they were both exactly where they were meant to be—together.

But slowly, the rhythm of her breathing changed, softening, slowing. Franco felt it before he saw it, the gentle shift in the weight on his shoulder. He glanced down, his heart softening at the sight of her—her lashes fluttering closed, her face serene and peaceful in sleep. She was completely relaxed, as if the weight of everything had been lifted, even if just for a moment.

He didn’t move, didn’t want to disturb the quiet that had settled between them. But as minutes ticked by, he knew it was time to move her. Carefully, he slipped his arm beneath her, lifting her gently, cradling her close. Her head rested on his chest as he stood, her body instinctively curling against him. She felt weightless in his arms, and for a second, he couldn’t believe how natural it all felt.

As he carried her through the door to her room, the familiar smell of her childhood home wrapped around him—the scent of lavender and old wood, a place both foreign and intimately familiar. The room was just as he remembered, simple and cosy, with little traces of her scattered throughout. He looked down at the floor he used to sleep on when they were young The soft, pale light of the moon filtered through the window, casting everything in a gentle glow.

He placed her gently in the bed, tucking the covers around her small frame. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her, his chest heavy with emotion. Everything about this felt so right, so painfully wrong at the same time. He should have been here years ago. He should have never let things get so far. But now, he was here. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

He leaned down, brushing a strand of hair away from her face before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered there for a second longer than he meant to, his heart aching with all the things he never said.

Just as he turned to leave, to head back to his own house, her voice stopped him.

“Don’t.”

Franco froze. His hand rested on the window frame , his heart stalling in his chest. He turned slowly, not sure if he had heard her correctly.

“What?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost unsure.

She looked up at him, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but there was something in her gaze—vulnerable, raw, but full of longing. “Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I can’t watch you walk away again. Please don’t.”

For a moment, Franco stood there, his chest tight as he processed her words. Don’t go. It was all he needed to hear. She didn’t want him to leave. After everything that had happened, after all the distance between them, she still wanted him here.

He walked back toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t need to say anything; the weight of the moment, the look in her eyes, said it all. He carefully slid under the covers, settling beside her, the warmth of her body so familiar yet so new.

Without a word, she shifted, curling into him, her head finding its place on his chest, her hand resting gently against his side. Franco wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, and for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. It wasn’t a perfect moment, but it was real. And it was theirs.

They stayed there, the rhythm of their breathing slowly syncing, the quiet of the night wrapping around them. No more words were needed. No more distance. Just the two of them, together, holding on to each other like they were afraid to let go.

And as they drifted off to sleep, tangled together beneath the covers, Franco realised that this moment—this feeling of being home—was everything he had been searching for.

Home.

Her.

It was all synonymous.

She was his home.

the end.

taglist: @sp1rl @yennasaurusrex @ellen3101 @firefirevampire @directioner5life @littlegrapejuice @obxstiles @scopeiguess @newlifeforus @justsisse @zestytimbit @taygrls @charlosvibesonly @sparkleofpizza

[xrag-dollx]

{~Sensual Waves~}

alive!Tate x fem!reader

Summary: Tate and you went out for a walk to the beach at night. The campfire whispered some unspoken desires ...

Warnings: smut, fingering (fem!receiving)

A/N: this has no proper plot, a lil messy imagine that went straight to my mind so 🙃

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air, impregnated with the scent of a fading summer and the saltiness of the sea. The campfire and the crashing waves having a conversation so deep, it drowns the sounds of the night. Tate wanted to take you on a date outside, in the night, beneath a star-filled sky and a full moon. Where nobody would disturb you. A cozy spot was just nearby his house. A beach, with sand so smooth it just melts under your feet, makes you feel you'd be weightless for a moment. You both sat there for a while, watching the fire dancing vividly, as Tate sat beside you, snuggled into you. His body warmth resonated a feeling of security, something you were longing for so long. You were sure Tate was the one who'd give you everything.

Tate gently placed a trace of warm kisses along your neck, your mind was fading away as it became one with the moment. Your eyes were shut, your hands were locked with his as you felt how eager he became, his breath got heavier, his soft breaths turned into groans and his kisses became sloppy signs of attention. He gently pushed you down onto the soft blanket, his lips never leaving your delicate skin. You agreed with a shy giggle as he responded likewise with a giggle. Suddenly, you felt how Tate's hand was creeping underneath your skirt, it made you jolt as your hand shot to Tates, your eyes met Tate's immediately with furrowed brows, you weren't sure about his move.

"Heey...relax, okay? You're gonna be fine, just..."

Tate cooed, as he continued to spoil your neck with kisses, his hand was soon reaching the wet entrance of yours, a smile appeared on his face like he found the jackpot. His slender pointer finger slowly caressed your clothed entrance, your panties were soaked already, a sign you were enjoying this a lot...or even too much. He got you caught in the act.

"I see...you're actually enjoying this, don't you?"

Tate spoke, your eyes were meeting his, you bit your bottom lip, cheeky but mixed with shyness...

"I don't wanna hurt you...or push you to anything you don't want to...I just want to make you feel good..."

Tate whispered, his hand cupped your face as he carresed that cold and soft flesh of your cheeks. You responded with a smile, your lips were meeting his as you ignited a hot kiss, your tongue entered his mouth, tasting him let your desire just grow. A soft breeze was combing your hair, strands of yours got tangled in between his fingers as he still held your face like it was the most fragile thing to hold.

Tate cupped one of your breasts as he knead it slowly with his veiny hand, a breathy moan left your throat, a clear sign for him to go further. His hand wandered from your breast down between your legs, he broke the kiss for a moment and locked his eyes with yours, you nodded in response as his fingers pushed away the wet fabric to unveil your pussy. You now sat between Tate's legs as he gently began to spread your legs for more access. You began to get more comfortable, you started to relax. The warm fire in front of you radiated a very pleasant heat, it was so cozy...

Tates head was resting on your shoulder, his fingers softly stroke the outer parts of your wet pussy, as he spread your juice smoothly over your pussy. You could tell he enjoyed playing around with your lips, as he softly massages or even plucks them. Your eyes were closed as you responded with silent moans. You became wetter and wetter the more he was stroking you. Your clit was heavily swollen and pretty sensitive. He added his thumb to stimulate your sensitive bundle of nerves while he carresed your lips with his index and pointer finger. You bit your bottom lip as your arousal was growing by every minute, your groans became louder and unsteady...

"Hmmgh...fuck, Tate"

You groaned, your hand was gripping his knee, your legs began to twitch.

"It's okay baby...let go...just...trust me"

He murmured into your ear, his warm breath was resting in the shell of your ear, his quiet voice so soothing yet arousing. Tate's pointer finger entered your swollen pussy, moving it in and out in an aching slow pace. His other hand reached down to spoil your clit with, slow, circling rubs while the other one was doing wonders inside of you with his fingers. Squelching sounds got mixed with the noises of waves chrashing into another in the distance and the crackling fire before you. A familiar feeling was slowly building up in your stomach, your grip onto Tate's knee became tighter and obscene moans stumbled out of your mouth. Tate's fingers became faster, as he hammered them almost mercilessly into your cunt.

"Ah-...Tate...I'm!!"

You exclaimed as you reached your high with a drawn out moan. Your breath was heavy, your mouth was dry but your lust was quenched.

Your juice was running out of your pussy, Tate released some quiet moans himself. He pulled his wet fingers out of you, as he brought his cum-covered fingers to his mouth, sucking them dry with a lustful hum.

"Damn, you taste so good..."

Tate whispered, his lips collided with yours, the sweet taste of yourself was still lingering on his tongue. To you, a random possibility to taste yourself, and it wasn't that bad at all.

Tate hugged you tightly, as the night invited you to simply fall asleep outside.

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

Tags: @fear-is-truth @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re @trueangel420 @ditaisdead @evanpeterspeter @lemoniiiiiii @evanpeterswifeyyy @lacucarachapisser @marchsfreakshow @whosbloom

《xrag-dollx all rights reserved. Copying my work is prohibited.》

[evvyyypeters-fics]

A Ghost In the Bed

Perv!Tate Langdon x dom!f!reader oneshot

Warnings! Pure smut, porn w/ zero plot, masturbation (male), handjob, obsession, pantie fucking, femdom, a lil mommy kink, humiliation

In honor of it being officially Murder House season (to me at least) I bring u this masterpiece I created. Inspired mainly by @fear-is-truth

It was the blood moon tonight, and suspiciously every time the sun dipped under the horizon and the moon glared down onto the cold ambience of autumn, Tate’s libido sky rocketed. His eternal teenage hormones spiking to a point that was unbearable. And it didn’t help now that you were living in the infamous ‘Murder House’, Tate’s obsession with you dark and lustrous like the red glow of the other-worldly planet.

You were out at a friend’s house tonight, Tate had overheard you asking your mom to go, and she obliged as usual. Needing you so desperately, he craved. Imagining your soft skin, biting it, tasting it’s warmth. Feeling it tingle through his cold, dead soul. The harmonic string of melodies that he could pull from your throat as he buries himself in your flesh, caressing it, pounding you. Even the way your tits rested under your shirt, your cleavage peaking sometimes and sending sparks through his body, or the view of your ass as you walked up the stairs, always making sure he followed behind you just to see it and hopefully a glimpse of your panties that day from under your skirt. The ghostly feeling of his imaginations traveling straight to his cock, twitching uncomfortably in his pants. He needed relief, and he needed it bad. If only you were there to help him, if only he knew you wanted to help him.

At first his mind muttered silent prayers that you wouldn’t somehow find him desperately rutting into your favorite pair of cotton panties, his hand wrapped tightly around his shaft as he used the soft fabric to create a strangely pleasurable friction, his pre-cum soaking them with the perfect amount of lube.

The sounds were obscene, yet muffled by the cloth. On the other hand, his moans were not. Shamelessly he whined, whimpering obscenely as he came closer and closer to the edge, using his fantasies of you as fuel as he fist fucked into your panties like a bunny in heat, but there was no final wave. No release, just the aching feeling of the weight of his hard cock, pounding. He was starting to get too desperate, his thoughts drowning as all he wanted anymore was for you to save him from this torment. He didn’t care if you hated him for it, he just needed your touch. Your comfort. To cum.

“Tate…?” A familar voice chirped curiously, the door creaking open.

Shit. He thought. You were back early.

He instantly sat up, hiding his proud cock with a nearby pillow resting on your bed. His face was beat red, his eyes watery and skin persperating with small beads of sweat. Pupils blown, his jaw slack as he stutters an excuse than hangs from the tip of his tongue, it’s clear what happened. Tate was ready for the scream, the insults, the anger, the disgust. But there was none, you surely looked surprised, but he couldn’t see any distain in your staring eyes.

“Why are you back? You weren’t supposed to be back yet!” He blurts out a little loudly, his voice trembling. He didn’t mean to be accusatory, you knew.

“I got bored and wanted to come home..” You reply slowly, taking invisble steps closer towards the bed.

“You know…what are you doing in my bed, Tate?” You ask, wanting to taunt him in his vulnerable state, see how far you can push him and make him melt even more into a puddle. He shivers as he begins to notice the growing warmth of your body leaning closer to his frozen position on your mattress. Hoping your eyes don’t look down at the conspicuous pillow, anxiety striking his heart as just in that moment you do. There’s something predatory in it that makes his spine shiver.

“N-Nothing. I just…missed you.” The words are forcefully calm and monotone, trying to sound casual. A dumb excuse he came up with spontaneously that you both knew didn’t work to hide anything.

“You missed me, huh?” You smile devilishly as you press a hand in the mattress next to him, his whole body lighting on fire, his breathing begins to labor with the pure lava of lust flowing to his dick. Your hand mere inches away from where he needed you most.

“Is that all?” He swallowed thickly, his eyes darting from your hand to your gleaming eyes.

“I—uh.” He chokes on his words. “N-no..” He admits shamefully, his gaze tilting away.

“Do you want me to help you fix it?” You lean into his ear, whispering hotly against it which makes his face light up pinker, every hair on his body on end.

He swallows thickly again before nodding.

“Use your words, puppy.” You croon, pinching his chin between your fingers and gently forcing his glossy coffee eyes to look at you.

“P-Please.” He whines, causing your heart to squeeze a little.

“Good boy. Let mommy see.” You smile slyly, pulling away your hand as he lays back comfortably into the mattress, removing the pillow from over his length as you climb beside him. Kneeling over his legs.

“So naughty.” You tease as you pull away the sticky pair of panties wrapped around his shaft, precum beading thickly at his tip as he twitches from the touch or lack thereof.

His hips automatically jerk up, trying to reach your hand as you pull away the material. A small giggle slips past your lips that makes him whine into a bitten lip.

“Poor baby, all worked up, I won’t tease you any longer.” You coo, prodding a pad of your finger at the practically purple pillowy head.

He instantly lets out a muffled gutteral moan, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, embarrassed by the pathetic sounds as you wrap your hand around him. Collecting the slick and coating his cock with it as you start a leisurly pace that slowly picks up, leading him to buck into your fist wildly.

“Let me hear you, puppy.” You say softly, watching between his perfect cock and his adorable face as he tries to hide the very obvious sounds bellowing from his throat. “Let me hear those pretty sounds you make.” Forcing a gutteral sound to spill from his lips as you press a finger into the sensitive head.

Your words make his heart and brain melt, the feeling of your hand on him being even better than he anticipated. He can feel himself getting closer, hips slamming at the same pace as your fist, pre-cum drooling over your hand as he moans pathetically. The sound of his voice getting thicker and more desperate, his muscles tensing.

“Cum for me, puppy. C’mon, let it all out.” You soothe, something clicks in his brain and he instantly busts, long and thick milky ropes shoot out, more than you thought was possible and drawing a long moan from his lips as his head pushed back into the pillow behind it. His thighs shuddered, toes curled until the ropes subsided and rested coated on your hand and his cock.

“Feel better?” You ask, slowly removing your hand as he comes down from the high.

Practically drunk on pleasure and blissed-out, he nods silently.

“Good. Next time, maybe just ask me first before jerking off into my panties.” You scold light-heartedly as you raise up the half-crusted fabric to the culprit’s gaze and he quickly hides his blushing face guiltily.

Taglist (you can be added or removed at any time):

@fear-is-truth @xkaisxjazzxsingerx @lemoniiiiiii @jazz-berry @marchsfreakshow @colinzabelswife @dearlizzies @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re @xrag-dollx @lacucarachapisser @alittleobsessedbitch

[scaly-freaks]

“Milk Carton” — Self-explanatory, it was the only song I could think of that has the perspective of someone who survived a kidnapping. I also believe that establishing what is going to happen in the beginning helps build up a sense of dread. We know that a kidnapping is going to happen, we just don't know when.

“In the Pines” — A truly haunting song. The song was originally written by Lead Belly, but the first time I heard it was this Kurt Cobain documentary called Montage of Heck, where the final scene is Kurt performing the song at MTV Unplugged. There’s this moment in the song where Kurt makes this face that is absolutely chilling, almost like he’s Colonel Kurtz staring into the heart of darkness. The lines, “you caused me to weep, you caused me to moan, you caused me to leave my home / I wish to my Lord that I’d never seen your face / I’m sorry you were ever born,” also felt pertinent. All in all, I felt it sets the Southern setting, especially the North Carolina region, where you say Aegon takes Amara.

“Rampage” — I felt that this accurately captured Aegon’s demeanour. I don’t know whether they might have known each other prior to her abduction, but most kidnappings occur with someone who knows you. There will be a lot of songs where you just feel looming dread, and this is the first of them. “Milk Carton” is disturbing, but there’s no dread, because there’s no anticipation. Whereas “Rampage,” I’m going to assume, seems to be spoken from the perspective of a lover of a boy whom, it’s heavily implied from the references to the Columbine Shooters and Tate Langdon in American Horror Story, is ultimately going to shoot up a school. When I was a kid, my parents would play this song called, “Six O’Clock News,” about a woman whose lover goes on a shooting rampage, who has just learned she’s pregnant with his child. I always was very shaken by that song, and I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have loved someone who committed such atrocities; just the sheer guilt, the discomfort regarding how to mourn them, the thoughts of I should have known, I should have seen the signs…was unthinkable for me as a child, and is unthinkable now. In “Creek Blues,” another song from the same album as “Rampage,” you sort of get this mosaic of such “signs.” He shows the speaker his daddy’s guns, he kills dogs and leaves them to die by the nearby creek. I think, for me, I wanted to build up a sense of dread over the songs, until it reaches its pinnacle, sort of this mounting pile of evidence that something terrible is going to happen. I discuss the notion of warning signs in relation to violence and abuse in the explanation for “Sometime After Midnight.”

“It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” — Chosen mostly because it inspired this creepy, creepy short story that we read in high school, about the immediate moments preceding the abduction of a teenage girl from her home. Incredibly unsettling story, and absolutely heartbreaking. The story, called “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” was adapted into a movie in the 80’s. Honestly considering removing it, given that I’m trying to build up dread, and it’s not really a dreadful song. Let me know if you think it should stay.

“Sometime After Midnight”— I wanted to convey a sense of looming doom; there’s this moment in W.G. Sebald’s The Emigrants, where there’s this extensive idyllic depiction of Bavaria, and then this war plane crosses the sky. This section starts out with the understanding that it’s the account of a character’s mother, and that she wrote it while awaiting deportation to a Nazi death camp. And this endows the image of the war plane cutting across this clear blue sky above this bucolic Bavarian landscape with a feeling of absolute dread; they have no idea what is going to happen. It’s the equivalent to the tomb in Arcadia, or the ending of Irréversible: it’s a portent of doom. “Sometime After Midnight” is one such prelude; the speaker remarks to herself that she knows that she spent all day getting ready for the date, but that she has this feeling in her stomach that makes her feel uneasy. She remarks that she’s been told that bad things happen after dark, and then looks at the setting sun. It’s the equivalent to a puzzle piece falling into place. I do truly believe that there is an intuition that people have that something’s off, and that many, especially women, choose to ignore this feeling, tell themselves that they’re being silly or paranoid, only to realize that their gut was right. It’s meant to convey dread, and banality. While the speaker may have considered her day preparing for the date innocuous, just a bit of fun, in retrospect, the day will become far more significant.

            I was too young to remember 9/11, but when I’ve asked my parents and my friends’ parents their stories of that day (I grew up very close to New York), they all reacted differently—my boyfriend's dad saw the second tower get hit from the train window, and stayed on the train, my friend's dad was in the South Tower and ran to the Hudson to get on one of the many boats that were trying to take people off Manhattan—but one thing detail was the same in all of their stories: there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky that day. The reason why this detail has crystallized in their head is because they should have known. It was only in retrospect that the day that began like any other became that day. We trace the final day of murder victims, what they wore, their last words to their parents and loved ones, because we want to prepare ourselves for the possibility that our banal, commonplace lives could be torn apart at a moment’s notice, that one day we might walk out of a door and never be seen again. I believe that we have an intuition about people, but not about events. The speaker of “Sometime After Midnight” does not know that this is the last day; she may not have spoken to any of her parents or friends or loved ones but instead spent all of it getting ready for a date that will end in either her abduction or her demise. She may have a gut feeling, but by the time she feels it, it's already too late. This is her last day, and all that she can do is watch "the sky turn black by the window-side."

“Bad Things”— Another song that I felt exuded dread, although in this case, the fear actually becomes realized. The opening riff almost hits like a stuttering heart, with this insistent clapping noise; it immediately evokes both despair and anxiety. The song's chorus reads like a nursery rhyme you tell children: bad things happen, and you are powerless to stop them. The chorus is also apt for a kidnapping: you leave home, and you never come back. I had never been able to decipher the spoken part, but in looking at the lyrics, they’re really chilling, given that they’re spoken by Jim fucking Jones. The lyrics read as such: "You’d have wanted to run, you’d have had to run with them, because anybody could’ve run today, they would have wanted to. I know you’re not a runner and your life is precious to me.” It’s essentially Jim Jones gaslighting his followers in the leadup to their mass suicide, telling them that they actually have agency over their fates. They chose to stay and kill themselves alongside him, he argues, because they didn’t run when they could have. They freely chose to stay with him and die with him. But this isn’t true; the inner circle would punish those who attempted to escape, and the event that precipitated the Jonestown massacre was a group of Jones loyalists gunning down the Congressman Leo Ryan and defecting members of the People’s Temple on an air strip as they tried to leave. Jones manipulated his followers into believing they had a choice, that, if they wanted to leave, they could have, when they never did. I think I recall Aegon using this rationalization in Chapter 10 of YSMMC: it was Amara's choice to go to the cabin, so he bears no responsibility for any of the acts he felt licensed to subject her to as a result of this choice. And, as in Jonestown, Amara’s “choice” in YSMMC wasn’t much of a choice, because it was either that or a confrontation with Jace, and Aegon knew this, and exploited it to his advantage. He helped create the conditions that would cause her to choose. It all reminds me of when I was reading Chapter 17 of YSMMC, and I was reminded of this passage from Lolita:

“Get in,” I said. “You can’t call that number.”

“Why?”

“Get in and slam the door.”

She got in and slammed the door. The old garage man beamed at her. I swung on to the highway.

“Why can’t I call my mother if I want to?”

“Because,” I answered, “your mother is dead.”

In the gay town of Lepingville I bought her four books of comics, a box of candy, a box of sanitary pads… at the hotel we had separate rooms, but in the middle of the night she came sobbing into mine, and we made it up very gently. You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go. (140)

That is to say, Jim Jones, Humbert in Lolita, and Aegon in YSMMC all act as if the decision by their victims to have sex with them was their victims’ choice, when they were the ones who set up the conditions that forced their victims to do what the men say. And, even if Amara freely chose to go to the cabin, she didn't choose any of the acts Aegon subjected her to there. I figured that this would be the approach of Aegon in this AU; tell Amara that it was actually her choice. This song sort of represents the pinnacle of the lead-up: the kidnapping that we've been expecting has finally occurred.

Anyways, as always, thank you for the opportunity for me to sharpen my character analysis approach to get ready for school; the methodology that guides my interpretation of characters is essentially the New Critical close reading method, and requires that I reconcile all aspects of their character and actions with each other, to explain their motivations, etc. It's a great challenge to have to analyze characters when their writer is right there to correct you; you're a lot less likely to cast generalizing statements about characters; it's harder to pontificate falsehoods when God is right there, if that makes sense lol. It forces me to be much more discerning, and therefore hones my analytical process, so I thank you again for that!!! X Caroline

Absolutely insane descriptor behind each song in this playlist, and the thought put into them? Girl, you are going to ace your impending studies. I consider myself lucky that this silly little hobby I picked up attracted people who treat it as something real and genuine which then pushes me to improve.

I only really fix someone's analysis if I think it's interpreting a sensitive topic in a way that I don't think is conducive to open-minded discussion; that responsibility kind of feels like it falls on me to fix since it's my work they're reading.

But your analysis, as well as others who have had their interpretations, I love to ingest, because as a writer, it's so easy to feel like these characters are just mine. But in reality, I read an amazing book and I hold those characters in me in a way that the writer might not recognise or identify with. Someone might extract the gentleness of Aegon and Amara and want to hold that close, whereas I might have written that particular chapter/passage from a place of extreme violence and trauma. Both are correct because both are tangled up with human beings. And when someone gives me their approach, I get to experience this familiarity of my characters from a whole other vantage which is so, so fun.

I'm a fan of every song you've chosen, and even though I know I can't write this AU right now, the lyrics to each are painting scenes into existence. For instance, as I was reading (and listening), a scene came to me where Amara tries to escape from the moving truck, and when Aegon gets her back, he choke-slams her into the horizontal part of the seat, her neck bent at a crooked angle as her head hits the car door. He's kneeling on the gears and the brake, one arm angled up against the roof of the truck, crouched over her like a malignant beast in a painting. The physicality of him filling up the space while she curls up and tries to push at his chest with her feet...yeah.

The Lolita comparison and the instances in YSMMC where Aegon created an inescapable situation and then handed her the illusion of choice...YES. Exactly it. If we're speaking in terms Helaena would use, Amara is an insect missing several legs, and Aegon is the spider slowly spinning the web in circles around her. Or a ladybird around which he's drawing a shape and she keeps trying to avoid the new lines he's putting on the page, without realising she can just step over them. She regularly suffers from what I like to call a fuck fog but there's so much more happening when Aegon decides to actively manipulate her. The Targaryen trauma train is so real, and it's just inconceivable every single one of the siblings hasn't developed their own methods of "playing God" when things don't go their way.

Anyway, urgh, fucking juicy ask. Delicious. Nibbling on it like a chicken leg.

P.S. Before I forget, I didn't envision Aegon knowing her before he kidnapped her at first, but I sort of like that now. There's a scene in Room where she screams at her mother for telling her to "be nice to everyone" and that's why she helped her eventual kidnapper look for his dog that didn't even exist. Maybe Amara gave Aegon a smile in passing a few times at the place she worked, and it was never anything more complicated than that. A scrap of kindness he decided to poison and taint.

[babygorewhore]

The Type of text messages The Evan’s would send you. Flirting edition.

Okay last fic of the day lol. Anyway this is a fun little concept I came up with and lemme know what more text messages you want in this series!!! WARNINGS! Kai being sexual and some flirting. But mostly fluff!

Evan Peters.

- “Hi baby. You look so sexy. Can wait to kiss you…maybe more 😏”

- Also send you little paragraphs about how much he loves you.

Kit Walker.

- “Wow, Mrs. Walka. Are you free tonight? Can I take you out for some midnight dancing?”

- Includes a lot of dick jokes.

Kyle Spencer.

- “You’re so pretty. Come kiss me, Angel.”

- If he’s undead. I feel like Kyle would use a lot of emojis. Like ❤️😍😛

Tate Langdon.

- “Holy shit, you’re so gorgeous. Hey mamas.”

- “Thank you, baby.”

- “Can you send me another picture, mommy? 🥺”

Jimmy darling.

- Honestly he’s a little bit of a fuck boy lol

- “Aw, sugar. Only one picture? Come on…lemme see those pretty legs of yours. I imagine them wrapped around me.”

Kai Anderson.

- Hella sexual. Very inappropriate.

- “Open your mouth, spit a little and send me a video of you sucking your thumb.”

- “Kai, it’s just a picture of my new haircut.”

- “Did I stutter, princess?”

James Patrick March.

- Let’s imagine he’s figured out how to text.

- “My little bird, you look absolutely as beautiful as the midnight sky my pet. You must meet me in my quarters at once. Allow me to kiss you until we cannot breathe, yes? JPM.”

- “James. I know it’s you. You don’t have to sign your name.”

- “But what if someone were to impersonate me?”

[xmcu-fietro]

I promise I’ll stop the MoE/AAA headcanons soon because I know they make no sense at all, but I’m on a roll xD

so if Mare of Easttown does exist in the Wandavision/Agatha All Along universe then Evan Peters would have to exist in that universe too, and I like to think that every time Ralph sees Evan get another acting job or win an award he looks up at the sky and goes “WHY NOT ME??”

Like, at some point he’d probably turn into an EP impersonator when actual acting doesn’t work out. I’m just imagining him at a cafe and someone going “oh my gosh, Tate Langdon?? I love American Horror Story!!!” and he just starts crying into his coffee or something before having the lightbulb moment of “holy crap, I can totally just pretend to be him and get hired that way”

Or, alternatively: someone thinks Ralph is EP and, before he has the chance to correct it, he gets offered a role meant for EP—and then he just goes for it and hopes no one notices that he’s a completely different person

[theweirdkidinside03]

Tate McRae stood tall for the fourth week in a row as greedy remained undefeated on Countdown Top 40

greedy - Tate McRae

Water - Tyla

Lovin' On Me - Jack Harlow

Pretty Girl - Ice Spice & Rema

TOO MUCH - The Kid Laroi, Jung Kook & Central Cee

Standing Next To You - Jung Kook

Bongos (feat. Meghan Thee Stallion) - Cardi B

MONACO - BAD BUNNY

One in a Million - Bebe Rexha & David Guetta

3D (feat. Jack Harlow) - Jung Kook

Houdini - Dua Lipa

Feather - Sabrina Carpenter

Can't Catch Me Now - Olivia Rodrigo

On My Love - Zara Larsson & David Guetta

Paint The Town Red - Doja Cat

Do It Like That - TXT & Jonas Brothers

First Person Shooter (feat. J. Cole) - Drake

get him back! - Olivia Rodrigo

ONE MORE TIME - blink 182

Snooze - SZA

One of Your Girls - Troye Sivan

Sensational (feat. Davido & Lojay) - Chris Brown

Cobra - Megan Thee Stallion

Try That In A Small Town - Jason Aldean

Rainy Days - V

Heart over Mind - Alan Walker & Daya

Agora Hills - Doja Cat

Children of the Sky (a Starfield Song) - Imagine Dragons

Gimme Love - Sia

With You - Oliver Tree

Desire - Calvin Harris & Sam Smith

Demons - Doja Cat

Think Of Us (feat. Gracey) - The Chainsmokers

I Love You So - The Walters

Used To Be Young - Miley Cyrus

Single Soon - Selena Gomez

Slow Dancing - V

Iconic (feat. Jax) - Simple Plan

fukumean - GUNNA

Traffic Accident - Dann & Mujin

[april-is]

April 20, 2023: Wound is the Origin of Wonder, Maya C. Popa

Wound is the Origin of Wonder Maya C. Popa

A cross-breeze between this life and the imagined one.

I am stuck in an almost life, in an almost time. If I could say,

but I cannot, and so on. Sunlight dizzies through the barren trees,

the skyline, a blue fog against a yellow light, and on the highway

every Westward car blinds me. Every surface reflects

that quiet understanding: decisions have been made, irreversible decisions

to upend beauty for something approximate—the airport hotel,

its Eiffel Tower on the roof, a playground near the public storage.

Beyond, bridges like monuments to fracture, and a sign for Pain Law:

not metaphor, but litigation. Who would not, given acreage

in another’s mind, lie there for a while to watch the sky be sky?

--

Today in: 

2022: When the Fox Comes to the City, Patricia Fargnoli 2021: aubade for the whole hood, Nate Marshall 2020: Keeping Things Whole, Mark Strand 2019: New Year’s Day, Kim Addonizio 2018: I Know You Think I’ve Forgotten, Jane Hirshfield 2017: The Writer, Richard Wilbur 2016: from Seven Skins, Adrienne Rich 2015: I Ask Percy How I Should Live My Life, Mary Oliver 2014: In the Park, Maxine Kumin 2013: To A Sad Daughter, Michael Ondaatje 2012: My Dead Friends, Marie Howe 2011: Staying After, Linda Gregg 2010: Dream Song 14, John Berryman 2009: What We Kept, Megan Alpert 2008: Please Take Back the Sparrows, Suzanne Buffam 2007: It Happens Like This, James Tate 2006: Tantalus in May, Reginald Shepherd 2005: September Song, Geoffrey Hill

[maverickkkkz]

EUGHHH time to talk about Power Rangers!!

So I've been watching Power Rangers SPD and I wanna talk about Sky because I love him very much and he also has issues LOL. My memory is shit so I might be making half of this up but HERE WE GO!!

Sky Tate has so many issues from his dad, not in the way that his dad was a terrible person or father but because Sky set himself an impossible goal and really high self-expectations because of who his father was. Of course, that wasn't his dad's fault but yk here we are! Imagine being a child and expecting to be this great ranger, as great as your late father, and then you grow up and suddenly that whole idea is crushed! Ripped away from the palm of your hands!

Sky worked so hard to be the Red Ranger, but it caused arrogance on his part, and just because he had the dedication to SPD and his father was the Red Ranger didn't mean he automatically had rights to the title or position of Red Ranger. Of course, it was sad to see his dream stomped on, failing to live up to the expectation he set for himself and the expectation he might've felt his family held for him because, after all, he was his father's son. Or maybe feeling like he failed to prove himself, because his family were against the idea of him being like his father, due to his father's death in the line of duty. Either way, it is sad, even if he wasn't ready to be the Red Ranger because of his immaturity, arrogance and behaviour! Of course, it was gonna cause issues between him and Jack, Sky is a control freak, maybe because he couldn't control what happened to his father? For all of that to happen, the loss of control and the failure to himself, he was never gonna get along with Jack OR Z at the drop of a hat, because they swooped in with zero training, with powers that he believed were unique to him, Bridge, and Syd, and took over where Sky believed he should rightfully stand.

It isn't an excuse for the way he treated Jack or butted heads with him but it is a reason, and of course, Power Rangers is just a kids show so they wouldn't talk about it, but I talk about it! It shouldn't have been brushed over, and if it was a real-life situation it definitely wouldn't have been. Sky has trauma from his father's passing, and probably has something funky going on with his self-worth, he really did work hard for Red Ranger, and he didn't get it, he's allowed to be disappointed. However, the moral of the story, he REALLY needs to see a therapist (like everyone else on B Squad)! It also might've done him good to talk to the others about it a bit more rather than basically just being seen as an asshole, iirc they might've understood somewhat in the show (?) but I can definitely see them and a lot of other people just brushing Sky off as that arrogant, bratty, child of a Red Ranger with a stick up his ass rather than someone who is a good person underneath all of that and just needs some help.

In the long run though, Sky not becoming the Red Ranger straight away WAS good for him. It taught him how to be a better person, to grow up from that child he still sorta was with stars in his eyes whenever he saw his father on TV saving people (and I can imagine the day his father died, his mother had to turn the news off). And in the end, he did get there, he reached his goal after a lot of good, solid character development and I really really enjoy his character arc! For a Power Rangers series, the SPD B Squad characters, and the other characters around them, have complicated stories and development and I love that so much!!

I'm also a little delusional at the end of the day :D

[augment-techs]

"The Song of the Sea" for the fake fic title

Title: Song of the Sea Rating: Unrated Fandoms: Power Rangers; Boom! Comics Power Rangers. Relationships: Tori Hanson/Kapri; Koda/Sir Ivan; Maddie Rocca/Clare Langtree; Kevin/Mike; Ethan James/Conner McKnight/Kira Ford; T.J. Johnson/Andros/Zhane; Max Cooper/Danny Delgado; Sky Tate/Z Delgado; Rocky DeSantos/Adam Park/Aisha Campbell; Billy Cranston/Eugene Skullovitch/Matt Cook. Characters: Billy Cranston; Andrea; Alpha 5; Ernie; Tori Hanson; Justin Stewart; Maddie Rocca; Kevin; Rocky DeSantos; T.J. Johnson; Kai Chen; Chad Lee; Sky Tate; Max Cooper; Kiya Kyatyl; Ethan James; Koda; Ravi Shaw; Flynn McAllistair; Princess Marina; etc. Additional Tags: Emotional Vulnerability; They're All Queer, I Don't Even Care, Try and Stop Me; Missing in Action; What Is Canon?; There is No Such Thing as a Timeline; Fuck Forever Red (It Was Awesome, but We Can Do Better); We're Doing Forever Blue; Accidental Brother Acquisition; Crying; Cuddle Piles; Sleep Deprivation; Panic Attacks; Midnight Breakfast. Summary:

The warmest Color. The favorite Color. The only Color left.

Can one imagine, just imagine, what it's like to blink and find that a Rangers entire team has vanished into thin air because some kind of catastrophe happened that could not be mended, could not be fixed, could not be changed.

And they tried everything, every Blue Ranger that ended up rushing to Angel Grove like their internal compass told them it was the only place to be in their time of gut wrenching sadness and anxiety. Like birds flocking south for the winter or monarch butterflies making for their mating grounds in spectacular fashion.

There were inventions to be had since Billy was allowed to commandeer Promethea in wake of the disappearance of Grace, Terona, and Matt since the Command Center was essentially on lockdown; there were spells to be attempted by Maddie and Tori and Kevin and--given that he was hooking up with an undersea princess--Chad; there were calls to be made from one planet to another asking if this had ever happened on any other world with Justin, T.J., Kai, Rocky, and Ethan. There was even some interdimensional quandaries with Flynn, Ravi, Koda, Max, Sky and--with a suitable amount of begging down on one knee--Kiya.

This must have been some version of hell; the stillness and silence, but for the times one of them remembered to turn on a radio that played classical piano or the kind of rock that sounds like a garbage disposal being forced to chew on metal screws.

[denimbex1986]

'GamesRadar+ verdict: 4.5 stars

A near-perfect end to the Doctor's 60th anniversary adventures. David Tennant and Catherine Tate bow out of the series in an often jaw-dropping episode that points the way to a bright new future for Doctor Who. Allons-y!

Doctor Who's trilogy of 60th anniversary specials comes to an end with The Giggle, the biggest and, by quite some way, the boldest episode of this show for many years. There's a returning enemy, a global threat, and a long-awaited regeneration - but that's just the half of it.

In some ways these episodes have mimicked the structure of returning showrunner Russell T Davies' seasons past. The Star Beast was a fun and frothy family adventure reminiscent of season-openers like Rose or Partners In Crime. Last week's Wild Blue Yonder recalled the show's mid-season turns to the weird in episodes like Midnight. The Giggle, then, is a classic RTD season finale, epic in scale, with wild swings of tone and mood, big ideas, UNIT battles - and a dance.

Wild Blue Yonder ended with a touching reunion with Bernard Cribbins' Wilfred Mott. It was, sadly, the only scene the Doctor Who production team were able to film with the beloved actor, though he does make a brief audio cameo this week (in a dialogue sample snatched from season 4 episode The Poison Sky). The Doctor (David Tennant) and Donna (Catherine Tate) have returned to Earth, only to find the planet in chaos caused by the arrival of the Toymaker - played by Neil Patrick Harris with malicious glee. A sinister laugh transmitted through every screen on planet Earth has caused everyone to become convinced that they are always correct, leading to a wave of violence that UNIT are desperately trying to keep in check. To put things right the Doctor and Donna must enter the Toymaker's realm and, quite literally, beat him at his own game.

That's the initial premise, anyway. The Giggle takes many bizarre and surprising twists and turns across its 61 minute run-time, including a visit to Soho in 1925 (which provides the episode with a distinctly creepy image in the laughing form of ventriloquist dummy Stooky Bill) and a memorable raid on the huge new UNIT headquarters (which has strong Avengers Tower vibes and will surely be an easy target in the next alien invasion). It's all leading up to a moment that we've known has been coming for the last 19 months: the regeneration of David Tennant's Fourteenth Doctor into Ncuti Gatwa's Fifteenth incarnation.

As most of you reading this by now will know, there's a lot to talk about there (and if you need a handy recap, we have an in-depth ending explainer right here). For now though, and with our spoiler-free remit in mind, we'll simply say that Gatwa makes an immediately winning first impression: charismatic, funny, and with an edge of unpredictable danger. I can't wait to see where this Doctor goes and what they do next. Thankfully it won't be a long gap, with the show returning on Christmas Day with another special, The Church On Ruby Road.

But let's not forget David Tennant. His reprisal of the role caused many a raised eyebrow in the admittedly easy to wind up world of hardcore Doctor Who fandom, but it may yet prove to be showrunner Davies' canniest choice on returning to the show that he revived all those years ago.

Whatever your thoughts on the quality of the last few years of the show, there's little doubt that it had fallen out of the public imagination somewhat, even if the rumors of its imminent demise from the worst sections of the internet were undoubtedly overblown. Bringing back the most popular actor to ever play the part before handing over to a brand new Doctor, played by a rapidly rising talent, was both a smart headline-grabbing action and a chance to find new shades in both Tennant and Tate's performances.

Because, while the Fourteenth Doctor is, in many ways, simply an older version of the Tenth, that difference in age and experience is important, as The Giggle makes clear. This Doctor runs as fast as ever, but they're sadder and more care-worn. They've been bruised by the events of the Flux, which left half the universe destroyed (what seemed at the time to be a dangling loose thread, now beautifully woven into the Doctor's character), and by everything else that has happened to them over the course of, for Donna, 15 years and for the Doctor, literal aeons. Crucially, they're willing to give up everything to protect their companion. OK, so the Doctor was never afraid of self-sacrifice, but there's something more than that here. "It's not about me," Donna says at one point, and Tennant's "Oh yes it is!" is said with desperate conviction. This was never simply a lap of glory for Tennant, but a chance to round out the character that made him a household name in the UK.

Tate, too, is fantastic. Donna has also aged, but she's only grown warmer, wiser, and more determined. A scene where she faces off against one of the Toymaker's traps is laugh out loud funny as she unflappably deals with a monster in a wonderfully straightforward way.

Elsewhere, Neil Patrick Harris makes for a wonderfully sinister villain - by turns camp, silly, and genuinely terrifying. A handful of throwaway lines may hint at bigger threats to come (and perhaps the return of another old enemy), but there's something unknowable, strange, and - as the Doctor puts it - "elemental" about this character. They invoked superstition in last week's episode and now here they are, tussling with what is effectively a god. This is Doctor Who played on a grand and mythic scale.

Not everything works perfectly. The Vlinx, a surprising new bit of UNIT tech, is left unexplained for now and strikes an oddly goofy note in the episode. The nature of the giggle itself offers Davies the chance to make some pointed statements about the state of our world, but fades into the background as soon as the Doctor and the Toymaker meet. And while the episode looks generally pretty amazing, there are some spotty VFX in places. But so it always was with Doctor Who, a show that never let a lack of time or money stop it from going to places much bigger shows would never dare.

These are small quibbles in an instalment that marks a near-perfect cap on a trilogy of episodes that have been simply a joy to watch these last three weeks, and which point to a blazing future for Doctor Who, one that feels genuinely unpredictable and unmissable again. Farewell David and Catherine. Welcome Ncuti! Next stop: everywhere.'

[elegistnox]

GM author :)

Sometimes you post songs on chapters and sometimes you don't, are there playlists or songs for characters you can share?

Good morning! I actually do have extensive playlists for almost every character and pairing. While they are not currently public, I could certainly share them out if that was of interest?

To be honest I have no idea how to format this without makign it heinous to look at so I gave it my best shot. There are some songs on chapters. Whenever there is a song over a chapter that quite literally means that's the song that inspired the chapter. I didn't include those ones on the list below but they are some of my favorite!

For now here are some of the top songs I listen to when writing:

Charlie Be Quiet! (Charlie Puth) Rhys specifically after UtM

Fairly Local (Twenty One Pilots) Rhys i imagine this is him closer to the events of ACOTAR

everything everywhere always Rhys with Lilah, this song is what she means to him, and who she is to him

Heavy Shit (Blake Rose) Rhys

Mirror (Lil Wayne, Bruno Mars) Rhys

sex money feelings die - slowed version Rhys/Cassian/Azriel

Freak Like That (Austin George) Rhys you cannot tell me otherwise

neverletyougo (Role Model) Rhys it just gives Rhys

Know It All (The Band CAMINO) Rhys/Lilah imagine them dancing to this :(

golden hour (JVKE) Rhys/Lilah this is them. really no other way about it

Enchanted (Taylor Swift) Lilah my girl from chapter 3 onwards

Wildflower (5SOS) Rhys/Lilah more specifically Lilah seeing Rhys in the Court of Nightmares

Slower (Tate McRae) Rhys/Lilah

Paris (Taylor Swift) Lilah this just feels like Lilah holding hands with Rhys to me...walking through the Black Palace

Atoms - Said the Sky Remix Rhys/Lilah how Rhys feels about Lilah to be specific

theninteetnseventyfive (Push Baby) Azriel like come ON

moon and back (JVKE) Azriel and his love interest who you will meet very soon

Dress (Charlotte Sands) Azriel again i repeat...come ON

God in Jeans (Ryan Beatty) Cassian coughs

Silver Tongues (Louis Tomlinson) The Bat Boys this gives the Bat Boys in ACOTAR but also them looking for each other during the Great War

Thinking out Loud (Ed Sheeran) Cora/Orion the music video...the music video

High Infidelity (Taylor Swift) Cora/Aries this feels like I do not need to get into it

The Great War (Taylor Swift) The entire fic...this is the entire fic

[viviannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn]

Week 4&5 Field trip+Analyse Artistic Traditions and Lineages

This week, we visited the National Gallery of Singapore, which showcased a variety of diverse artworks. My favorite painting, which we discussed in class, is Man and Environment by Chng Seok Tin. This painting embodies elements of Abstract Art .Abstract art is art that does not represent an accurate depiction of visual reality, communicating instead through lines, shapes, colours, forms and gestural marks.

The vibrant colors of this painting beautifully depict the scenery of nature with intertwining greens and blues, while the complex lines and patterns create a harmonious visual effect. Upon closer inspection, I noticed various faces—some outlined with lines, others represented in black-and-white patterns, and some as color patches. This piece skillfully merges the themes of humanity and nature.

My second favorite work is Venice by Cheong Soo Pieng, which aligns more closely with Impressionism. Impressionism often painted thickly and used quick (and quite messy) brush strokes. In most of the paintings before impressionism, you can't really see the brushstrokes at all.The blurred background highlights the prominent subject. Simple lines depict boats, figures, and trees, creating a sense of movement. The dusky, blurred sky and lake add a layer of mystery, enhancing the architectural elements and stimulating the viewer's imagination.

From these two paintings, I learned the importance of color usage and composition. The first painting made me realize that coordinated colors and elements can effectively convey deep concepts, while the second taught me how to find a balance between blur and clarity.

This visit deepened my understanding of art, and I plan to apply this knowledge in my future designs to create meaningful works.

(268 words)

Art, Rise. “What Is Abstract Art? The Complete Guide.” Rise Art, 18 June 2020, www.riseart.com/guide/2366/guide-to-abstract-art?srsltid=AfmBOorPwhVGhLLYZRqBD9fO810HpKMm_qtUmVpKrUGF9vLSSWpuo5BC.

https://www.riseart.com/guide/2366/guide-to-abstract-art?srsltid=AfmBOorPwhVGhLLYZRqBD9fO810HpKMm_qtUmVpKrUGF9vLSSWpuo5BC

Tate. “Impressionism | Tate Kids.” Tate Kids, www.tate.org.uk/kids/explore/what-is/impressionism.

https://www.tate.org.uk/kids/explore/what-is/impressionism

[babadork]

Ten Interesting Facts From Cult Following: The Extreme Sects That Capture Our Imaginations-and Take Over Our Lives

Adherents to Koreshan Unity believe that the earth is hollow, with the ground being the sphere's concave interior surface. The sun, planets, and everything else in the sky are optical illusions created by a set of metal discs.

One John Frum sect worshiped Prince Philip after a photo of him was found in a government outpost in the 1960s.

The Soul Light Resurgence Association believed that the earth had experienced five nuclear apocalypses, but God came in a flying saucer to rescue believers. The first nuclear apocalypse was a dinosaur war.

In addition to the Tate-LaBianca murders, it has been proven that the Manson Family killed two more people, and they may have committed a dozen more murders.

In December 1992, members of The Children of God/the Family sang for First Lady Barbara Bush at the White House.

Mohan Chandra Rajneesh, the founder of the Rajneesh Movement, convinced his followers to buy him a $1 million watch. He also owned ninety-three Rolls-Royces.

Before the sarin attack at Kasumigaseki Station, Aum Shinrikyo murdered the lawyer representing former members in a civil lawsuit and his family, attempted to buy nuclear weapons in Russia, tried to purchase land in Australia to mine uranium, and killed twenty people using Venomous Agent X.

The Planetary Activation Organization (AKA Ground Crew Project) got the attention of the media after members of the Heaven's Gate cult committed suicide, because they both had websites. However, there has been no abuse, crime, or unnatural deaths linked to the cult.

Wiley Brooks, the founder of the Breatharian Insitute of America, gained media attention after claiming to have not eaten solid food for seventeen years. His time as a cult leader ended quickly after he was caught leaving a 7-Eleven with a Slurpee, hot dog, and pack of Twinkies.

Many celebrities or people associated with celebrities have been connected to cults beyond Scientology and NXIVM. Thomas Nichols, the brother of Star Trek actress Nichelle Nichols, committed suicide with thirty-eight other members of the Heaven's Gate cult. Rod Sterling, Ray Bradbury, Leonard Nimoy, Jane Fonda, Charlton Heston, and Milton Berle attended Synanon meetings. Painter Jackson Pollock and Singer Judy Collins were Syllivanians.

[sciencestyled]

The Stormy, Cloudy, Aurora-Borealis-Fueled Extravaganza of Meteorological Art: A Thunderous Tale of Earth Science and Creative Whimsy

Alright, gather 'round, my merry band of knowledge-thirsty adventurers! Buckle up, buttercups, because we're about to dive into the wild, wacky world of Meteorological Art. Yes, you heard that right. We're talking about art inspired by clouds, storms, and those psychedelic light shows in the sky called auroras. Imagine Bob Ross but with a storm-chasing twist and a dash of acid trip. We're going to explore this sub-genre of Earth science and art like it's the latest Netflix binge-worthy sensation.

First, let's set the stage with a little context. Imagine the atmosphere as that one really dramatic friend we all have – you know, the one who's always extra. This friend doesn't just have a bad day; they have a full-on meltdown with lightning, thunder, and torrential rain for effect. And then, when they're in a good mood, they whip out a light show better than any EDM festival – hello, auroras! Now, picture capturing all that drama and beauty on canvas, film, or even in massive, immersive installations that make you feel like you're in the eye of the storm. That, my dear friends, is meteorological art.

Let's kick things off with clouds, those fluffy, sometimes ominous cotton balls in the sky. Artists have been obsessed with these sky puppies since forever. I mean, who wouldn't be? They're like nature's mood ring. You've got your happy little cumulus clouds, all puffy and carefree like a puppy on a sugar high. Then there are the ominous, brooding cumulonimbus clouds, rolling in like a squad of angry bouncers at a nightclub.

Take, for example, the work of J.M.W. Turner, the OG storm chaser of the art world. This guy painted storms like they were going out of style. His piece "Snow Storm: Steam-Boat off a Harbour's Mouth" is basically the 19th-century equivalent of a disaster movie. Imagine "The Day After Tomorrow" but with oil paints. Turner's swirling, chaotic skies are so intense, you can almost hear the thunder and feel the wind whipping through your hair. He was the Michael Bay of his time, minus the explosions (well, mostly).

Fast forward to the modern era, and you've got photographers like Mitch Dobrowner, who chase storms like they're on a never-ending quest for the ultimate Instagram shot. Dobrowner's photos are like Ansel Adams on steroids. His black-and-white images of supercells and tornadoes are so crisp and detailed, they make you want to grab a raincoat and a sturdy umbrella just looking at them. His work isn't just a snapshot; it's a front-row seat to Mother Nature's most epic performances. It's like getting a backstage pass to a Beyoncé concert, but with more lightning and less "Single Ladies."

Now, let's talk about storms. Oh, storms! The drama queens of the weather world. Artists have been trying to capture their raw power and beauty for centuries. From the terrifying to the sublime, storms have it all. They're like the James Bond villains of the sky – unpredictable, dangerous, and utterly fascinating.

Take the installation artist Olafur Eliasson, for instance. This guy doesn't just paint storms; he creates them. His piece "The Weather Project" at the Tate Modern in London turned an entire room into a sun-filled, misty wonderland. It was like stepping into a giant, glowing snow globe. People would lie on the floor, basking in the artificial sunlight like a bunch of cats in a sunbeam. Eliasson's work blurs the line between art and reality, making you question whether you're experiencing a real weather event or just a really trippy dream.

And then there's Walter De Maria's "The Lightning Field," a land art piece in New Mexico that consists of 400 stainless steel poles arranged in a grid over a mile long. It's like the world's most elaborate lightning rod. Visitors brave enough to spend the night there are treated to a light show that rivals anything you'd see in Vegas. It's a testament to the sheer power and unpredictability of nature, captured in a way that's both awe-inspiring and slightly terrifying. De Maria's work is a reminder that art can be as wild and untamed as the elements it seeks to portray.

Now, let's move on to the pièce de résistance of meteorological art: auroras. These natural light shows are like the ultimate rave in the sky, minus the questionable fashion choices and regrettable dance moves. Artists have been captivated by these celestial disco balls for centuries, trying to capture their otherworldly beauty in various mediums.

Take photographer Vincent Brady, who creates time-lapse videos of auroras that look like something out of a sci-fi movie. His work, "Planetary Panorama," is a mind-bending visual feast that combines 360-degree photography with the swirling, colorful madness of the Northern Lights. It's like "Inception" meets "Fantasia," with a side of "The Matrix" for good measure. Brady's videos make you feel like you're floating in space, watching the universe put on the greatest light show ever.

And let's not forget about Janet Echelman's massive, floating sculptures that mimic the undulating patterns of auroras. Her installation "1.26" suspends a giant, net-like structure over public spaces, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow. It's like a giant, ethereal jellyfish hovering above you, casting a spell of wonder and awe. Echelman's work is a perfect example of how art can transform our perception of the natural world, turning everyday spaces into magical realms of imagination.

So there you have it, folks – the wild, wacky world of meteorological art. From the tempestuous fury of storms to the serene beauty of clouds, and the mind-blowing spectacle of auroras, artists have been inspired by the atmosphere's ever-changing moods for centuries. Whether through paintings, photographs, videos or immersive installations, they capture the essence of Earth's most dramatic phenomena, reminding us of the sheer power and beauty of nature.

And let's not forget the intersection of Earth science and art – a glorious mashup that brings together the analytical and the creative, the scientific and the whimsical. It's like mixing peanut butter and jelly, but with more lightning and less bread. So next time you look up at the sky and see a storm brewing or an aurora dancing, remember that you're witnessing one of nature's greatest masterpieces – a canvas painted with wind, light, and a dash of cosmic magic. Now, go forth, my meteorologically-minded amigos, and embrace the stormy, cloudy, aurora-borealis-fueled extravaganza that is meteorological art!