#sort of blurry? whoops

[kittylittersmoothie]

Some behind-the-scenes scribblings of "Purple Patterns" plot notes!

(Spoilers ahead if you can decipher my blurry and nearly illegible handwriting.)

(^ω^)

[b1rds3ye]

hi!! this is my first time doing a request so idk if I'm doing this right haha but uh, I was wondering if you could do like. yknow the masked one you made for the 141 (I can't remember the name rn💔)? I thought of like, a sequel idea. like, what if during combat an enemy manages to take reader's mask, and so reader panics and like, rips the enemies throat out with their teeth (or if that's too violent, just goes basically rabid on them lmao) and how they would react?? if this is too violent or specific dw you don't have to!! anyways, I love your content it's totally awesome ur writing is amazing! have a good day!!

YES I LOVE THE BADASSERY AND THE UNHINGEDNESS!! If I'm your first request I'm so flattered anon pls do feel free to drop by again <333 Also just going to do general rabidness because ngl the throat thing sounds like an infection speedrun and we want our masked reader to stay nice and healthy <333

Word Count: 1.2 (it got a little long WHOOPS)

Warning: Canon typical violence, reader does get a lil sadistic and unhinged <333

Beyond Task Force 141 and Laswell, many - if not all - allied soldiers wondered about what lay under your mask. Obscuring even the eyes, your visage was more unreadable than Ghost's. Larger than life, a soldier among men.

There was a running joke that there was just nothing under your mask, perhaps an eldritch horror of sorts. You let the new recruits entertain the thought, it kept morale up as they conjured more myths of you. They said that no one has seen you without your mask. They were partially right.

It simply was that no one lived to tell the tale.

You were never one for close combat, but fighting terrorists was never smooth sailing. The chaos of battle had all of the 141 separated against the tight streets of Las Almas. How uncanny that you could not see your allies but hear their gunfire. Running out of ammo, you couldn't lament at your misfortune as a shoulder pummeling into your chest, sending you to the ground and the air out of your lungs. Head bashing against the floor you groaned as you furiously clawed up to whatever heavy weight was crushing your body. You were starting to make up the figure of a man hovering over you through the blurry haze of a concussion that filled your sight. The distant static of Price's voice through the radio, probably asking where the hell were you but you had more pressing issues at hand.

Through your struggle and flailing limbs you managed to wring the enemy's pistol off of them with a painful twist of their wrist. And they retaliated tenfold, a large sweaty hand reaching down and pressing your head back against the ground. Your adrenaline makes you writhe further, he was going to suffocate you, or worse, poison you with how fucking awful his hand smelt as the stink of burning gunpowder replaced any of your oxygen. But no, he committed a far worse crime.

A singular pull and the grating tear of fabric as your mask is pulled off of your face.

A heavy moment where your enemy looks down at you and his gaze is not like before. It's clear, it's deep. It is not looking at your facade but at you and you are no longer a soldier. You are merely a human, so fragile, so weak. One that is on the verge of death in a foreign land surrounded by bodies of fallen comrades and enemies alike. One whose mythos is all but lost at the victorious and leering smirk of an enemy as they take in your face.

That simply won't do.

Pulling your knee up to create space between you and the man, you pull out your tactical knife from your waist and drive it into his torso. His smile falls only to land at settle on yours below him, just like his blood that trickles as forbidden crimson down your hands and seeps into your uniform. It's disgustingly warm. He grows heavier as he loses all control over his body and you heave to throw his figure off to the side. You stab him once again for good measure. And then again. And again. Quick, short jabs down with a sharpened blade that cuts through uniform, flesh and bone alike. You did not count how many times you drove your blade down, numbers were too complex when your mind was running faster than any comprehensible speed. There was only one goal. To make sure no one knows what happened.

A harsh grip on the shoulder yanks you back up and you swipe with your armed limb to cut your new assailant's neck but they were onto you. Catching your arm, they pull it up as they hold onto your shoulder once again with a tightening grip that digs into your uniform. But they do nothing more, no matter how much you thrash and kick.

"Wake up, Sergeant," your opponent seethes and that voice makes you still, a buoy that floats across through your rage. Deep and grounding and your captain's.

You nearly stumble back but Price catches you before you crumple to the ground in exhaustion. The adrenaline was escaping your body leaving you with barely the energy to stay upright. Your head lolls back for a second before you bring it to the side to look at your direct superior, the remnants of a concussion making your vision blurry.

"You broken?" he asks.

"Negative, sir,” you respond immediately but he looks a little doubtful, a singular eyebrow raised as he inspects you. Not your body, but your face. The dilated pupils and the taut muscles told more than any wound.

"Can't say the same about your wee friend over there," Soap whistles as he tilts his head to behind you. “Christ, you did a number on him.”

You dare turn to look over your shoulder but Ghost already situated himself in front of the body. But between his feet you could already make out the indistinguishable mass of tattered fabric and discoloured flesh. Fresh blood filled the rivets between the cobblestones, the remnants of the body inching its way closer to you-

"Was it the mask?" Simon brings your attention back to him. You nod dumbly. He only dips his head in what you can only describe as understanding as he folds his arms, fortifying his stance in front of the mess you made. You weren’t going to see your handiwork, he was too kind to ever let you.

John drops his hands down to his sides as Gaz approaches you with your mask.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side," Kyle offers you a sympathetic smile.

"Learnt that the first day I saw 'em on duty," Johnny retorts and you instinctively smile as you take your mask from Kyle. The hardened plaster of your mask had cracked, the fabric that hugged your neck had become torn but it'll do for the remainder of the mission. Slipping the mask back on, Simon offers a nod of approval while Johnny tugged at the fabric for a few finishing touches.

Ultimately the mission was successful. The task force returns to base and although none of the boys mentioned the carnage you left, there are still whispers of it on base. You had hurried to debrief and get your mask fixed but it seemed some privates caught sight of you and that was enough to spark rumours. Your mask had gotten so fractured that a shard was left back in the streets of Las Almas and revealed one of your eyes to the rest of the world. Such a small organ but so vivid. The privates saw, and more was added to the myth that was you. There was now no question about what was under the mask. No lovecraftian horror or empty space, no monster beyond comprehension. No, what was under your mask was terrifyingly human.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

[millerscoffee]

dancing is a dangerous game | part three

"the only thing i'll ever ask of you, you've gotta promise not to stop when i say when," she sang.

6.8k | joel miller x f!reader

this is part 3 of the "dancing is a dangerous game" series | other parts below:

part one | part two | part three | masterlist

rating: 18+ MDNI

warnings (for this chapter): post-outbreak au. no ellie. no clickers. mentions of consensual non-con (spoiler: it's more that reader is nervous and is scared things will fuck up, so she tells joel not to stop if that tension in her rises). survivalist!joel, age gap (joel is 56, reader is late 20s or early 30s), soft!dom joel, introduction of safe word, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv (unprotected), cum eating (whoops), biting, crying, fluff, angst, READER RIDES A HORSE! no use of y/n.

summary: within your second week at joel's, there are things you are forced to look within yourself. joel helps you through it.

A/N: i really appreciate all of the notes and comments for this series! i didn't know where it would lead when i wrote that first chapter, but it's all overwhelming and sweet! i know the last chapter was more plot, but i feel progression with these twooooo 👀

"I don't think it's trust." "Then. What. Is. It?" Joel moves over to you at the bed's edge, taking your chin in his warm hands. It's as if the breath got knocked out of you. Like he's doing what you asked without you realising it. "I can't–" you feel undeniably small. Tears fall easily when you look down at your laps side by side until your vision gets blurry. His booming stirs in you. Not fear, but not necessarily happiness. He's compelling you to look at patterns within yourself, it makes you want to break down. Panic threatening to tap at the door of your sternum. Just when Joel's index finger, large and calloused, curls under your chin. It gently coaxes you to lock eyes and your lip wavers. "You're doing so good," when he says it, voice like honey in comparison to the rough-textured grip he has on your face, your heart races.

When Joel back turns around, his eyes are dark. Like he’s thirsty, but would only drink if you let him. He’s deliberate in brushing past you on his way up to the loft, his presence lingering just at the end of the stairs. “Come to bed.” It’s simple, and what you come to learn, is Joel’s way of asking. He don’t. But he gives you room to make the choice. You don’t recall your eyes even scanning the living room. They only land on the broad frame in front of you, and you follow it like a beacon of light. Beginning your second week, you don’t sleep on the couch anymore.

You're skittish when reach the top of the loft.

What if he expected something from you? What if it was more than what you were willing to give?

What did you want to give?

"It's nice up here," an attempt to purchase to any sort of gravity. Anything to make sense of just how you ended up in the situation in the first place. The feeling of Joel's lips still very much present on your own.

But your eyes stay at the ground, more in your own head than you are able to look at the man you're in front of. Joel tilts his head to catch your gaze.

"You sayin' that to me, or y'erself?"

"Oh... uh... to you. To you." You flash a crooked, but distant smile.

"Hey," Joel hushes, walks over to you, his frame seeming somehow even larger in the petite space. "If this is too much, we can get you back down there. Y'know. Extra blankets."

"No–" you object so quickly you have to clear your throat. "I mean... no. I want to stay. Just..."

"Hadn't shared a bed with someone?"

"Not in a long time." You think of your past lover. The warmth the two of you made together under makeshift tents and old buildings with shitty furniture. Taking turns sleeping while keeping an eye out for danger. This was different, and so were the circumstances.

Joel walks over to what you presume is at least the start of his side of the bed before his inevitable migration to the centre of it at night, and gets undressed until he's left in his boxers. Unlike when the two of you had sex and he wasn't wearing anything under his jeans. It was like he didn't know you were gonna be up there with him tonight.

"We'll take it slow, if that's what you want." Climbing into bed, Joel opens the opposing side of the blankets for you. His hair slick back from your fingers combing through it downstairs. Orbs seeking to learn your quiet demeanor. He looks sweet. Patient, even.

How could you say no to that? Not when he's being so compassionate. And certainly not when he's giving you the choice.

The temptation to be vulnerable could kill you. Could be dangerous.

Then again, the situations you continuously put yourself in before you met Joel had more consequences than getting in this man's bed. A man who was shifting your perspective. He didn't seem like any other person that entered your life only to leave it.

You choose to ignore the expiration date in a few short weeks.

So you abandon your jeans. Neatly fold them in a chair tucked away in the corner of the room. Everything in slow motion to quell the reality of your emotions towards the man you currently have your back to. The man who made you feel melted and was being uncharacteristically open with you long before whiskey was involved.

Not that the whiskey mattered, you weren't really feeling its effects anymore anyway. This experience had you both to a sober, cognitive state. You had control of yourself considering how out of control you felt on the inside.

In your underwear you stand with a blue cotton t-shirt that just grazed the crease of your bottom and your exhales are shakier than you'd like to admit.

Because if you admit it, then it's true.

If you admit it, he could have a lot more control over you than you knew what to do with.

"Joel," you sound faraway when you break the silence. Back still to him, you tilt your chin at your shoulder before closing your eyes and inhaling deeply. You can't believe what you're about to say.

"If I tell you to stop, I don't want you to listen," Tears wick at your eyes, blinking them away rapidly before turning to face Joel directly. You can't bring yourself to look at him, yet.

And he's silent.

"Because if we start this... it–it's not gonna be easy for me," you your hands, shaking them off as if the energy could ease by doing it. Pleased when it kind of works. "I'm not gonna be easy, and I don't mean sexually...," you laugh pitifully, "My impulses may make me want to stop. From what I've... god I sound so pathetic, from what I've been through." Teeth grit, tears fall, "It could be too much. And, too–," sentences chop, "I want this. If we start this I don't think I could stop. Which sounds counterintuitive, but... yeah."

You want to fucking vomit from exposing yourself this way. Your mind swirling from the brain break you just gave yourself. Did any of it make sense? Did you come all the way up the ladder just to ruin any chance of being close to him? Why did you want to be close to him? You feel like an idiot, to put it crassly. A credulous girl making hasty decisions only to retrieve back into complacency.

These thoughts flood your mind and you're sure the storm is evident as it crosses your brow. So caught up in forbidding your heart to find resolution that you can't see what's in front of you.

What's been in front of you, if only you'd pluck it.

When you finally land on him, he looks concerned. Like he's taking in every word you say and committing it to memory. He doesn't move from his spot, but he does sit up straighter. Body language letting you know he is open, but not withdrawing.

"You want... this," he repeats you, but in his voice it sounds more seductive. Did you say it this seductively? "And you want me to keep going if you say no...,"

"Sounds kinda worse when you say it out loud." You mumble.

"You trust me."

That makes your face screw up. Shoulders creep towards your ears, the bridge of your nose collides on itself.

"Trust. I don't... I don't do that."

"Well, what else would y'call this request?"

Climbing on the edge of the bed, you sit on it in contemplation. What else could this be? Surveying the room, you come back to him in your line of sight and the furrow of his brow – soft, but covetous – makes you swallow hard.

You have two choices: hit the wall you put up. The one you'd been hitting every day for a week, or you could push through it.

"I don't think it's trust."

"Then. What. Is. It?" Joel moves over to you at the bed's edge, taking your chin in his warm hands. It's as if the breath got knocked out of you. Like he's doing what you asked without you realising it.

"I can't–" you feel undeniably small. Tears fall easily when you look down at your laps side by side until your vision gets blurry. His booming stirs in you. Not fear, but not necessarily happiness. He's compelling you to look at patterns within yourself, it makes you want to break down. Panic threatening to tap at the door of your sternum.

Just when Joel's index finger, large and calloused, curls under your chin. It gently coaxes you to lock eyes and your lip wavers. "You're doing so good," when he says it, voice like honey in comparison to the rough-textured grip he has on your face, your heart races.

This simple act triggers your fight or flight, but you choose to stay and confront this. It helped that any of your other thoughts were ripped from you. All there ever could be was the thumping hum of him in your hippocampus, burning your memories alive. Joel.

"Taking all this in, so well, angel. I know it's for a reason, but I need you to say it. And I need you to mean it. If you want this as bad as you do," his nose brushes against the tip of yours, "you can do it."

It's definitely not the magic of him that clouds your mind. It's more of the fact that this human in front of you, someone who could have killed you, could have just run you off after fucking you – is showing devotion in making sure you find this. That you use your voice. Like he's dangling a key right in front of you, and all you have to do is tell him the truth.

A key to your paradise.

Staring at his lips, you tempt forward, but he pulls away just a centimetre. Not so fast, not until you give me what I want.

You exhale through your nose in reflection. Close your eyes like you're about to jump, and maybe you are.

Jumping off into nothing.

Worse, jumping into something.

His hand moves to the side of your neck, and that causes your own hand to move over his. As small as you feel in his grasp, you try to hold him, too.

"I don't know how this happened," you mutter like you're cursing yourself, but your eyes open. Melting into Joel's touch. "I don't know how you did it, but I... I trust you."

It doesn't register immediately that you are holding your breath as soon as you say it. Half expecting the world to explode, or eight thousand clickers eat at your flesh. Something bad because any time you let someone in, something bad happened. Your superstitions getting the best of you.

But there is no earthquake. No slew of cordyceps-infested human shells scurrying up the stairs– well, ladder.

It's softer. It's solid. It's Joel wrapping you up in his arms, making light work in picking you up to land you gently on the bed that you soon realise is more comfortable than it looks.

Joel's face is a mix of admiration and determination. You can see by the flare of his nostrils that he's proud of you. And you don't know why, but basking under his pride brings a sense of peace you'd long forgotten. It wasn't that you needed his stare to appreciate yourself, but there was no mistaking the safety it gave you.

Your worry doesn't simply melt, though. You meant what you said in that you weren't sure you could do this. Legs spread wide to accommodate the width of his frame, and your breath hitches when he takes the pillow from behind you and guides your head down onto it. Treating you like a delicate thing makes you wonder what it would be like if you did soften. If you did allow yourself to become malleable beneath the grasp of someone so new, but had such hold on you. Not for him, but for yourself. What would it be like to trust? Fully. Under conditions that were so harsh outside the two of you in this moment. Could it be done?

The chatter in your mind stops at the drop of a hat when Joel leans down to kiss you. Even more curious than downstairs, your bodies find it easy to meld together.

You're grateful for Joel's lips to dim the thoughts reeling of what could or couldn't happen. He fills your senses, facial hair brushing against your features, and you're amazed at how that pout of his sends prickles to your skin. How skilled he is in wielding your mind to quiet, and your core to pay attention. All of the blood rushing downward in your haze.

Joel's tongue is the first to tempt in. It brushes into the tangle of your kiss. It's cliche to say it feels like heaven, but you imagine that's what it is like if you had to guess. Like a quiet white, nothing else but the feeling of him and your breaths taking up space as you give yourself permission to move your hands. Fingers snake up his hair, the backs of your knuckles brushing over the old scar at his left cheek down to his jaw. You feel him shudder above you, and wrap his large paw around your wrists to stop you. It makes your heart skip to feel how tender is he knowing you have felt his strength.

It's a secret shared between the two of you that he can be this disarming. And you keep it tight to your chest.

You focus on the heat emitting from his skin. Like he's burning the candle at both ends and his stomach creates all this centralised heat. Your bare legs brush against each other and the sensation from this and his weight brings you direct, but silent communication that this feels good to him, too. That he needs this as much as you do, and wants you. You yet to decipher if it's merely physical.

You don't realise it right away, that your hips are squirming beneath the weight that is the man kissing you like his life depends on it. This makes him pull away from the kiss, and right when you let out a whimper you can feel how damp the fabric clings to your folds.

"Can you hold still?" He's asking you, but it's out of genuine curiosity than a scold. And now that you think about it, now that you're an inch apart you can feel the heat of you radiate from your cheeks, lips, neck, chest. Splotched and muddy, you wonder what you must look like. You manage a weak nod, he nods back, going in for your neck.

"Joel," you gasp, hands moving against his wrists that tighten the tiniest amount against the pressure. His teeth graze over your heartbeat, littering open kisses over the skin and you moan at the same time as him when he sucks. Taking the skin of your neck between his lips and turning marks out of it. Urging you to slip completely under. Your body feels pliable to him, your moans turn to quiet whimpers as he pulls back again. Admiring his work, he rolls his thumbs over the insides of your wrists individually.

"Look at you," he suspires and it's in contrast from when he said it with your ass in the air for him a week ago. It makes you feel adored, whether he did or not. You are stronger than to let tears come up, and you don't. But you know you could if you thought about it long enough. "Gorgeous."

You blush, a full smile tugging your mouth and he pauses, tilting his head. Like he's learning what you like, and taking you in at the same time. "You're being a good girl. You know that, dontchu?"

Oh.

You nod, but it's hard not to bite your lip at that and you're aching now. Your need for him too strong than succumb to your need to guard. Your gesture makes Joel smirk, the tips of his fingers at the base of your shirt and he peels it up to your chest, just at the underside of your breasts and his eyes shift from a golden brown to black in the endeavours of his own hunger. You aren't alarmed that he isn't saying anything, and really it's nice to not verbalise your desires. It was already so difficult for you.

He knows.

And he finds it as no surprise, the keen noises you make when Joel's teeth sink into your flank right under your ribs, but it doesn't tickle surprisingly. Instead it feels good, like an itch you've been wanting to scratch. Like your sides have this constraint from your holding that he's chewing out. His mouth travels up, nosing past the fabric to kiss and suck over the shape of your breasts before cupping his lips around one of your nipples, keeping the other preoccupied under his thumb.

You let out a heady sigh, his whiskers prodding into your skin in the best possible way. His eyes slip shut, and you take in the way his eyelashes splay across his cheeks. It would be innocent if the work he's doing on the peaked bit of your flesh wasn't sending a direct signal to your clit. "Joel, I–"

He pops his mouth off of you instantly. Like your words break a spell, gaze soft and round when they look up at you. "This okay?" You bite down a groan when you hear just how fucked he sounds. Fucked like you sounded when he all but caught you cumming on his couch.

You nod, but he's not so lenient this time. "Words, darlin'."

"This is okay."

"Just okay?"

That seemed to be more of a challenge than a question or disappointment. As if he could do better, go deeper as he explored what you liked.

But you want his mouth back on you, to feel him and not just to quiet your mind. To genuinely feel him take you, and you let out a whine in response. "Joel, you know."

"I can't know unless you tell me, baby."

The slip of this pet name knocks your breath out. Half naked on his bed, your nipples glistening from his spit. Your hand smooths over the side of his neck and you tilt your head down to look at him better. He's being brave, and so should you.

"It feels good. It makes me want more." You're blushing now. To admit that, to tell him you want more – out loud with your words rather than the bucking of your hips leaves you feeling more naked despite being exposed.

But it's the green light Joel needs from you. To know you want him like this as opposed to the first time the two of you got stripped down. It was just you who was naked, then. It was him who was calling the shots. You blink in awareness that he's giving you the reigns in the way he knows how.

Giving you the reigns in light grasp while he takes the rest of the lead, tight in his palms.

He is background hum. He is thunder loud and present – you never see it, but you feel the humidity, and when he grows closer, the wind that moves your hair.

This is what it's like to hand over control to him. He knows what to do with it and he doesn't make you guilty for holding it. You're learning that of him, just as he's learning you.

Affection drips when his brushes his nose against the inside of your tits, lips trailing down your stomach until he grows increasingly aware of the ache between your legs. The pool of wetness slicking over the fabric of your underwear.

This makes him drone, low and hungry, and you blink up at the ceiling because fuck what if he didn't like it? Now wasn't the time for your self-consciousness to invade your thoughts, but it sat with you when you licked your lips – just before sitting on your elbows to get a better look at him.

You didn't do this last time. What if he wasn't into you?

"Fuck," he curses under his breath. Nope, definitely not. He's into you. While his lips press and teeth nip at the insides of your thighs, your breath hitches in the process. "Wet for me?" His question rhetorical, he thumbs over the blotch in your panties and that is enough to make you whine. For your hips to raise.

He pauses then with a serious look about him.

"Say red if it's too much. Understood?" You nod and he pulls his head away, producing a mewl from you. Desperate for contact. "Repeat it." Your eyes roll back all on their own and it feels like sandpaper to swallow from your dry throat.

"If it is too much I will let you know by saying red." Though the words felt formal, the delicious growl coming from Joel's throat lets you know it was exactly the correct way to form the words.

Because he's peeling your undies off completely, giving him a good view of what's in store. "I missed this," he admits and you blush deeper than you did when he was being corporeal. The exhales cool your dampened skin as he gets closer. Wraps his hands around your hips while keeping your legs secure underneath his flexed arms.

His eyes dance between yours and your cunt. Like he's watching what gets you twitching for him, and he's found that it's a mixture between his words and the way he stares at you like you're his last meal. Hard not to, to be fair.

It starts with his tongue at your entrance, like you're letting yourself pour over his tongue and he likes that. His grunts flush your clit, a buzz of him under your skin when he finally presses his tongue inside you. You both let out a sigh of relief by this. And you would run your fingers through his hair if he'd let you, but while he's wrapped his hands around your hips, your arms are on either side of those strong arms. He's subconsciously saying to you: you're not going anywhere, you're going to take it.

And that sends your head to spin. Your chest rises and falls irregularly to the feeling of him ghosting his pouty mouth over your folds until your clit is on fire just to be touched. "J-Joel," it's faint, like you can barely get it out.

"Mm?" He's busy.

"I... I need–"

"What is it, angel?" He asked a lot of rhetorical questions, his breath warm against your sex. "You want this?" His tongue ghosts over your clit and he has to use force to keep your hips in place in order for you to not buck his teeth out.

"Joel!" The sight of your hardened nipples makes him mutter under his breath again, his teeth lightly grazing over the sensitive nub.

You choke a whine, curling your fingers into themselves.

"Is that it?"

"P-please. Please!"

"Manners. Such a sweet little thing." His tongue flicks his tease against the hood of your clit and you practically howl in response. "Taste just as sweet, too."

To say your core is sticky is an understatement, your thighs pull apart slightly every now and then and it feels like effort to pull them apart from just how wet you are. Joel's mouth, Joel's fucking mouth, makes a meal of you then. Tongue rolling and flicking over the glistening skin until he finds sucking is what takes you there above all else.

His plush lips press around the nub of nerves, pulling it into his mouth with such a rush it makes you a whimpering mess far to quickly than you want to be. Thighs trembling involuntarily.

You'd only thought about this from the first day he fucked you. What his mouth would feel like right where it is, and it doesn't disappoint.

You're reduced to a slack jaw, his tongue skilled at the repetitious movements that send you to your climax.

"Cou-could I – fingers?" You quite literally can't get another word out of yourself. You're close, but he obliges – perfectly timed as his middle finger presses inside; working tandem with his tongue. He seems to like the way you feel by the noises he makes, the spongy spot inside you easy to find when you're like this. But that's just Joel, you knew that now. Nothing was hidden when he was in charge of your pleasure.

Although just one, his finger feels thick inside you. Way bigger than yours, and the steady push/pull of his while his mouth sucks on your clit is just too much not to submit to.

So it's volcanic, the eruption within you.

Seriously, it's like one moment you're not cumming and the next your pelvis and thighs are shifting like tectonic plates beneath him. Writhing and igniting with every axon that starts from the core of you and traverses your limbs. You're a mess, physically and mentally. No real words coming out, just a slew of curses and Joel's name as if it is a profanity in itself.

And with the way he's keeping his mouth tightened on you until you've reached it, you aren't too sure his name isn't a blasphemous word that should be left from your lips every second of the day.

On the comedown, your body spasms. Small noises leave your throat until it's a bounded release of giggles, your arm slung over your eyes. "What the fuck have you done?" Fucking giggles. You're giggling for the first time in... god knows how long.

Your sentence is slurred and sloppy, rubbing your eyes as if you're taking your time before you must face him. His soft eyes, mindful kisses along the insides of your thighs – each one sending a signal to your brain to jolt a little each time. Then you feel it, or well, you don't feel it anymore. His finger leaving you empty, an ache you want back.

"Is it such a bad thing?" When he speaks, you notice how hooded his eyes look like this. He's thoroughly enjoying himself, his tongue laps at your folds one last time for the night, mindful to miss the central core of you.

"I don't think so." An honest revelation.

When he comes up, his middle finger tempts your lips from where he was and you aren't shy when you wrap your lips around his finger, cleaning yourself off of him. You reach down when you pop your lips off of him, your hand eager to find his length that's straining beneath the fabric.

But Joel swats your hand away when you tempt it near him, "You’re not doin' that. Not right now." You can see the outline of it, like what's between his legs is begging a different story. Joel, however, has his arm draped around you so heavy that the weight of him won't let you do much else other than drift off to sleep.

"I'll get you back," you warn, yawning into the air. Face greeting the crease of his neck.

"We'll see, darlin'."

You drift off. Your top on, him in his boxers. In bed with a man who was making you understand trust could be on the table without transaction.

---

You wake before sunrise.

It's just the sound of your lungs sharing oxygen in the same space, you shift your body to face his. His back is to you, but you can make out the way his shoulders slope in the dark.

You like this Joel. Not because he's asleep, but because there was no holding between the two of you. Both easy to contract, but seeing him as pliable as you were last night tugs you.

Any pretense disappears until you are both left with your wanting; lying in wait.

And that drives a fire within you. You move forward, your breasts pressing against the broad scope of his back. It's warm, the scent behind his neck lulls you deeper into relaxation until you close your eyes. But Joel's a light sleeper, and the slightest movement towards him wakes him up. He's cautious not to stir right away.

Joel turns then. Fluid in its motion, he faces you. Arms wrap around you, flex and strengthen against the soft frame of your body. Rolling on top of you, your legs come apart naturally and he is warm from the bed. This version of him isn't much changed from last night, but he's more involved in his own taking than accounting for yourself – a grown woman who can make her own resolutions. You choose to stay under him, and he picks up on that.

Your mouths collide in the dark, touching and searching each other and you're slick from its gathering of your night's sleep. Right at the core, he presses his hips down and you respond in your own wave up to meet his. It's easy to slip off your shirt, leaving it abandoned somewhere in the sheets.

His boxers come down enough, then, to feel his cock thump against your folds and you inhale sharply – needing him more and more. He's hard, dripping, white hot against your skin. You clench around nothing before his hand guides himself through the slick of you, tempting over your clit before going back down. "I need you, too," thick with sleep, you groan at the sound of him and the sound of your slick being slipped against.

He's slow, only holding the tip at your entrance and you wriggle – becoming wide awake now with the width of him at your ache. "Please," you whisper, and he indulges. Doesn't make a fuss. Because he wants this, too. Wants you. Said it himself.

"You feel so damn good, swallowin' my tip like that." His face buries into your neck, lazy and sleepy when you wrap your legs around his waist. Fingernails engage his skin when he pushes, stretching you wider and deeper. It feels different from last night. More complete with this involved, too. Your lips brush against his neck while you shiver and experience. In the break of dawn with sleep lines still on both of your skins. It starts off gentle, at least.

Keeping it together is arduous, like you're both bursting at the seams to... let it all go. You have the opportunity to say it, to tell him you want this. It's everything you were explaining last night. How you want this, but it could be difficult to express. And if you were wriggling away from it, you didn't want him to stop.

One minor detail, though. You weren't wriggling away.

Physically, your legs spread further apart, your hand reaching down to touch him. Inviting the tips of your fingers to graze the bed of coarse hairs that resided just above his cock. His breath hitches then, and you both roll your hips; up and down respectively. Allowing him to go deeper, and he is deeper.

"You feel that?" His grip now on the side of your neck, keeping your eyes poured into his – even in the indigo of dawn – and your moans are turned to nothing but choking mewls when you nod. "S-so big," not that he needed his ego stroked, it's the only thing you can think about.

He's blocking any other sense having you like this. You feel every twitch, the rush of his cock growing harder inside you, if that were even possible. Your eyes flutter back in your skull for a moment in time.

"That's what you do to me, baby." His hips are merciless in the way they recoil against yours over and over. The sounds of your skin slapping mesh with the squelching of your cunt. Your hands moving to his head, fingers in his hair and you share the same breath – his exhales, your inhales and the other way around. Leaving you both dizzy and on the precipice.

Your hair sticks to the sides of your neck that he's abandoned to rest his forearms on either side of your head, fingers lost just above your head as he holds you together like this. His eye contact isn't as intimidating as it was before, and this time you crave it. The sun's coming up and it's seeping through the window that he built with the same fucking hands that are tugging your hair to look at him. His cock pulling all the way out to thrust all the way in, and he repeats the process. Tits bouncing, claws finding purchase on the sheets, on anything while he fucks you like this. A wonder fleets of how he can even keep up like this for his age, but it's washed away as soon as it comes. Your toes curling, a guttural scream of his name coming from you when your release is found. Cream coating his cock, you think you're there, but that's when you hear him.

"Easy, baby. That's it. That's fuckin' it, don't you dare fuckin' stop for me. Cum all over this cock. You can take it, that's it." His words send stars to your eyes, mouth lax just like last night but you don't remember. You don't remember anything other than the feeling of him pounding you into his mattress that is rattling and squeaking because fuck, it feels like it could break at any moment. "Joel!" You mean to say more, you really do, but it's too much to. Not while he's fucking and talking you through it, not while his own orgasm hits him when he feels the twitching of your clenched cunt around his cock. Tightening and releasing repeatedly through your bliss.

"Shit, darlin' – fuck!" Joel leaves you as late as he can, and it still feel too soon. He palms his cock a couple of strokes before spilling his hot cum over your stomach and that was sexy enough, but the sounds he's making. The animalistic grunts found through the structure of his nose has you blinking up at him like he's the most magnificent thing you've ever seen.

Maybe he is.

And you wonder then, what it would feel like to have his seed buried inside you, but you don't ask for it.

It's not the right time.

Sun cascades itself through the sky, leaving the room lilac and blue. You're both panting, his body half on you, half on the bed.

"Y'good? Y'okay?" You hear him, but it's muffled from his arm that's over your shoulder, his face plastered into the side of your bruised neck from last night.

"Mmn," you respond, but make an annoyed sound when he's soon to sit up. He looks worried over your body.

"Shit– gotta clean y'up. Sorry 'bout that."

But you smirk instead, thumbing over the pool at your stomach. You bring it up to your mouth with your eyes round and wet when they gaze into his, sucking it clean. "I got it."

Joel blinks with a look of arousal and a grin spread across his face as if to say, what am I going to do with you? "Dirty girl."

"You like it."

"Not wrong."

---

Midway through your second week, it's early when you both start off your chores for the day. You try to pacify the idea of you two being some sort of post-apocalyptic cowboys on a homestead that barely has the proper tools to sustain it half the time. It works for the both of you.

Outside the air is thick, but sky clear as you walk towards the stables. And there's Joel, exactly where you knew he would be. Bent down on his knees, working on the same project you were last week on the stables.

Security and routine close cousins to abandonment and disappointment – this plays in the background of your thoughts. You intentionally swallow it down as you approach him.

"Could I ride her?" You come into his line of vision, and you see him make a sweet face of happy to see you and did I hear you correctly?

"You can ride?" His question has amusement in it, and you scoff – grin tugging at your face. Ignoring the blatant double entendre that he probably didn't even mean to slip out, anyway. But Joel is pleased when you pick up on it because he did in fact say it on purpose.

Of course he did.

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet, Miller."

Joel grunts on his way up onto his feet, bowing graciously. "Go right ahead, ma'am."

She's set up to ride when you approach her and you reach out to scratch behind her ear before saddling up on top of her.

"Hey, girl," you smile, petting over the coarse hair of her back. She's gentle, but not exactly willing to go straight away. It makes you laugh, and the ease of tension makes it easier for her to trot. "Same here, sister." You snicker to yourself, and the horse takes you out of the stables. You mostly let her do the leading, but she's easy to work with as you take her around the land Joel has claimed for himself.

There's a freedom you haven't experienced in so long while you're riding her. You remember being a kid on the back of your dad's horse, the wind against your skin like this. The prospect of new. You slow her down in your approach back to the stables after a few minutes.

When you come back, you're welcomed by Joel's clapping hands a toothy smile across his face that hurts in the best way. His pride and entertainment.

Joel basking in this side of you as you open up to him.

"Damn, maybe you could give me some lessons, darlin'. You teach yourself that?"

You appreciate him not assuming someone taught you how to do this, but the truth is you were. "My dad, actually. He taught me how to ride a horse, how to shoot a gun–"

"Not well on that last one," he jabs, motioning towards his leg you purposefully missed.

"You don't know what you don't know."

For a moment, you forget. All that burned to the ground in your previous life. Your father dying in your arms. All of it.

"She and I had a talk," you start, climbing out of the stirrups.

"Oh, did you?" Joel lifts his brow, urging you to go on.

"Her name is Bandit."

"Like you?"

"Like me."

"Figures."

---

You're both asleep up in the loft. Each morning, you were beginning to notice that Joel's night terrors were becoming less and less frequent. Subsequently, so were your own.

That was until one night you were awoken by the sound of your own sobbing, and Joel's arms tight around you. He knew not to wake you up, but he was too concerned not to try to settle you down.

"W-what?" Your voice is groggy, palpitations in your chest high. Confusion suffuses you.

"Shh, s'okay. Close y'er eyes."

Joel feels bad for waking you up, he didn't mean to. He thought he was doing the right thing. Yet even though it takes takes you awhile to fall back asleep, you do fall asleep and stay asleep.

His arm stuck around you. His protection like a blanket.

Joel's eyes stay open until they cannot and slumber creeps up for him.

All in the pursuit of your safety. He doesn't mention it, doesn't ask questions or bring it up.

---

It feels pleasant with Joel. The two of you have a routine of working on your individual duties in the day, but you always come back to each other in the evening. He's rough around the edges, there's still things that he's keeping to himself. But you don't mind because you are too, and there's no rush.

The leisure of this is what takes you by surprise the most. Not Joel being kind, or slow, or even sweet to you.

It's the fact that in the middle of chaos, you have found a pocket of serenity. The stillness between breaths.

Towards the end of your second week at Joel's, you find it brave to drape your calves over his lap while you both read worn books that have been well-loved and repeatedly grazed. In the living room you've chosen poetry tonight. Audre Lorde. Because it's there and it feels appropriate to go for poetry.

You hum to yourself when you read something striking, and now Joel is curious.

"Let's hear it," he calls, not moving his eyes from his own pages and his free palm curls over your shin.

"You want me to perform for you?"

"Quit bein' weird and just read it."

You laugh, licking over your lips before theatrically clearing your throat.

"Kinda liked it better when you were shy," Joel adds, but you know he doesn't mean it.

"You'll get used to it. Okay. Let's see... 'Always / in the middle of our bloodiest battles / you lay down your arms / like flowering mines / to conqueror me home.'"

There's a long pause between the two of you.

"I don't get it."

"You're a bad liar."

"Flowerin' mines don't even exist."

"Joel–" you huff, but that's what he wanted out of you. A response, a reaction, a rise. He puts down his book to look over to you and he's at mercy to your gaze.

"I know what you mean."

It's supported, this comfortable silence. The underbelly of what was the start of a bloodied battle. Unwillingness metamorphosing into a budding bouquet of trust.

You both go back to your books.

No need to say what is right in front of you.

He knew what you meant. Understanding.

It was all you wanted.

taglist: @cool-iguana - comment to be added!

[otakween]

Digimon Frontier: Island of Lost Digimon

This was actually pretty fun! It wasn't the strongest Digimon movie by a long shot, but it was good as a Frontier side story. It was nice to see them revisit the whole "beast digimon vs. human digimon" conflict that they didn't do much with in the show. Also, I got to see my Digimon World 3 friends again! They were super cute.

Notes:

I enjoyed Izumi humming Funiculi Funicula in the intro to the movie. For a split second I thought it was Bolero and was about to throw hands lol.

What the HECK were they riding on in the opening? It wasn't really a Trailmon it was more like a Mike Wazowski themed rail cart. They, of course, never explained.

This movie's aesthetic was really weird. I don't know if it was necessarily higher quality animation. It kinda looked like they took the usual level of quality and put a "cinema" filter over it or something. Also some of the "shots" were weirdly cropped and almost blurry. IDK if that's just because there isn't a clean copy on the internet or if it was a stylistic choice. At least the characters are super on model, which is more than I can say for the show!

Speaking of animation quality, they were a little too obsessed with using CGI in this movie. It looked really bad and added nothing lol. Also, what was with the neon disco rave tanks? They felt extremely out of place.

Once again we get a lot of unnecessary focus on Izumi's butt...

So many new (or new-ish) background digimon! I kept being like "ooh, who's that?" I really liked the bunny-with-razors-for-ears design. It's funny how they debut new digimon in the movies and games, it almost feels like they're testing them out.

The original title is more like "The Revival of the Ancient Digimon." I can see why they would change that cuz it sort of feels like a big spoiler.

Kotemon and Bearmon were super cute. It was exciting to see their anime forms. They had really nice voices as well (in Japanese and English). Kinda wish I had watched this before DW3 instead of the other way around, whoops!

They used the exact same plot of "evil character encourages war to resurrect evil monster via the sacrifice of many" in the isekai series I'm Standing on a MIllion Lives. Makes me wonder how many fantasy series have used that. It must be a more common trope than I thought.

Why does this one digimon look like Impmon and My Melody had a baby?

The whole "beast vs. human" thing still feels silly when half of the "human" side doesn't actually look that human. I could totally see Dinohumon be considered a "beast" in a different series. (Maybe it's a metaphor for how racism is dumb and makes no logical sense).

The visual of digieggs flying and baby digimon being all over the place due to the ongoing war was interesting. I guess they couldn't go to the Village of Beginnings because the island is blocked off from the rest of the digital world?

One CGI scene literally looked like the 3D maze screensaver from Windows 98 lol

Kinda rolled my eyes when Bokomon said that Murmukusmon (what a mouthful) could turn into any digimon. What OP power will they think of next? Also, we only saw him digivolve into two digimon, so I'm not that impressed.

That final battle was pure chaos and I had a lot of trouble following wth was going on. I didn't know why AncientGreymon/AncientGarurumon were suddenly there so I googled it. Apparently it was due to "the power of Kotemon's sacrifice and Bearmon's tears"...riiiight. Shounen movie logic.

AncientGreymon looks amazing and AncientGarurumon looks..aight lol. I'm totally biased to prefer beast-like digimon

Kinda anticlimactic to have two "spirits" do the dirty work instead of our heroes, not gonna lie. Maybe if we had met AncientGreymon and AncientGarurumon before and had some level of emotional attachment to them it would have been more impactful.

The new mural with the Frontier MCs and Bearmon/Kotemon at the end was cute

[itsgrimeytime]

Magnolia in May (Part Seven) || Rick Grimes (TWD) x Greene!f!reader Regency AU

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...

Taglist: @loliakeoghan23 @belaballs

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration (in honor of Speak Now Taylor's Version): Enchanted by Taylor Swift.

Summary: Your town was small, not the smallest you knew, but anyone of high fortune was the gossip of the week. Predictably, Richard Grimes was a thing of whispers -rumors of a search for marriage among the grassy hills. You weren't one to buy into town gossip, but something about him... just seemed a little too intriguing.

TWS: kinda anti-Lori, misunderstandings, a marriage of convenience, and mentions of loneliness.

[[A/N: girllllll, not another Magnolia in May chapter!!! Whoops. And actually tagging bestie @imaginemyfavoritefics properly this time, bc I did use the idea of Daryl as the courier. Unrelated but this gif of him clenching his jaw... girl. Thanks for reading !! ]]

You'd taken to writing letters -the gentle swish of your quill was calming the storm of your mind. Originally, you had garnered a sort of cold from the walk in the rain and had to heal -now, you'd stayed holed up of your own accord.

'Nonsense, darling,' Headmistress had said, fluffing up your pillows, '-you must heal from a broken heart like any other wound.'

It was fewer letters and more of a sort of journal -only for your eyes to see but sometimes addressed to someone other than yourself. It started simply with one occasionally to Maggie to make her smile, or Beth to tell her things you'd learned so she wouldn't have to, or to remind Father to eat a meal when he'd been so focused on a patient that he'd neglect himself. But then, Mr. Grimes started appearing at the header.

You couldn't remember the first time it had happened, days rather blurred after that day -especially since you were treated shortly after. And rest was all you'd really gotten then, it made the passage of time blurry.

But it became something you were rather dependent on.

'Mr. Grimes,' you wrote in the first of its kind, quill rather fluid at this stage.

'I met your wife, Lori. She's a wonderful woman, kind and perfectly poised. I would, in a different life, maybe be friends with her -seems the type to be good company. Was it always her?

You've got something special, a family with beautiful children. It's every man's dream, is it not? You were my dream. I find it a bit hard to believe she would leave that dream behind. For what is more powerful than one's love for their child? I suppose there were other circumstances that I shall never be aware of. I would've liked to have known why. I understand it's a rather personal thing, but I should be urged to hear something of the full story. I might deserve it.

But I suppose you deserve a full family more. Carl and Judith do. I wouldn't fit in. I would love the best for them, despite not having known Carl, he seems a bright boy. Deserves much of the best in life, I'd garner all children do.

I often wonder if I am to have children. I suppose I could ask you for advice one day, if so. But there's something in me that speaks differently. Like that path with you is gone. Maybe I should run off to the city and write away, become focused on my education. Pay for my father's living, and house my sister's 'til they're wed.

I don't think I could, with good conscience, leave Alexandria. I'm far too fond of the people the town, its where I grew up. And I suppose, to keep my father's clinic running under the family name I may marry. I'm not too sure that I'd marry for love, per say. Can you begin the fall in love more than once? Is it possible? And furthermore, although it is something I wish for, I'm not sure that I would like to bring children into a loveless marriage.

This is getting far too detailed of my own troubles, and for that I apologize.

I truly wish your family well. Even if there's no room for me.

Yours Sincerely,

Y/N Greene'

It was a positive experience, mostly. The smearing on that letter particularly wasn't of cathartic tears. Not quite a release of the emotions dying so tightly within your soul, it was rather grief. Loss of a life that you'd never have. Despite it being the one you desperately wanted.

You sighed, stashing away the paper with the other ones -the second desk drawer to the right, under the math textbook that had been gathering dust even before you were born.

Sure, it messed your hands, but you found it was a small price to be paid for secrecy.

"Y/N, dearest," your Headmistress hummed -voice pounding up the stairs, "-get dressed and meet me at the door in 10, will you?"

"Yes, Headmistress," you echoed, off to your feet and only touching up ever-so-slightly by the mirror. And in your rush, maybe you had forgotten to shut the drawer -you couldn't know now. It stayed open, and the telling corner of dustless papers under a dusty book was certainly one to ponder over.

At least for someone, it was.

You wouldn't know what had occurred until a few weeks later, as you sorted out your joint closet with Maggie. Gathering bows and ribbons, and straightening dresses, was a wonderful way to pass time -since your newest book was seeming to be tucked away in the carriage. You truly could not find it anywhere-

And then, there was a knock at the door.

Now, normally, this was of no notice -either for Maggie (who had gone on frequent outings with Mr. Rhee since the ball) or Father (ranging anywhere from an old friend to an urgent patient). But this was one to put a pause in your mind.

Maggie was, in fact, out -you remembered the shimmer of the carriage as it pulled away, and Father was rushed off for an emergency. And even further, Headmistress and Beth had gone out to a sort of gathering -some sort of tea party, you'd assumed. (They'd invited you, but you'd truly not wished to hear the gossip. Especially not now.)

You stilled, you were alone here then.

Well, you considered -making your way down the steps, -could be a sort of delivery. Ms. Elisa did frequently speak with friends out of town -often through letters. And Father always had an extra copy of cases delivered to his home -so he could think properly on an issue.

Satisfied with that, you approached the door with newfound confidence -fear that had stubbornly stuck there was unfounded. You twisted a bit of fabric in your dress, just to do something with your hands before swinging open the door.

And, it was a familiar face. Not one you had a name to, but one you knew -the courier.

"Ms. Greene," he spoke, his voice gruff and tired, much less peppy than you'd seen him before, "-I assume?"

"Yes," you answered cautiously, "-I'm the eldest Ms. Greene, why? If you're looking for Maggie-"

"No," he answered, simply, long hair moving with the motion of his head, "-Mr. Grimes requested this be given to you, the eldest."

"I can't acce-" you started but fell shut as a letter was extended to you -two letters. One a familiar sort of coffee-tinged brown -paper old and weary, you could hardly believe the quill hadn't punctured right through really. And the other, neatly folded, a pristine sort of ivory, and dark ink that somehow didn't seem to smudge at all. On the side that was exposed to you was written: Ms. Y/N Greene, in handwriting you recognized.

The one that had scribbled across the invitation so long ago-

"Who are you?" you questioned -eagerly bringing the letters close to your chest, "-And how did you get my letter? Have you been in my home-"

"Ms. Greene," he spoke -composed and calm, unmoved by your pressing questions, "-they were presented to me to mail weeks ago."

You froze, something heavy dropping in your stomach, "They? How... How many letters were you given to post?"

"A stack, no more than 10," he responded, "-the youngest Ms. Greene, opened the door for me once to deliver an invitation. The same one I 'ave been for weeks- It ain't relevant, really. She knew where I came from, and requested I bring 'em to Mr. Grimes immediately."

You paused, "An invitation?"

"More like a summonin'," he clarified, rather poised but still somewhat a bit casual, "-it's always the same request for you, the eldest, to attend to the Grimes estate."

"What?"

He paused, "It's supposed to be brought to ya, upon retrieval but... I'd guess it hasn't."

"You've-" you exhaled -a deep uncertain exhale, "-Just how long have you been delivering these?"

"Lost count."

"And-" you stuttered, a bit overwhelmed, "-and the letters, my letters they-"

"I put 'em in his hand, myself," he spoke -an ordered sort of discipline heavy in his tone with a dose of familiar twang.

"Right," you swallowed -pushing down the nerves biting up your throat at such rampant pace, he was never to see those, "-and who are you exactly?"

"Grimes estate courier," he grumbled out, a some of bitterness gathered there.

"No, no," you quirked a brow at him, "-your name? I figured as much otherwise."

He answered, rather improperly -as if he was trained in some ways and ignorant in others just slightly, "-Daryl Dixon."

"Mr. Dixon," you echoed, a sort of curiosity in your tone, "-you said he received the full stack, did he not?"

He merely nodded.

"Well, why do I only have one, then?"

The man pondered it for a second, loosely eyeing the way you held the letters like he knew what they contained (maybe he did), "I suppose he ain't done replyin' to the others."

The rest of the interaction was fairly polite, mere questions about his work -to which he complained quite vividly about the extent of it, but never shred a wrong light on Mr. Grimes. You'd gathered they were well-acquainted, even perhaps friends from youth, but you couldn't exactly pinpoint it. He didn't say anything directly, and was rather quiet around details. Well, details pertaining to Mr. Grimes, you supposed.

You'd initially wanted to search for the invitations he spoke of, but something bigger was biting you.

Your hands were quick to rush to the drawer, pulling it open -to suddenly believe it was not real. To prove that all of this was a farce, that the letters were still safely kept. But, when you opened it, you could tell.

Even still, you pushed forward holding up the book, peering underneath. It was empty, extraordinarily empty.

"No, no, no-" you urged, heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach -heavy, "-it can't be..."

Private pieces of you, of your sadness, your longing- Sent to the married man of the header.

And just back as you pushed back in your chair, the brush of tears only a breath away -your eyes caught on the letter.

It was not yours.

Yours sat just beside it, you recognized it to be the first one -all sort of crumpled and agonizingly smudged. All conflicted feelings and harsh realities buzzing under your skin. You'd written it partially under the delirium of your illness, so it was rather brash but you'd never thought you'd need to worry about it. The only thing different was how it was presented.

You remember hastily shoving it away, between book covers, under table legs, hidden in the dirt of the garden, as you tried to find a good place to stash them. You'd always been so quick to put them away, to get out the feelings and move on-

Looking at it now, though, the worn paper was smoothed out (to the best it could be) and perfectly folded. Each corner matched to another and creases were indented lightly so as to not damage the written word. It was treated as precious. Something... Something he'd rather cared for.

Something told you then to get rid of it, to throw it onto the fire when no one was looking, to stash it away, to never read it no matter the cost because you were doing the right thing and should not be swayed-

But another part of you was dreadfully curious. And dreadfully grieving the loss of a man who still lived.

It was your mail, a letter addressed to you. Wouldn't it be rather rude to not read it? If you hadn't wished the first one to be mailed, you retorted, then no.

And yet, you found yourself picking up the note with the gentlest of graces. Carefully unfolding the thick paper, slowly, timidly, like the words would jump off the page. Like they could hurt you.

You supposed they could.

Once fully opened, you didn't directly focus on the words -instead, detailing the printed bits around the top edges. It looked as though this was an official sort of paper -the same kind an invitation may be extended to. As well as a family seal printed into the bottom right corner, it seemed a little formal for the occasion but you found it didn't bother you. Not really.

Taking a deep breath, you blinked your eyes -wishing to calm your heart, even just for a moment, and started reading.

'Ms. Greene,' it started, letters crisply written in a thin but precise sort of writing. Your finger naturally went to trace over them, dotting the i's and swirling the g's.

'I must first say that it's to my understanding that these letters are rather personal to you. You weren't the one who intended to mail them, I've come to know. I know that this then, by proxy, is a large invasion of your privacy.

And I can only hope you forgive me for such a thing. Because this is my sort of last resort to reach you. I'm sure you're familiar with the invitations that have flooded your door, and although, I understand the no response for what you know, I've become quite desperate.

To be completely clear, I was nearly on my horse to your home the morning these letters arrived. To explain everything as you deserve it to be explained.

I instead am here, writing letters. I cannot tell if that's any sort of better than my original plan was but it is the decision I chose.

In terms of Lori, the situation is rather complicated. Surely, at the young age we married, she was the plan. I'd honestly not given thought to the fact that she'd ever come back. I knew her reasons, and I fully doubted I'd ever see her again. And out of respect for you, I wish for the full story to be in person.

Despite all that, I truly wished she would. I know I did. If not only to see our children, to grace me with some sort of company.

I lived a rather lonely life before you Ms. Greene. Which may seem a bit arbitrary coming from a man with a staff, but it doesn't make it any less the truth. When she left, it was quite the scandal. I never spoke a word on it, too devastated to even imagine what to say. It meant much more reclusion, even from friends I knew from youth. And then, as I'm sure you're familiar, I decided to move back to Alexandria. Atlanta only harbored negative things, and I wished for someplace more pleasant. And it was, but still despite it all, the loneliness persisted.

So this family, this full family, you speak of, it's not what Lori and I would be. It wasn't what we were when we were married. I love my children, beyond belief, but I was still lonely. And I can't imagine a full family has a lonely father.

Frankly, Ms. Greene, I was lonely until that day in the marketplace.

And on the off chance you don't understand what I mean, I ask, from the depths of my heart, don't leave Alexandria.

Yours,

Richard Grimes'

[themissingnumbers]

Hello again fellas :) It's about that time again. Just a heads up, I don't think this is going to be super long like all of my other yap sessions. This is just me rambling about that one riddle that Carrion made. (And dang are they good at what they do-)

So, imma just be upfront and say it—I'm bad at riddles and I'm stumped. I've been thinking about it, trying to pick it apart little by little whenever I've had some quiet/free time and I've got nothing. WELL- actually saying I have nothing would be a lie. I don't have anything concrete, but I do have a feeling. It makes me feel a feeling that I can't really put into words. Like, I THINK that I get what it's trying to say, but I'm not sure. It's the mental equivalent of having really bad eyesight and squinting to read a sign across the street, thinking you know what it says but not being sure because it's too blurry. (If that makes any sense at all-)

However! I can tell you guys about the vibes I get from it and what I've got so far! (I'm probably reading this riddle all wrong, but here goes-)

Now, it's probably just my brain being weird, but I get like... Religious vibes from this stuff. Like- Murder(Slaughtered), Betrayal(Poisoned), and Sanctification(Enshrined) are all things that happened in the Bible I think. I also kinda get Book of the Dead vibes from it a little bit. Okay, lemme explain this.

For that "Remember the thirds, all that went wrong" part of it just really made me think of the Egyptian Soul. Now, I'm not the most experienced or well-versed in this subject, but I will try my best to explain it in a way that makes sense. The Egyptian Soul is made up of three parts: the Ka (the life force/essence separated from the body at death), the Ba (the personality of the departed), and the Akh (the Immortal Spirit, reserved only for the few that were deserving of Maat Kheru). Maa/Maat Kheru is a phrase meaning "True of voice" or "Justified." It is involved in ancient Egyptian afterlife beliefs, according to which the souls of the dead had to be judged morally righteous. Once the soul had passed the test, the Weighing of the Heart (which was deeply rooted in the Egyptian belief in immortality), they were judged to be Maat Kheru and were allowed into the afterlife. The phrase Maat Kheru was often used to denote a person who had died and become a god, and the Akh being the "transfigured spirit that survived death and mingled with gods." (God, I hope that all makes sense-) As for what went wrong: what didn't? Everything has gone bad for this man. He's been out of control since the moment he was born. He's not living—just alive. (On top of that, I'm pretty sure Arceus messed with this man's soul so, that too I guess-)

Anywho, uhhhh... this got long. Whoops- This entire thing could very much be me being too focused on the fact that at one point in the last Starry said that Fire could be seen as a Jesus Figure and be the source of heavy-handed metaphors, but I digress. Those are my thoughts for now. Hopefully, there's something good in there.

(Okay, I don't like to do this, but am I allowed to ask for a hint? Like, I'm usually against anything my brain considers a "freebie" but I am well and truly stuck on this. Hints have been allowed for other mysteries, but you didn't say if I could get hints for this one, so I just figured I'd ask. Alright, that's all. Have a good day/night y'all! :])

Referring to This Riddle

{Since it's my riddle, I don't mind clearing things up a little.}

{While I'm certainly a fan of the esoteric, I think you've gotten a little too narrow in trying to unravel it ^^}

{It's not a riddle with a specific answer, but rather serves as a sort of clue in the larger picture of things. I think to unwrap it properly, you just need to step back- Fire might be the focal point of the image, but as you pointed out in your previous analysis, there are others there too- both people, and objects.}

{All that to be said, your hint.} {The riddle is for the victims, not their executioner.}

[ducknotinarow]

@questionablemuses said: "Fuck you, jerk! You almost got me killed - AGAIN!" ( he angy. u-u FizzBlitz Whoops :'3 )

| muse interaction

Blitz heart was pounding hard in his chest, never matter how often he found himself in these kind of moments. But it never lessened the reactions his body gave. The way his blood seemed to be pulsing in hard against his ears. How his vision seemed to fade away in the moment. sometimes he couldn't explain it but his body just knew how to move. Maybe it came with being an imp, they said imps were made for things like fighting and such it why the chuckle fucks from wrath seemed to pride themself in how violent they could be compared to the other rings. That line of thought for some reason didn't seems like it should be his focus as he found his sight returning.

Coughing up something to clear out from his lungs, fuck his body ached he hardly recalled what just happened. His vision was blurry at best but slowly he was seeming to take in the sight of what was going on around him. Another shoot out he knew the remains of one from his job after all this time. His head was ringing with a sharp pain shooting out between his ears. He must been close to a gun slowly his mind was piecing everything together. As he tried to focus his eyes. Assuming he be seeing Moxxie and Millie here soon.

He wasn't on earth. He was in hell, the sight of other demons enough to tell him that. Fuck he really must gotten his shit handed to him if he. Eyes suddenly snapped open as he moved up to his feet he wasn't with Mox or Millie either! he was with Fizz! when everything happened. Fuck fuck "Fizz!" he yelled out suddenly in a panic. Where was he? Fuck that was the risk of taking Fizz out he had just as big a a target on his back as a fucking royal demon might. "fizz!" he yelled out lough moving to stand as he tried to recall what just happened right he told them to hide!

He looked around the area trying to recall where when seeing the lone car shit the trunk! he ran over and fussed with it a few times before getting it open to find a very pissed off Fizz there but he couldn't help the relief running through him.

"Fuck you, jerk! You almost got me killed - AGAIN!"

"What me?!" okay yeah it had been his fault but that seem unimportant in the moment "Excuse you pal!" Blitz states jabbing the jester with his finger "You were told not to go out this far but someone instited on it! Jeez no wonder that giant ass chicken you work with worries about you so damn much one step out into a bad area and you basically got creeps crawling out the wood work to find your fine ass!" Blitz shouts back "If it weren't for me you would be." The imp let his words die in his mouth before he tried to continue on his rant. Letting it all come out in nothing more than a sigh before he looked at Fizz.

"Yeah no your right my fault I just" He just what? even Blitz wasn't all to sure. Moving to warp his arms around them. "Sorry" Is all he can get out of his mouth in the moment. It was sort of his fault Fizz came out in the first place. He just kept screwing this up. He finally had a chance to have Fizz back in his life in whatever way that was? He just could bear to lose it so soon again.

[fearless-stormclaw]

To celebrate me starting the last chapter of the main part of the first book of my Owl House HP AU here are some sketches of some of the kiddos!

I might put colored versions of these drawings into the final draft.

(Fair warning, I do not claim to be an artist. Headshots are about the extent of my abilities.)

First up, our protaganist, 11-year-old Luz Noceda! She wears her hair in pigtails most of the time. The image on the right is a possible design of her with her hair down. (or a possible Vee, whose design I haven't fully pinned down yet) And I realized I forgot her scar whoops She's also supposed to have a scar across her left eyebrow which I forgot to draw but please imagine it's there.

Next up, 11-year old Amity Blight! Her little ponytail was an absolute pain to figure out how to draw. I think I managed it passably though. Her hair is dyed green, like it was in season 1 of the show.

12-year old Willow Park! Poor girl, she is haunted. Sorry, eyes are still a weakness. She's a year older than the others but still in the same grade because her birthday is after the first day of school. For Willow, this adds to her feeling of being behind everyone else.

9-year old Gus Porter! I should mention that the witches in this AU have normal round human ears, just like the wizards in the Harry Potter books. I imagine little Gus to have quite large ears that he will grow into some later. Again I apologize for the eyes.

11-year old Boscha Malphiday! I'm really pleased with how she turned out, although I struggled with her third eye and I'm still not 100% satisfied with how it turned out. Her surname in this AU is a play off of Malfoy--Malfoy comes from the French for "bad faith" (mal foi); Malphiday comes from "mal fidei", Latin for "bad faith".

13-year-old Hunter! He only appears as a cameo in the main storyline of Book 1, but he has a big part in one of the bonus epilogue chapters (which I haven't really written yet). In this timeline, he has only recently officially received his Golden Guard title. He hasn't gotten his cheek scar, ear notch, or eye bags yet (they will all come in due time) but he does have his tooth gap. He got that from getting his face punched in during training. I drew his Golden Guard uniform with only the one pauldron on his left shoulder as in the show, but I'm thinking of giving him a second one on his right shoulder like in the storyboards.

Meet 15-year-old Oliva Che'! She's one of my OCs. She's basically the Oliver Wood character--the captain of the Owl House grudgby team. She is a very spirited and gung-ho type and very enthusiastic about grudgby. She is in the construction track, although she is not a huge fan of the coven system. She's kind of a fun big sister to the younger Owl House students. She is of Yucateca Maya descent. She has brown or gold eyes. Her hair is naturally black but she dyes it a different color every year and usually keeps it in braids. This year it's pink. Unfortunately Paint did a weird thing when I cropped this picture and made her blurry I am so angry Her Palisman (not pictured) is a black spiny-tailed iguana named Toloc.

Meet 16-year-old Saka Katu! She is another OC. She is a cat demon girl and Oliva's girlfriend and also plays on the Owl House grudgby team (mostly because Oliva insists). She is in Potions track and believes deeply in the Coven system. She's a little uptight, some might call her bossy, and big into following the rules. She's kinda of a strict big sister type to the younger Owl House students. She keeps Oliva from being too reckless while Oliva keeps her from being too stiff. Saka is Malagasy for cat and Katu is Basque for cat so her name is literally "cat cat". She may or may not have a Palisman; if she does, it's some sort of fish.

Last but not least, 11-year-old William Myrtus Warthorne! His design is based off of Ser William from the audio tests/pilot. He is described as a handsome boy--broad-shouldered, with blond hair and blue eyes and a hooked nose which I swear I fixed but somehow it's still wrong ORZ. He is in Goat House and is friends with Boscha, but he doesn't participate in bullying (he doesn't do anything to stop it, though, he's just sort of there). He has a friendly, laidback personality and can get along with just about anyone. It's not discussed in this book (it's more of a plot point in book 2), but his family, the Warthornes, are a cadet branch of the Clawthornes which is why he has Clawthorne and Wittebane features.

[halfghostwriter]

(Saw a few posts about Giant!Danny, as well as this post by @blackfoxsposts , thought it’d be fun to create a disaster)

Danny, for the most part, thought he was handling being kidnapped by assassins (ninjas? Ninja assassins?) pretty well. Not sure why they took him, but hey, it’s not like it’s much worse than being kidnapped by Vlad. Maybe Vlad or one of his rogues decided to outsource for a change. The only thing he was really worried about was upsetting his new friend Damian, since they had agreed to meet today, but Danny missed the meeting time one account of being. Y’know. Kidnapped.

In his thoughts, he didn’t notice the fact he was being dragged towards a mysteriously ectoplasm-like pool until he was already eyebrow deep in it. In his panic, he wound up swallowing a massive amount of the liquid. As he was pulled back out, he started to feel… weird… a kinda nice weird, though… he licked his lips, savoring the delicious flavor of the pools… and flung himself backwards, out of the hands of the people pulling him out, and straight back into the flavor pit.

He got about three massive gulps in before he was pulled out again.

There were people talking around him, or maybe they were yelling— it was hard to hear over the sound of his own bubbly laughter. When he caught his breath, he did hear something that sounded like “why would you do that,” to which he responded

“Cuz it’s tashtyyy! And makesh me feel… makesh me feel weird… like good weird… kinda hot though… oh, wait, I can fiksh that!”

And Danny did just that, by turning into Phantom. Sure, his ghost half’s a little bit bigger, but this place is so open and airy, they must have people of this size all the time.

“Ta- *hic* -daaaaaaa!”

Oh wow, he never noticed how cute and small people look when he’s like this! Though, he probably wouldn’t have had the chance to notice. Lately he had only been transforming in the ghost zone, since he could use his powers just fine in his huma— oh. Right. Haha whoops, forgot about that. Ah well, he already transformed, and he liked how humans looked like this, he’s having too much fun to stop now. Wait, why are they running away?

“Hm? Wheresh you goin?”

He reached towards the one who had been taking the most earlier, only to have him slice Danny’s finger with something pointy, while screeching “STAY BACK, PIT DEMON!”

“Owwww…. why’d’ya do that for…? Thatsh was sho rude…” He poked the man in the chest with his claw, accidentally pushing him to the ground. Before he could retract his hand, he felt something small and sharp hit his cheek.

“Stand down. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Danny turned to his right, and saw… some sort of black blob… man, his vision was loopy…

“Well yeah, but he’sh, he’sh the one, who who shtabbed me, I wash jusht ashkin… a queshtion.” Danny leaned towards the black blob, squinting his eyes while trying to get a better look… he could sort of make out two pointy ears on top of it… maybe some sort of cape…? Just a bit closer….

“OW!”

Something stabbed his hand!

“Keep those fangs away from my father, demon!”

How rude! Sure, his teeth were big and razor sharp, and his skin was a blueish-green, and his claws were the length of an average person’s forearm, but that didn’t mean he was a demon!

“Thash sho meannnn—”

“Quiet! Where has Daniel been taken? What did you do with him?!”

“Huh..? Whad’ya mean, ‘m right…”

Wait a minute… that voice is… incredibly familiar….

“… oh! I geddit now!”

Danny reached for his blurry looking friend with his non-stabbed hand, gripping a little tighter than he meant to.

“Shorry f’r not comin, got ki’napped, we c’n hang now though! Not tied up an’more.”

He used his free hand to open up a portal to his room in the castle, and floated through, his friend safely in his hand. He thinks his friend said something to him, but…

“Shorry, wha wazzat? Ish kinda hard to… to…”

Danny’s jaw unhinged as he yawned, and his body began to feel heavy.

“Shorry, I’m… kinda shleepy…”

He managed to get his upper half fully onto the bed before passing out.

A few hours later, he woke up with a migraine, a strong sense of debilitating shape, and a shockingly composed Robin standing a few feet from his face.

Well.

Shit.

“So. Daniel. Care to explain?”

… yeah Danny fucked up.

[arc-misadventures]

Could you make some angst related to your last jaune x pyrrha post? Somethink like this maybe: Jaune has a talk with his team and rwby and maybe the say that they are his friends but he counters with his describtion of them from previous post. What them and him would do is up to you. But jaune could either leave to be solo hunter or stay because pyrrha would want that or something

A sequel to, A Friend? And a request for some angst at that; brave or foolish fellow aren’t you? Well, since this is my first ask, i feel obligated to do so. Do enjoy.

///

Friend’s II

Ruby: Hey, Jaune!

Jaune: Oh hey, Ruby. Need something?

Ruby: I wanted to ask why you never showed up!

Jaune: Showed up for what?

Ruby: We all went out to eat dinner yesterday, why didn’t you show up?

Jaune: Cause no one told me?

Ruby: What, impossible! Yang told you… right…?

Jaune: Did I show up?

Ruby: N-No… give me a moment! Yang… Yang!

Yang: Hey, Rubes! Oh, hey Jaune, what’s up?

Ruby: Did you forget to invite Jaune to dinner yesterday?

Yang: I thought Blake was supposed to invite him?

Ruby: What?! I thought it was you?!

Yang: No, pretty sure it was Blake… One moment… Hey Blakey! Come over here!

Blake: You need something?

Ruby: Did you forget to invite Jaune to dinner yesterday?!

Blake: What, I thought that was, Weiss’s job to do?

Yang: What?! Weiss! Weiss get your little butt over here!

Weiss: Yang! Stop making such uncouth comments about my…! Oh hi, Jaune. Where were you yesterday, you didn’t show up for dinner?

Jaune: Lost in a game of telephone, it appears…

Weiss: Beg pardon?

Jaune: Ruby says Yang was supposed to invite me, who says Blake was supposed to invite me, who says you were supposed to invite me. To which I guess, you thought Ruby was supposed to invite me?

Weiss: N-No… I thought you already knew…

Jaune: Well, I never showed up in the first place, so, does it appear that I knew anything?

Ruby: … Sorry…

Jaune: Haa… why did you even need to tell me in person? You’ve got my scroll number, Ruby, why not just text me?

Ruby: Uhh… I just forgot…?

Jaune: You… forgot… Well that’s just typical…

Yang: To be fair, Jaune, I forgot I could have texted you as well, sorry…

Jaune: Wait, hold up! You have my number?

Yang: Yeah I do, didn’t you know?

Jaune: How was I supposed to know? You’ve never called or texted me before about anything.

Yang: Whoops…

Jaune: Yeah, ‘whoops…’

Weiss: We need to work on our communication skills…

Blake: Ya think?

Yang: Don’t worry, we can fix this, right Team RWBY!

Ruby: We won’t ever leave a friend behind!

RWBY: Yeah!

Ruby: Don’t worry, Jaune! We’ll fix this, just you wait!

Jaune: Ruby… do honestly think we’re friends? Any of us for that matter?

Ruby: What are you talking about, of course we’re friends!

Jaune: I don’t think so.

Yang: Hold up, you don’t think we’re friends?

Jaune: No, I do not.

Weiss: W-What?! Where is this coming from?!

Jaune: Other than when we’re working, when have any of you ever spoken to me? Have you ever come to me just hang out, not ask for my help with something. Never even say hello?!

Ruby: W-Well… uhh…

Yang: That’s not true! We are you friend, Jaune!

Jaune: Really? Am I really Jaune, or am I, ‘Vomit Boy’ to you? Cause, you’ve rarely called me by my name before, always by a damn nickname!

Yang: That’s not true!

Jaune: Not entirely, you often call me, ‘Lover Boy’ as well. I don’t consider those names affectionately, Yang. Since everytime you’ve called me by one, is some sort of demeaning manner.

Yang: I was just teasing you, I wasn’t bullying you!

Jaune: I’ve had 16 years of dealing with seven sisters constantly ‘teasing’ me, Yang. The line between teasing and bullying is very thin and very blurry.

Ruby: J-Jaune, calm down, it’s just a nickname.

Jaune: A nickname that you gave me! I throw up once and its Vomit Boy for life. And don’t you say that’s not true! I know you have me as, Vomit Boy under your list of contacts!

Ruby: Eep!

Blake: Least I never called you that…

Jaune: Blake, have we ever spoken, just the two of us, one on one? Because as far as I remember, there’s always been someone else with us. Even then we barely talk; I bet you don’t even know my name, I’m just ‘Blond Human # 2, to you, aren’t I?

Blake: That’s not true and you know it!

Jaune I just argued against it! Do you even listen to me?!

Yang: Shut up; you’re making it worse!

Weiss: Jaune… what about me? How do you think I see you…

Jaune: Are you sure you want to know?

Weiss: Tell me.

Jaune: Ha… I think you don’t like me, or don’t care about me… I understand why you wouldn’t… after every thing that I did to you at Beacon… I can under why you’d not like me… It’s just… ‘Tall, blond, and scraggly…’

Weiss: That throw away line I called you before we first met…?

Jaune: Yeah… I honestly thought that was a compliment… Looking back I now realize it was anything but a compliment. It was just… I felt like you might like me and because of that, I thought I had a chance. A chance to have something, something more than what I had, nothing… And all I had was snowflakes chance in hell; You being the Snowflake, and my life being hell…

Weiss: Jaune… Jaune I’m so…!

Jaune: Don’t! Don’t apologize, Weiss… I don’t deserve it, nor want it…

Ruby: Jaune… Why didn’t you tell us this! We could have… We could have done something!

Jaune: But would have you done it because you wanted to, or because you felt like you had to?

Ruby: …

Jaune: Yeah… that’s what I thought too…

Yang: If…! If you thought about all of that, then why! Why are you still here! Why not leave and go where ever you damn well please!

Blake: Yang, calm down!

Jaune: Let her have it, Blake. It’s understandable for her, or the rest of you to be mad… As for why I’m still here… I’m here for two reasons.

Weiss: Those being?

Jaune: Ren and Nora; I’m still they’re team leader, and I’m here for them. Even if they’re not here for me. Feels like I lost them, they’re too caught up in their own little world to…

Ruby: And the other reason?

Jaune: Cinder, I’m here for, Cinder. I want that bitch in the ground for everything she’s done… even if I die in the process, so long as she’s dead, I’m content with that…

Ruby: You want to die?!

Weiss: Jaune, do you even hear yourself?!

Jaune: Of course I do, no one else seems to.

Yang: But… but that’s crazy?!

Jaune: I know… I’m just tired, tired of everything, I just want to leave this world behind and forget it all. Besides, maybe I’ll get to see her again if I do…

Ruby: Jaune… no… please no…

Jaune: Can’t do that, Ruby… I can’t do it for myself, what makes I can stop it, even for you…

Ruby: Jaune… I always thought… I will always think that we are friends! Always!

Jaune: It’s a pity then, Ruby, because I can’t feel the same way… I’ll… I’ll be going, maybe I’ll see you all later…

Ruby: No… no, no, no…

Blake: Am I really a bad friend…?

Yang: Do you really want me to answer that?

Weiss: Give me Jaune’s number.

Yang: What?

Weiss: Give me Jaune’s scroll number!

Yang: Why?

Weiss: He saved my life… now its my turn to save his!

Ruby: No, now its our turn to save him!

Yang: Ruby, you know this is the reason he never told us, so we didn’t feel like we had to do something.

Blake: I know, be we want to do this.

Ruby: Even if we never showed him, he is our friend! You in Yang?!

Yang: Ha… Hell yes I am!

Ruby: Alright then, lets get Ren and Nora and tell Jaune how much of a great friend he is! You ready team, RWBY!

WBY: Yeah!

Ruby: Then lets get going!

///

Okay… this got rather long. But it felt right to do so.

Feel free to ask me questions! But don’t expect something this big again every time. Because it takes too long to colour code everything…

Do enjoy!

[woahajimes]

Have you ever wondered how Damian would handle an instagram account? 

For starters, Damian doesn’t even know he has an instagram account. It’s until Bruce answers a question at an interview that Damian finds out he has an instagram account. Bruce had created it for him, for god-knows-what reason. Yet Damian has to act like he has known all along, that he has an instagram account. 

Once Bruce gets him settled into a username that very literally is just Damian’s name as the son of the billionaire, Damian does absolutely nothing. He doesn’t follow anyone, he doesn’t post anything. He doesn’t even  have a profile picture. For all everyone knows, Bruce Wayne could have lied and that account is just some rando’s. 

And months pass, Damian’s account is the literal same every single day, and trust me, people have checked. Damian couldn’t actually care less about his instagram account, the only reason he hasn’t deleted the app completely is because he rarely even uses his phone. He just carries it around in his pocket when he’s out as Damian Wayne. 

It’s almost a year, and Damian is out with Dick, they’re getting lunch or something. Dick has ordered a burger, Damian stuck with a veggie option. And they’re about to start eating and Dick takes out his phone, snaps a picture. 

“What are you doing?” Damian asks him. 

Dick stares at Damian. “It’s for my instagram story.” And then he starts typing some caption or something. 

And even though I, op, don’t have younger brothers, I do have a younger sister and I can tell you that little siblings copy like, everything you do. And I know we’re talking about Damian, but still. Damian took his phone out and he snapped a picture, Dick in the shot as well. He posted it in his story, he didn’t put a caption. 

And then later that day, Damian remembered that he hadn’t saved that picture he took. So he opened the instagram app and he saw a little circle around his empty profile picture. He decided that he liked it. It went from purple to pink to orange to yellow to orange to pink and back to purple. 

So this became a routine of his, after all, it would cost him next to nothing. To take a picture and post it on his story. It would keep the little ring around his profile picture. And he’d get replies to his stories and he’d get tagged in pictures and he’d get thousands of followers and he’d get tagged in comments and new requests and all those things that famous accounts get. 

And it’s not like the pictures ever made sense. The first week they were things like the cover of his sketchbook, or this plant he found in the garden. Maybe it was the map on his wall, or alfred the cat and titus. He wouldn’t even take time with these pictures. He’d just remember every day about the little circle around his default profile picture and he’d grab his phone, and  he’d take a picture of the nearest thing he could find. He never bothered to write a caption, nor put a song, anything. 

And as time passes, the logic of the pictures becomes blurry. Why would the heir of the richest man in gotham post a picture of a crack on the pavement? 

But sometimes, people doubt that Damian even takes these pictures. Because sometimes they’re pictures of gotham at night, when the sky is pitch black, starless. And this one time, Damian is out on patrol, the sun is rising, he still hasn’t gone home. The sky reminds Damian of the little ring around his profile picture. So Damian sets his phone to record automatically and so it records towards the sunset. And because Damian would place himself against the light, the figure would look pitch black, a plain shadow against the sunset. So Damian sets his phone and he takes his cape off, he has his grappling hook, but he’ll use it once he’s out of the camera shot. And then he gets the video going (his phone is leaning on a plant pot, there’s another building that ends nearly as the camera shot begins. So Damian swings from where he set his phone, to the other building, and he just. 

Jumps. 

He’s jumping headfirst and he’s whooping loudly, laughing almost. He’s done this so many times yet something is just nicer. 

it was awesome. 

And he posts the video, but silences it. Nobody can see Damian’s uniform, nor his mask. For all they know, Damian hired someone to jump, or maybe he even threw a mannequin or something.  

That was the only video Damian posted on his story. The rest, every other day, theRE were just pictures. 

We skip time a bit more and Damian was with Jon, when he still lived in hamilton. They were by the tree they were always at, and Damian was taking a picture of the bark of the tree. Because bark. 

And Jon just stares at Damian. “What the h are you doing?” 

Damian shrugs. "Just taking a picture.”

Jon snatches the phone from him. They’re close enough friends. He goes to the camera and holds the phone up straight, he sets it to the front camera.

“My mom does this all the time,” he says. “She calls them selfies.” 

Jon snaps a picture. Then he checks it. He’s smiling, Damian is not. “You’re so lame! Did nobody ever teach you how to smile?” 

Jon snaps a second picture, Damian’s still not smiling. Third picture, Damian’s expression moves a bit, but it's just him rolling his eyes. 

“Come on, Damian! SMILE!” Jon takes another picture, he checks it. Damian’s smiling dramatically, he looks like Jon looks in family pictures he doesn’t want to take. He’s not smiling with his teeth, his eyes are practically closed, his nose is scrunched up. If anything, he looks more disgusted than happy. “Ugh, we’ll just try another day, i guess.” 

This became a sort of routine. Every day they saw each other as civilians, Jon would take a selfie with Damian. Sometimes he smiled, if he was in the right mood. It didn’t really matter, Damian never posted those pictures on his story. 

Now we take Damian’s fourteenth birthday. This, Damian decides, is a much better way to spend his birthday than the last one. Bruce isn’t there, but his brothers are, his best friends also are. Alfred and Jon, Dick, Tim, and Jason. They’re eating strawberry cake, with the ‘happy 14th!’ in pink frosting and everything. It is now his first option, thanks to Alfred.

Anyways, they’re slicing the cake, Damian just blew out the candles. Jon takes his phone out, the one he got when he turned eleven. He doesn’t have an instagram account, Lois wouldn’t let him, but Jon still takes a picture of everything. 

Alfred asks Damian for his phone, so he can take a picture. Damian shakes his head, yet he takes out his phone. He’s at the head of the table, he puts his phone on the front camera. He hands it to Alfred. 

“Jon likes to call them ‘selfies’,” Damian explained. He showed Alfred. “Here, you take them like this.” 

Damian took his phone back from Alfred, he stretched his arm with the phone. He called out Tim’s name, and all of them looked up. 

“Smile!” Damian snapped a picture, he grinned. He looked at the picture, he liked it. Alfred was grinning, like in that picture in which he’s with Bruce when he was little, and they’re both laughing at something.

Damian decided that this picture was too nice for it to go on his 24-hour ring. Besides, he had already put a picture of Jason helping prepare the frosting. He didn't need two stories in the same day. 

So he drafts the post, and there’s the option to edit the image, but Damian skips it. It’s nice as it is.

He posts it, he doesn’t write a caption.

taglist: @hauntingsonofrobin @bikoncon @catxsnow @screennamealreadyused @thesporklecat @thesesickfics-justmakemesick andd i think i got it all idk 

[maple-tales]

Hi there! If you're still taking requests could I request Laventon and the reader sneaking away from the festival at the end of the game to dance alone in his office?

(So cute, I love this! Also this may have...gotten a bit long. Whoops)

The festival is wonderful. The village has never been so lively, with so many people from so many different walks of life mingling together, lights on every street corner, music echoing through the night air, and the delicious smells of every kind of food you can think of wafting on the breeze. Even the most serious people you’ve ever laid eyes on are smiling.

Wonderful or not, after a while it all becomes a bit much. You’ve lost track of Laventon somewhere through the course of the night. It should be easy to pinpoint his bright purple hat in the crowd, but try as you might, you don’t see him anywhere. Just as you’re about to enter the sea of people in search for the professor, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

“Lav! There you are,” you say, a relieved smile spreading across your face.

“Here I am! My apologies, Tao Hua started talking with me and I couldn’t find an opportunity to excuse myself,” Laventon says. “Not without offending him, anyhow.”

“Anything could offend him,” you respond dryly. You can barely hear Laventon chuckle above the noise of the festival, but it still makes you smile. “I don’t know about you, but I need a break from all of this.”

“Right this way then, my dear.”

Laventon takes your hand, and the two of you traverse the crowd, making for the Galaxy Hall. You manage to duck past anyone who would drag you into conversation or one of the festival games, much to your relief. The sound of the festival fades into a dull roar once the doors to the hall close behind you, growing quieter still as you enter the laboratory. You heave a grateful sigh and plop down onto the nearest chair.

“What a night!” Laventon sighs, tugging off his hat and tossing it onto his desk, adding to the mess. “You may not believe this, but I think I witnessed the captain laugh!”

“Cyllene?” you gasp. “Never.”

Laventon laughs, and your chest fills with warmth. You stand from the chair and hug him close, sighing. He returns the embrace, the fingers of one hand combing through your hair. You stand like that for a long moment, simply enjoying one another’s presence. It’s been too long since you’ve gotten to be alone with him; in between checking for damage to the highlands resulting from the Temple of Sinnoh blowing to pieces and helping plan for the festival over the past week, you’ve both been extraordinarily busy.

“I’ve missed you,” Laventon murmurs, as if reading your thoughts.

“I’ve missed you too,” you say. You run your hands through his hair, smoothing it where it’s been rumpled by his hat, and interlace your fingers behind his neck. He smiles at you, his hands on the small of your back, arms wrapped around your waist.

A memory, or an echo of one, flickers across your mind. You remember holding someone else like this, but their face is blurry. Music that sounds like it’s being played underwater reaches your ears, and you’re vaguely aware of several other pairs of people surrounding you, all in the same position, gently swaying back and forth. You’re brought back to the present by Laventon calling your name.

“Sorry,” you mumble, feeling a bit dazed. “I just remembered something.”

“Oh?” You’re sure that if you weren’t holding each other, and if he didn’t sound so concerned, Laventon would be furiously scribbling everything you’re about to say down in a notebook. “What was it?”

“Some sort of party, I think,” you say. “There was music playing, and everyone was dancing. Like this.” You take half a step closer and shift your weight from one foot to the other, ignoring the fast tempo of the music from outside that you can feel more than hear.

“I see,” Laventon says with a nod. “Now, I’m no expert when it comes to dancing. Far from it, I should say! But this doesn’t seem like much of a dance.”

“It was more about the person you were dancing with, I think. The songs were always slow, and it was always couples.” You shrug, offering him a small smile. “It’s nice, don’t you think?”

“I do indeed,” Laventon agrees softly, his eyes warm. He kisses you softly before pulling you closer. You close your eyes as you rest your head on his shoulder with a small, content sigh, slowly dancing together in the lab.

[nzn43]

AU named: Blinded Fear

So you saw those post with the color gang without one of their eyes or no eyes at all. Well I figure it out. I call this au the Blinded Fear. warning: has the mention of injections and eye being gone.

To elaborate further, the color gang was once put into this test. Though this test drove some of them into insanity, not complete insanity but more like they want the fear to stop. They see fear through their eyes as that's the only thing that makes the vision of Fear. Soon enough, the fear gets too much that they would rip apart their eye. (Whichever eye is infected) Yellow was able to withstand the fear but in doing so, his illness worsen which blinded him. Green was sort of able to withstand the fear, he was given an antidote but left his vision very blurry, Glasses don't really work on him so then he'll have to go off of colors. Second knew exactly what was going on, the first one to notice and completely got rid of his infected eye before breaking out to find the others and while doing so hear about the antidote. Blue actually never got the infected fear, when the injection was happening, they seem to hehe whoops and blinded him on accident. Red was able to get rid of the fear completely but it has consequences as then his eyes got very sensitive to the light. That injury Red got was actually from Second.

What about the King duo? Well, King in the Au was born blind and was guided in the laptop, learning stuff by feels and braille with his creator. King wanted some sort of fun so his creator helped him get into minecraft. Then Purple came and said: yeah lemme borrow this guy.

[rowan-underthehouse]

Riverbank

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Word Count: 1,486

Additional Tags: Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension

Summary:

After his encounter with Zachariah, Dean is on his way to team back up with Sam, but he’s not quite ready to let go of the relief of hunting with Cas. At least, not without one last night to enjoy himself.

Read it on Ao3 here

Dean is drunk. Not piano-man-at-the-karaoke-bar drunk, but warm, fuzzy, anything-is-possible, still-mostly-functional drunk. Maybe that’s what tugs him toward the river, dropping his jacket and overshirt in a heap as he goes and stretching up toward the moonlight.

“There’s nothing here, Cas, not even an urban legend,” he calls back to the car where Cas stands, stoic and awkward as always. “Come on, man, I’m baking out here.”

Castiel, for his part, seems unbothered by the heat that’s making Dean wish he could crawl into an industrial freezer for a few hours. He squints at Dean, his clothes in the grass, and the river behind him, apparently realizing his intentions.

Dean assumes angels can swim. Maybe the wings help. Like a duck or a pigeon or something. His brain is too blurry to care.

“Dean…There isn’t time for this. God is still nowhere to be-”

He doesn't fully realize he's moving back toward Cas until he has an arm loosely slung around the angel’s shoulder, urging him toward the water.

“World’s ending. May as well bang a few gongs on the way out. Think you're onto something there.”

“I’ve never said that”

Dean pats him on the chest, letting his hand linger a few seconds too long as he swings around to face him. He slides his hands back to shuck the overcoat from Cas’ shoulders, watching with a muted smirk as it hits the ground.

“You will. In a few years.”

“Dean, what did Zachariah show-”

“It doesn't matter. It hasn't changed anything,” Dean cuts him off again, nudging the suit jacket from his shoulders. “Now, come on.”

Of course Cas knows he’s lying. It’s changed everything. Even though his plan to say no to Michael is still concrete, it all feels different now. Palpable. Unavoidable. It’ll eat Dean up if he lets it.

Dean’s focused on undoing that familiar old blue tie when he feels Cas’ gaze searching his face. For a split second, he wonders if he’s gone too far; taken the threads of friendship that are only just starting to come together and pulled until they snapped. That’s when Cas meets his eyes.

He’s grinning.

Castiel is honest-to-god grinning.

He’s got one of those smiles that takes up his whole face, making his eyes all squinty and digging itself into Dean’s heart to root there. It’s fucking contagious.

“What?” Dean feels a smile start to tug at the corners of his own lips.

“It’s good to see you like this, Dean. Unrestrained.” Cas pulls his tie the rest of the way off in a single fluid motion that drops Dean’s stomach right out of his body. It’s not an unpleasent feeling, and certainly not new when it comes to Cas and his fucking cosmic powers, but it’s harder to ignore now.

“That would be the booze.”

“No.” There’s that grin again. “It isn’t.”

“I’m doing something for me for once. Not worrying about Sam. Gonna enjoy that as long as I can.”

It’s not the truth, not the whole truth, anyway. Neither of them push the subject.

Dean gives himself to the count of three to memorize the scene in front of him. Cas, relaxed and happy in the heavy evening air, a fair few paces south from sober himself. Maybe in another life every night would look like this. It’s not worth dwelling on.

“Come on. Get in.” Dean kicks off his boots and unceremoniously drops into the water. Cas isn’t far behind, looking uncharacteristically peaceful as the water soaks into his slacks. A very intentionally aimed splash hits the front of his shirt, and Dean flashes him a mischievous little smirk, flopping backward into the water.

It’s fucking frigid, much colder than should be possible given the fry-an-egg-on-the-asphalt kind of heat just above the surface. It rushes in Dean’s ears, pounds in his heart, crushing and uncontrolled, but hell if he doesn't feel alive. He comes up for air 50 feet down the river, where the current slows just enough for him to find purchase on the rocks below, beaming as water pours off the tips of his fingers. He lets out a whoop into the night air.

“You coming?” he yells, not knowing if his voice carried far enough until Cas’ shoulders drop below the water.

He's more restrained than Dean was, his shock of black hair never dipping completely below the water, watching the trees whip past him. Dean has to catch him by the arm to keep him from missing the shallow part entirely.

As soon as Cas gets his footing, Dean is lost. There's something about the way Cas shoves his wet hair out of his eyes, the way his now untucked shirt billows around him in the water, it's so irrevocably human, and somehow everything but.

Dean stumbles forward, flinging his arms around Cas’ neck. He's planning to make some dumb joke, he really is, but Cas is panting, his eyes almost glowing in the moonlight, and damn, it makes Dean a little weak at the knees. The joke dies on his tongue.

He's high on the air passing between them. Downright fucking giddy. Dean presses forward, closing the gap until it's not much more than a hair's breadth.

“You’re….you’re really something, Cas.”

One hand comes up to play with the dripping collar of Cas’ shirt, and he leans into it like he’s desperate. It might just be the most powerful Dean has ever felt, this tiny moment waist deep in a river.

All he’d have to do is lose his balance, give an inch to the pull of the current and his body would be against Castiel’s. He wouldn’t even have to take the leap himself. Instead, Dean’s fingers ghost along Cas’ collarbone, the side of his neck, coming to rest against the sharp curve of his jaw. It sends a full body shiver through Cas.

Dean meets his eyes, searching for some kind of clue, a hint about what the hell is happening. It’s clear as the water rushing around their legs.

He tries to tether down his racing heart and settles his other hand on Cas’ hip. Dean feels Cas’ calloused hands moving to his waist before he sees them, sparks of electricity flying across his ribcage. He loses his focus, digging his thumb into Cas’s hip so hard it’ll definitely leave a bruise. Cas doesn’t flinch, his eyes flicking to Dean’s lips.

“Cas-“

The phone in Dean’s jacket pocket rings, the sound of it somehow floating above the current. The half-minute before it goes to voicemail passes agonizingly slow. Once his eyes leave Cas’, Dean finds he can’t force them back again. He feels his cheeks flush a deep, embarrassed, red.

The phone rings again.

Dean lets it go to voicemail.

It rings again.

“Bobby… dammit.” Dean wades to the edge of the river and hauls himself onto the bank, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

He’s only distantly aware of his own conversation, of his vague explanation about Zachariah and the plan to meet up with Sam in the morning. He’s pretty sure he agrees to start looking into a hunt early the next morning, a way for him and Sam to get back in the saddle. He only half listens to what it is. Bobby will email the articles if it’s important enough for three phone calls. His eyes flick back to Cas over and over, still waist deep in the water, looking more awkward by the second.

“Are you listening to a word I’ve said?” Bobby’s voice comes through the receiver, startling Dean out of his fog.

“Yeah, uh, I’ll call you right back.”

Cas has pulled himself to shore by the time the call disconnects, gaze lost in the stars. Dean can’t help but wonder how intimately he knows each one. If he was there when they were formed.

It’s easy to forget sometimes, looking at him in his dirty overcoat, exactly what Castiel is: ancient, powerful, unknowable. It hits Dean all at once like a brick straight to the chest. Whatever this thing between them is, whatever he thought Cas was feeling, it was just a trick of the moonlight. Moonlight does that. It plays tricks on people. And Dean isn’t about to be played for a fool. No angel of the lord would waste their time on some burnt out, used up, hunter. As soon as they sort all this apocalypse crap out, Cas will leave, just like everyone else. Dean is sure of it.

Cas offers Dean a small smile, waiting for him to come forward.

Dean hesitates.

He knows the moment Cas notices, his face shifting to shame. “I should go. I have work to do.”

“Cas wait-“

He’s gone before Dean can take another step, and Dean is left alone, with nothing but the rushing river and the tiny hope that whatever happened between them wasn’t all in his head.

[karlnapity]

everyone that’s so close to me.

tws: panic attack, minor self-injury (hitting)

he isn’t sure where he is, at first. his vision is blurry, black spots dancing at the edges of his view. as he comes to, he’s able to tell he’s sitting cross-legged on a wool floor. his hands curl in the soft cloth of the hoodie he’s wearing, and he focuses on messing with it with shaking hands. 

he’s sitting in what seems to be a small library, a dark room covered with books on every spare surface, piled on tables and open in stands. he grabs the nearest one, opens it. his vision makes it hard to focus on the words, and his brain is so fuzzy he can barely understand what he’s reading, but after a few moments he can make out a few words:

don’t forget who you are.

anger flares deep in his chest. great, super fucking useful. before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s tearing the page in half, then in more and more pieces until there’s tiny scraps strewn across his lap.

he sits back as his vision swims, leaning against one of the bookcases. he wonders if he wrote the note himself, wonders what he’s doing here, where here even is. 

he takes another book off a pile. the same thing, the same note. he falls into a sort of rhythm: read, rip, repeat. he leaves the few that look important. his brain isn’t able to work out more than “mizu,” but he knows enough to leave it be. he finds scribbling in a few books and destroys those too.

he’s not sure how long he continues tearing, frustration the only thing on his addled brain, but soon enough he’s sitting in a pile of fucked up confetti. 

he hears voices somewhere up above, but he can’t quite get himself to focus, and he’s far too tired to even consider standing. he leans back again, closes his eyes, lets his thoughts drift. 

the voices grow closer until he can’t ignore them anymore. 

“what the fuck is this?” one of them asks. they sound like they’re underwater.

“some kinda secret room?” the other offers. there’s the creak of a door, then the first one swears, loudly. his head hurts.

“karl?” 

he ignores them, keeps his eyes closed. they must be talking to someone else. the other one repeats the name.

“karl!” someone shakes his shoulder, and he jumps back. he blinks his eyes open, and pulls back.

there’s two people in front of him. the one who touched his shoulder is dressed in a beanie and some sort of tracksuit, his hand still outstretched. the other stands behind him, black hair tied back with a headband. he’s the one who speaks.

“are you ok, babe?”

his head swims. what’s happening? what is happening?

he shakes his head, stares at the mess around him, stares at the two strangers. he pulls his hands close to himself, fiddles in the hoodie in a nervous gesture. shakes his head again.

the one in the beanie crouches next to him, reaches out a hand, and he takes it, hesitantly. the other is quick to sit on his other side, rest a hand on his leg. 

“karl, baby, what’s wrong?”

he opens and closes his mouth a couple times, finding himself unable to talk. he’s not even sure he remembers how. 

“don’t want to talk?” headband asks, and he’s so grateful. he nods, hesitantly. 

“the fuck is this room?” beanie muses, looking around. his leg bounces, and it’s clear he wants to stand and explore, but he’s still holding his hand. 

headband takes that as his cue and stands, looking around. he starts to read the names of the books around the room. his voice lulls him into a sort of relaxation as he makes comments and cracks half-assed jokes about what he’s reading. beanie squeezes his hand and leans into his side, and he doesn’t pull away this time. 

headband and beanie say a few more things, but he’s tired, confused, and he can’t quite make sense of what they’re saying. beanie pulls away from him and he almost falls over, but soon enough they each have a hand and are pulling him to his feet. he stumbles a bit, and he’s so, so tired he almost collapses against headband’s side, but they catch him and help him steady himself. 

they lead him upstairs, painstakingly but so patient. he curls in bed as soon as they lay him down. he can hear them whispering outside the room but he doesn’t care, passing out almost immediately. he’s too tired to do anything else, bits of ripped up paper still clinging to his hoodie.

>

he wakes slowly, painfully. his head still pounds, and as he sits up his vision is still blurry. he needs to go. he needs to go somewhere.

he stumbles out of bed, almost cracking his head on the wall as he wavers on his feet. he braces himself as he makes his way down the hallway. his feet know the layout of the house even if his brain doesn’t, and soon enough he finds himself in the kitchen.

headband is standing there, and he turns as he hears karl. when he catches sight of him, his face both brightens and falls in some sort of paradox, but he lets him help him to the sofa all the same.

“how are you feeling?” his face is so gentle, and he reaches out a hand to cup his face. 

he feels bad pushing him away but he still doesn’t know what’s happening.

and he can’t help it. that’s it. he’s tired, and he’s confused, and he doesn’t know these people, and he doesn’t know why they’re touching him and he doesn’t know why he trusts them and he doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t know when he is, and he doesn’t know why that’s even a question.

and he starts to cry. 

it starts out quiet, just small hiccups as the other, the stranger, pulls him into a hug, but soon enough it devolves into full-on sobs and wails. the other man must come in because he hears talking and soon enough there’s another set of arms around him.

he wants to pull away, he doesn’t know these people, he doesn’t know what’s going on, his brain isn’t fucking working, he can’t do this, he can’t-

he pulls a hand free from their hugs and knocks the palm of his hand against his temple, hard.

the others exclaim, cup his hands in theirs, and he lets out a few noises of frustration, and he finds his voice.

“stop!” he shouts, and he’s not even sure what or who he’s saying it to, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop repeating it, and he’s just shouting.

the others let him, and he’s pretty sure beanie even lets out a celebratory whoop, encouraging him, ironic as it might be. 

eventually he quiets, and they’re still holding him, and he’s grateful. he falls back into their embrace. headband lets him go, ruffles his hair. his smile is sad as he pretends everything is normal, as he says, “i’m gonna go make breakfast now.”

beanie brushes his hair out of his face, straightens his hoodie, and looks him in the eye. there’s no smile on his face as he cups a hand around his head and looks into unfocused eyes and says, “karl, please, baby, i love you. please tell me what’s going on.”

he’s found his voice. it’s rusty from screaming, but it’s his all the same. it cracks as he says, “i don’t fucking know.”

“what’d you mean?”

“i don’t know what’s going on, i don’t know why i’m here, i don’t know who you are or who i am, i don’t remember,” he says, growing hysterical at the last words. he reaches out to grab the other’s arm in seek of support.

beanie huffs in disbelief, leaning back against the sofa. “... fuck. fuck. are you serious?”

he seems to search his face for some sign of a prank, like it’s simply not possible. he rubs his hands over his face, resting it in his hands for a couple seconds. then he takes his hand, hooks their fingers together. “ok. what do you need to know?”

he bites his lip. “everything.”

>

karl. his name’s karl.

his husbands’ names are sapnap and quackity. he can already feel it slipping from his mind, and as he sits on the sofa he stares at a spot on the floor and repeats it over and over. sapnap, quackity, karl. karl, karl, karl. 

the name sounds funny in his mouth, so he mumbles it over, and over, and over. headband-sapnap sits next to him and listens to him mumble to himself and grips his arm like he’s afraid he’ll slip away. maybe he will. 

the finer details of the situation are already disappearing from reach, and he struggles to hold onto them. something about l’manburg, manburg, a war or two, something.

he knows they’re important. he knows that he had something to do with it, but he can’t remember. he knows it has something to do with what he was doing before he <i>forgot.</i>

he stumbles to his feet. sapnap makes a startled sort of noise when he pulls free from his hold, but he’s on a mission now. he’s still tripping a bit, but it doesn’t matter. 

he climbs back down to where they found him the night before, to the mysterious room hidden under their house. the door was left ajar and the torn-up paper is still there. it’s sort of comforting. he knows something. he knew the paper would be here. he knows how it got there. he knows something. 

he crouches, rifles his hands through the small piles while headband- headband- sapnap watches. he catches words here and there. remember. who.

it answers nothing, and tensions start to rise. he can’t remember. he doesn’t know what this is, but he knows it’s important. he stands, pieces still clenched in his fists, moves to the books and the sketches. mizu, masquerade, beach. none of it makes sense.

tears prick his eyes, fists full of paper shaking. he can’t remember. he can’t remember.

someone touches his shoulder, and he flinches. a man with a headband is reaching out to him. he knows who this is.

he does. he hiccups, and the man pulls him into a hug. 

“who?” he asks, voice watery. the stranger clutches him closer.

“sapnap. one of your husbands.” he’s crying too. 

he fists in his husband’s shirt, holding him close. he wants to say something, but he’s not sure he can.

“i love you, karl, i love you,” sapnap murmurs into his shoulder. “whatever it takes, just tell me what you need.”

he knows this: 

his name is karl. 

his head hurts.

bits of paper flutter to the ground.

[ducknotinarow]

2k12 Raph Casey - 🤪

|🤪 send to receive a drunk text from my muse

[text] casey ;3;

[text] Casey i think like otters they are so fucking cute!! ToT like fuck man listen!!

There was no lead up to this message it was more a drunk thought sent out as Raph made himself comfortable in the pit that made up their living room. TV was on some animal documentary he came across currency talking about sea otters. Going over their daily lives and habits. Just Raph being bathed in the low blue glow from the tv well Raph and the bottle of sake he got his hands on. He'd been working on it for sometime now as he felt like his body was lowly humming from the buzz working through his blood stream right now. So intently watching the tv talking about these otters right now and how they held on to each other when they went to sleep just so they wouldn't get swept away but the oceans rocking waves and be pulled out to the big wide ocean. For some reason this little fact had hit Raph in his shell, right around where his bleeding heart was. As he felt the need to give his boyfriend that information.

[text] Dija know they hol ahnds when they sleep ;3; it so they dont difttt away in the oc3an!! (did you know they hold hands when they sleep ;3; it so they don't drift away in the ocean!!)

Raph felt restless that night, but found there to be no action going on when he was top side. No Dragons to hunt, no foot soldiers around even or mutants to be dealt with. So he returned home, but nothing seemed to help with his burning flame currently needing to be put of. Least till he got his hands on Splinters stash. It wasn't some secret that Splinter kept alcohol on hand for one it was so he could demonstrate that one odd style of frighting he was a master off. Even drunk with alcohol he could easily whoop all his sons asses in a fight. Two well he was the father of four rambunctious mutants turtles sooo a drink here and there may be needed. This just meant there was alcohol in the lair. Splinter wasn't fond of the idea. But at the same time, he would rather Raphael be home drinking where he was at least safe. Splinter knew his son. If Raph had a taste for the stuff, he would go out and get it. So, an exercise in trust on Splinter's end to his son.

Raph just eh needed the pick me up, a little drinking and some late tv seemed a good way to pick himself up? Normally, it hit him quickly and he would let him fall asleep, but he was still kind of awake, so he plopped down on floor sitting in front of the couch. Animal documents were relaxing. The narrators voices were always so calm. Between that and the alcohol in his system he was sure to pass out, but he kind of well got very into this current show he was watching. Soon, he found his phone and started to text Casey about the cute otters he was now very invested in. Blurry image from the TV screen sent to Casey of two of the otters.

[text] Shelly and Mick <3 i love them!!

[text] TOT

[text] man they are so cute! :') they don wanna lose each other to the ocean so they hold hands!!!!!

Raphael lifted the bottle to his beak, swaying some as a bit of the contents dribbled over his mouth and landed on to his shell eh he was gonna smell like it now for sure. Eh he didn't care as he smashed the buttons on his phone to continue with his current rant.

[text] THEY R IN UVE CASE! THIS IS WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE! 2 OTTPERS HOLDING HANDS (they are in love case! This is what love looks like two otters holding hands!)

They were so in love, just like how Raph was so in love with Casey. And Casey was so in love with Raph. Even when he was being a fucking idiot like right now. Stupid grin tugged over his beak at that thought. He did love that idiot a lot so much. Raph would do anything to hold on to Casey and keep them from drifting out too. Drunken mind seemed to have made some sort of connection between them and the otters on the tv now.

[text] Casey be my otter!!

[text] cause youre otterly adorable uwu >3< >3< >3< <3 <3 <3

Raph blushed a little to himself as he texted Casey. There was a good chance Raphael was going to regret ever opening his and Casey's chat to send out these drunken text messages. But honestly, this was better than being stuck in his mind. Feeling like he wanted to cry and not understanding why. Withdrawing from everyone so he could hide away from it all in his room. He would rather be so invested in Shelly and Mick the otters than a victim of his own mind. And well, much as Raph seemed to keep Casey from the woods Casey was what kept Raph from getting swept away into the ocean that his mind could be like. He really was Raph's otter.

[text] I love you

[text] I love ya so fucking much Case

[text] <3 <3

[text] (.//////.)

Blame the mood, blame the alcohol Raph didn't fucking care but man would he deny any of these texts being brought up in person even if the proof was literally in the receipts. Soon a loud drawn out yawn worked out from him as he moved to rest on the floor now. Bottle set off to somewhere he wasn't sure where or care. His eyes were growing heavy as he watched Mick and Shelly happily sleeping holding on to each other. Thinking about his boyfriend in the moment he had it bad even drunk he knew that. Those deep brown eyes, the freckles, that stupid way they laughed. He loved it all.

Casey just made him feel like he belong somewhere someone got him. His shell felt warm at that thought. Late nights talking about anything and everything. Casey confiding in Raph and Raph in them. They trusted everything to each other. Sure pushing each other and messing around was just as fun and butterfly inducing as holding hands and kissing was with Casey.

[text] you're amazing kay? just want ya to know your fucking great Casey. I dont know where I be if we never met u-u

[text] Think I just be fucking sad.

The show ended and Raph did opens his eyes a little to try and focus on what was going on now. Something about penguins "lame put the otters back on." Raph shuffled around till he was resting on his shell now looking at what he was saying trying to regain the thought.

[text] Ya doing ya damn best man and it should be said, Ya do so fucking much you done so much too.

[text] Like ya you can be dumb as brick but fuck your so fucking smart too

[text] you hit real good to u////u it so fucking hot watching ya kick ass baby

Smiling to himself as he just kept talking about how amazing Casey was. Drunk Raph uncaring that it was just him spamming Casey with all these messages. Hung over Raph was going to likely forget anyway. Sober Raph was going to hate being told if he was about his little well display of love and affection. But Right now he was drunk and feeling a little sappy over having his own otter that kept him from drifting off to the ocean. He do anything for them.

[text] I'd fight the whole ocean for you baby <3

"Uh fight the ocean?" He questions to himself and he went back to texting.

[text] I don't care how much water out there i'd punch and kick it all just for ya love ya more than some dumb fucking ocean! I aint gonna let the ocean take ya.

[text] Im ya cinnamon apple angel thing right! I gotta save ya from the ocean then!

Soon he starts to sit up, Splinter may need to rethink somethings when it comes to the mind set of his sons being home drinking where they can be safe because the hot head of the group now was cooking up a very bad dumb idea. "Imma fight the ocean for my otter!" he claimed to no one but himself. Trying to understand how the fuck his legs worked again as he grabbed on to the couch and worked on pulling himself up. "Oh better tell Case."

[text] imma fight it

[text] (ง'̀-'́)ง

[text] fight it for you baby!

[text] ttyl <3 got an ocean to beat up now >3<

Raph slipped his phone back away as he managed to pull up on to his feet bottle knocked around when his foot found it. He only paused to look back at the tv as it was talking about the penguins. Raph watched as they were giving thier mates rocks to show they liked them. "uh didn' case think Savage was a rock? so then? aww were gay penguins." he said to himself smiling at the thought blushing hard at the thought as he giggled just a bit, yeah thats right he could and did just giggle in that moment. " Irght now I really gotta fight that ocean."

Raph said rallying himself to get up to himself to climb over the couch and pull himself up. slowly sluggish steps working there way over to the turn stills. Only to be stopped by the presence of his brother Leo eyeing him. Asking what he was doing Raph reached out to grab their shoulders and shake them as he went to speak.

"I gotta do it for love Leo! I gotta fight the ocean so Casey will be my otter and we can be gay penguins together!" The look on Leo's face said it all. Raph go to bed your drunk. But Raph still manged to slip past Leo and soon as he was on the other side of the turn stills? He made a run for the nearest manhole cover. He was drunk and on a mission for love! The ocean was huge the sooner he got to work on kicking it's ass the better so might as well start now after all.