#star glass manufacturer

[solovetrate]

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[saphronethaleph]

Midlife Crisis

In the year Fifteen of the Galactic Empire, Sheev Palpatine contemplated a glass of wine.

Proper wine. Wine from Naboo.

In his opinion, which was legally speaking the only one that mattered, he deserved this.

As he began to drink, however, Vader spoke. His dark shadow, his creation, his enforcer.

“Master,” the Sith Apprentice said. “When are you going to teach me the power to heal?”

“...what?” Palpatine asked, then put the glass down again. “What are you talking about, Vader?”

“I thought it was extremely clear,” Vader replied. “When are you going to teach me the power to heal? I realize that your memory may not be what it was, but I distinctly remember that you told me that Darth Plagueis had the ability to cause the Midichlorians to create life, and that he could even use it to keep those he cared about from dying. So. When are you going to teach me that power?”

“Why do you even want that power?” Palpatine asked.

Vader’s mask looked at him.

“I currently find myself with a great deal of time on what would be my hands if I had any,” Vader stated. “Travelling between star systems, for example. I appreciate that you are busy and do not have the time to heal me, but I would have the time to heal me if you could teach me that ability. Which is why I am asking.”

Palpatine frowned.

“If you recall, I said that, ironically, Darth Plagueis could save others, but not himself.”

“I recall that, my Master,” Vader stated. “It was very ironic.”

“There, you see?” Palpatine asked. “If you learned that power, you could save others, but not yourself.”

“I don’t think that really works, Master,” Vader said, thoughtfully. “Because Plagueis was killed in his sleep. He wasn’t using the Force, for the obvious reason that he was dead. However, I actually am alive, and consequently I can use the Force to heal myself.”

He paused. “Well, I can’t, but I could. If I were to be taught, which is… what I’m asking about.”

“You don’t like your cyborg body parts?” Palpatine asked. “I thought you’d appreciate those, since they’re manufactured. Or did I remember incorrectly that you like tinkering?”

“I would be more able to tinker if I had better hands,” Vader stated. “Master, I am beginning to suspect you are avoiding the question. When are you going to teach me the power to heal?”

“You still haven’t given me a good answer,” Palpatine said, snidely.

“I have,” Vader pointed out. “My reason is that I want you to. We’re Sith. That’s a good enough reason.”

“You have a point,” the Emperor admitted, very reluctantly. “However, I think you will find that you already know all I can teach you.”

Vader looked at him.

“I do not,” the masked Sith said.

“You do,” Palpatine countered. “The Dark Side is more about maintaining your life in a decaying husk of a body, clinging to life regardless of the cost to others or the degradation of your own physical condition, than it is about… healing.”

“Are you saying that healing would be a Light Side power?” Vader asked, and there was a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

“No, no,” Palpatine replied, hastily. “It’s not a Light Side power either. The Light Side is about accepting the natural balance of things, like idiots, and the Dark Side is about violating the natural order of things. Using the Force to heal is unnatural.”

At that, Vader made a confused noise.

“So is healing a Light Side power or a Dark Side power, Master?” he asked.

“It isn’t either,” Palpatine replied, with a shrug. “The closest I know of is Plagueis’s ability to cling to life in a body that should be dead, which you’re already doing.”

“I see,” Vader said, thoughtfully, then turned and walked away.

“I hope you’re not disappointed, Vader,” Palpatine said, leaning back in his seat and picking up the glass of wine again. “You must realize, I never lied to you.”

“You also don’t know everything,” Vader replied. “I am taking a sabbatical.”

“A what?” Palpatine said, scowling at his wine glass because apparently he wasn’t going to get to drink it just yet. “What is one of those?”

“It’s when you leave work for a period of time,” Vader explained. “I am not expecting to be paid during that period.”

“Why are you leaving at all?” Palpatine asked, in some confusion and trying to work out what Vader was getting at.

Vader shrugged slightly.

“There’s got to be lots of Force users out there, and you’re only one Force user,” he said. “I am going to look for someone who knows how to heal. Then I will return.”

Palpatine swallowed down the order that sprang to his lips, because he was uncomfortably aware of the verbal minefield that talking with Vader could be. Especially when he’d nearly set the man off less than two minutes ago.

Really, he didn’t have much choice but to trust in Vader’s loyalty. A Vader who was angry at him would be far too dangerous.

In the year Eighteen of the Galactic Empire, Sheev Palpatine was significantly more aware of just how useful Vader’s brooding, deadly presence had been in holding the Empire together.

He hadn’t been able to just refer people to his enforcer (Vader) or his supreme commander (Vader) or his complaints department (also Vader). He’d had to do actual work, and he didn’t like it.

Becoming the ruler of the galaxy had not been something he’d done in order to do work. He even had to actually listen to Tarkin, who was a tedious little lickspittle whose only redeeming quality was his enthusiasm for the idea of blowing up planets.

Then, during a rare period of respite, he felt a familiar presence in the Force. It approached his private chamber, advancing steadily, and Palpatine actually felt something like pleasure at the idea Vader would soon be back.

Admittedly, mostly because he could offload work onto Vader again.

Then the door opened, and Palpatine smiled.

“My boy, you-” he began, then stopped.

He’d been expecting Vader still wearing his suit.

He’d been ready for Vader to be a man of about forty, fit and healthy once more after discovering some Force secret.

He had not been ready for a wolf. Especially not one ten feet tall at the shoulder, with black and red fur and scaled paws.

“...explain…?” he said, in what was supposed to be a command but which turned into more of a plea.

“I sought out many ancient Force spirits and wielders of lost and arcane arts,” Vader said, in a voice even deeper than he’d had before – which actually turned out to be possible. “Eventually, I found a way to gain a new body, unwounded and healthy, but the one who taught me only knew how to do wolf.”

He tilted his head a little. “Incidentally. I also visited my only remaining family, who are moisture farmers. I have a nephew; he likes me. I wish to tender my resignation, because I am going to kill you now and it seems only fair to give you warning.”

Palpatine sighed, because, really, this was in keeping with how the year was going.

[arkhammaid]

— ˚₊‧⁺˖THE LIGHTNING ON TRACK | THE PRE-SEASON TESTING

fandom. formula one & mcu

about. it's pre-season testing time!

content warnings. smau & written parts, written in 3rd person & lowercase, not edited & proofread

word count. 1.1k

notes. we're dipping into the season, slowly but surely... this took me some time to finish, i literally didn't know what to write for testing ://

"we are here in bahrain, pre-season testing for all teams in 2025, welcome everyone!" croft greets the whole world, as live footage is shown across the devices. the camera spans over the whole track, to each individual paddock until stopping at the final one, in blinding white.

"the season is starting with a bang, for the first time in formula one, we will see a stark owned team on the track! in white and chrome they are, an iconic design and everyone is eager to see what the stark manufactured cars can do!"

"how right you are, david! welcome, i'm will buxton and i have someone of interest with me here. right here, in front of the stark racing garage- y/n stark, number 95, one of the drivers for stark racing. so, y/n, tell me, how are you feeling? are you ready for the first time in the car?"

"hello will, thank you for having me. well, it's not quite the first time in the car, we had a testing back in miami at the end of january, but it's something different to be officially here now. but i'm feeling confident- we have our data, the predicted numbers and we think we'll be able to achieve them."

"so, no major upgrades or changes planned?" y/n shakes her head with a grin.

"do you really think i'm going to answer that question? ask me again, when we're done." will laughs at that, nodding his head in understanding.

"understandable, but i will hold you onto that! gonna knock on the garage doors three days later." y/n laughs again, head thrown back. "but, y/n, how does it feel to be on the paddock? have you met the rest of the drivers yet? made any new friendships?"

"well..."

"can you turn that off?", carlos gruffly asks his teammate, who just waves his hand at him as answer. with a groan, he stares at the tv, showing the first driver interview of the day, y/n stark. her voice washes over him, empty answers of being excited to properly meet everyone and maybe even bond with a few drivers.

"i don't know why you're so obsessed, perceval." charles immediatly splutters, waving his hands to deny the accusation.

"i'm not! but it's so interesting! tony stark is literally here, aren't you at least a bit excited? arthur said that y/n is like him!"

"what, arrogant? self-centered?"

"carlos! stop being so negative! i meant like- a genius! someone who raced with her back in f3 is friends with arthur, i forgot his name, but apparently y/n constantly does calculations while she drives. that's why she's so good overtaking." carlos just sighs and leaves charles to whatever he's doing right now. he has no interest in this circus.

— ˚₊‧⁺˖ 🏎️ ˖⁺‧₊˚—

kevin watches the interviews from the sideline, completely satisfied with how everyone is hounding y/n and leaving him in peace. of course he had his fair amount of questions and interviews, but much less than his teammate.

it has been a whirlwind, ever since he joined the team. strange, for a while, everything seeming so futuristic, but now his glasses feel like a another part of his race suit he's putting on every day.

the team has been welcoming, open to his input, but it's very clear to him that y/n is their star driver and he's the support. and he's alright with it. of course, winning a championship would mean everything, but he knows he's not going to continue this forever. especially not when he has a kid, he's missing so much... something he dislikes, because family means everything to him.

this is why his contract is only for two years. if he wishes to continue and his results at the end of the season are steady, tony promised him a seat as long he wishes for. he is incredibly thankful for this offer, fully knowing that this kind of support doesn't exist in formula one.

"ready to go?", he asks, after y/n's press officer ushers her out of the mob called journalists.

"so ready to go", she grins. but they're not alone, the netflix camera's immediately surround them and capture their walk to the garage. people part from them, staring openly at the drivers. one of the most iconic footage later shown in the drive to survive documentary.

— ˚₊‧⁺˖ 🏎️ ˖⁺‧₊˚—

"so, here he goes, kevin magnussen for stark racing, leaving his side of the garage. the car is looking incredible, i really like the color!", comments crofty and the other men immediately begin to chatter as well. throwing in rumors and hearsay about the team, they expertly fill the silence of kevin doing his first lap on the track.

"last to leave the garage and on the track, all eyes are on stark racing- oh and there he goes, picking up the speed!"

"his tyres seem to have warmed up- woah! look at the smoothness! kevin seems to be home in his car, his struggles from the last season are nowhere to be seen", adds jenson, while the cameras continue to follow the white car with the number 20.

"and there he goes! on medium tyres, setting the third fastest lap already, this looks definitely promising." will shares his own thoughts, reminding the viewers that there is definitely a possibility of stark racing going at least one or two seconds faster.

"by the looks of it, the stark racing team seems to be satisfied- honestly can't tell much, the glasses are hiding too much", jokes another man and all of them laugh. "bloody starks, am i right?"

— ˚₊‧⁺˖ 🏎️ ˖⁺‧₊˚—

the testing days are filled with endless laps and data, followed by long hours of debrief. they've already proven that they're fast, slotting themselves on the upper half of the grid, sticking close to the more experienced teams.

speculations are thrown around, is stark racing sandbagging? of course they must be, while others think that this is the best they can do. neither of the drivers or the team principal lose a word on it, instead they repeat always the same statements.

"we delivered what we predicted."

"we tested our theories, confirmed or debunked them, so the past three days have been very productive."

"we're exactly there where we want to be and we know our next steps."

empty words and yet the journalists pounce on them as if they're the next headlines. the whole world watches with eagerness as stark racing finishes up their debut in formula one and they impatiently await the first race of the season.

taglist. @lilypadlover , @adorablezhui , @peqch-pie , @keyz-writes , @obsidianjewel , @aimixx , @themercyverse , @lem-hhn , @akiraquote , @kiiyoooo , @nichmeddar , @nothingfuninthislife , @minkyungseokie , @fionaschicken , @lyrasconstellation , @spideybv28 , @keii134 , @starssfall , @tpwkstiles, @fangirl-dot-com , @nichmeddar , @lady-laura-speaks , @nikfigueiredo , @hinamesgigantica , @brakingboundaries , @almostjollypizza , @yoremins , @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @celesteblack08 , @watermelon-sugars-things , @lighttsoutlewis , @radiantdanvers , @vellicora, @sterredem , @hiireadstuff , @jolixtreesunn , @mypage-myfandoms , @nelly187 @greeneyesandsunshine , @fulla02 , @welovediaaxx , @whyamireadingthis , @67-angelofthelordme-67 , @blueberry64857959 , @winchesterwife27 , @six-call , @skywalker1dream , @mellowarcadefun , @cherry-piee , @peterholland04 , @motorsportloverf1 , @renarots , @msbyjackal , @woozarts , @leclucklerc , @yl90

crossed off tags mean i can't tag you!

DO YOU WANT TO JOIN THE SERIES TAGLIST? please leave a comment on this post or send a non anonymous ask!

ARKHAM MAID 2024

[lovewireds]

been meaning to post my designs for these little guys forever. insane splatoon rambling under cut to explain design choices and lore related things ... read my autism boy

btw this is a repost from our art side blog this was written and drawn like months ago <- minorly rewrote some things tho

thx splatoon users drfreeman & drcoolatta for fueling my splatvrai autism brainrot ... i hate u /J

GORDON

idk how to explain this but Theoretical Physicist is inkling coded . maybe its cuz splatoon species social hierarchy

Native ink color is Orange, but he has Dark Brown tentacle roots.

Uses custom weapons to attach in place of his prosthetic; It works best with Splatlings but can be adjusted to attach other weapons.

If the thing above didn't make it obvious, he's a Splatling main. He switches out depending on his mood though.

sighhhhh technically an Agent... stares at the ceiling...Main character...

His arm loss is like pretty much the same as in-canon but it's with the octarian army shrugs. don't ask me why he doesn't just regenerate it cuz hes a squid thats for me to know and you to find out. (get partially sanitized loser)

Born & Raised in Inkopolis pre-splashtags; He wasn't informed of the switch to Splashtags being expected when participating in most activities around Inkadia.

TOMMY

I forgot why i made him an inkling why did i do that. I think it was bc i didnt wanna make them all octolings but i was wrong srry we all make mistakes /hj I ALREADY REDREW HIM ONCE IM NTO DOING IT AGAINNN

Native ink color is orange-brown.

His hat has an eye guard for sensory reasons; He covers up as much of his skin as possible because he doesn't like the feeling of foreign ink on him.

He isn't a specific weapon main, he just uses any long-range weapon to minimize the possibility of getting ink on himself. If he has enough guarding, he prefers to use N-ZAP '89.

Makes his own gear for sensory reasons as well :) It's legal when ur dad's the G-Man.

Exclusively plays in Turf Wars, Anarchy Battles, etc with friends. He hates playing with people he doesn't know.

Born in Splatsville !! He feels like a Splatsville resident. His occupation is resident I cannot imagine him doing Anything

His dad is that creepy curtain in one of flounder heights windows /j

BENR(E)Y

Octoling bc I wanted him to be sanitized :) Other than the visual part of being sanitized, I thought him being clinically dead fits /hj also lore reasons below

Pre-sanitization, his native ink color was blue.

Great Turf War veteran; He didn't do anything in the war itself, he was just enlisted lol. He was primarily security for the Octarian Domes in the years after the war. Yes, that also means he is over 100 years old.

"Raised" (debatably) in Octo Canyon.

E-liter main (4-star Base + 5-star Scope) and avid squidbagger. He also uses any heavyweight weapons (dynamo, tenta, etc)

Absolutely hates working at Grizzco, he only does Turf Wars and Anarchy Battles. He only works at Grizzco during Big Runs. The type of guy that does X battles.

Professional Anarchy / Ranked / X Battler btw. That's literally 90% of what he does.

Got on Gordon's azz over him not having a Splashtag; i wonder what that parallels.

BUBBY

Genuinely don't have a lot to say about his design. He gives off Splatoon 2 Octoling vibes (showoff /hj) also i wanted to make his hair wispy like it should be.

Native ink color is a light blue-gray gradient.

The drawing doesn't give it credit but I swear those are glasses not goggles .. they're opaque-colored slanted oval glasses !! ^_^ u can interpret them as spiked or just eyelashes, both are right.

oh also the text under bubby says "Is Best" in some splatoon font we downloaded awhile ago . i think it was ripped from splatnet

Blaster main. I don't know how to explain this one but it feels right.

helps with the practical Map props (ie ink rails) and with some weapon gear manufacturing ^_^ tech guy

COOMER

Was going to make him an Octoling for the convenience of making his hair curly but i didn't want to make all of them octolings + i think his personality generally fits Inklings more.

Native ink color is an off white gradient.

Slosher main cuz he likes moving his arms. this makes sense to me. Also is a fan of Splatlings and other Shooters.

i felt ill trying to design coomer without making his eyes two lines with eyelids

War Veteran...Stole some octarian tech and got fucked up super limbs. Cyber Inkling stealing from octos !! [inkadia crowd goes wild] /j

anyways outside of the war™ he's a data researcher. just generally. he does shit with splatfests and eggstra work.

If you splashed him with ink he would stand unmoving. He would not shake it off.

DARNOLD

Ok i'll be honest the Octoling choice is primarily bc Octolings have the afro style & inklings have no textured hair styles (i didnt have the energy to design smth that could work) . His personality fits octoling too though :3

Native ink color is red-orange.

The fucked up guy that makes those drink effects people never use ( i use them ... )

He doesn't participate in Turf Wars or Anarchy Battles, but he works some gigs at Grizzco for extra cash every once in awhile !

the type of guy that goes after flyfish cuz no one else will . god bles !!!

not a lot to say about his design & his place in inkadia , it kinda speak for itself . he just wants to get by and make his drinks in peace . #autism ... he is pretty much exactly the same as his canon self

[brandwhorestarscream]

LISTEN TO ME LISTEN OK!! I'm not done talking about this!

Shattered glass Skyfire journeying to the center of the Allspark dimension to steal Starscream's spark back

Regrets weigh heavily on his shoulders and Starscream's death was the final straw. He's through sitting back passively and letting their overlords do whatever they want--they killed his Starscream, his seeker, his buddy, his everything, and now they're going to pay with their lives

He takes Starscream's body, delicately cradling him and promising, looking down at his broken, cracked face and gaping hole in his chassis where his spark used to be, "I'll bring you back... whatever it takes, I'll save you!"

Starscream didn't deserve to die

Starscream didn't deserve to suffer

He didn't deserve Skyfire's betrayal, he didn't deserve to see each and every dream shattered onto nothingness, he didn't deserve any of the pitslag the universe had put him through. Skyfire intends to right these wrongs, by any means necessary.

First, he scratches out his autobot badge and carries Starscream's corpse away, taking him somewhere secluded and untraceable. He begins work slowly, putting him back together piece by piece: a shot straight through the soul was obviously fatal, but it also severely damaged his body. Layers of plating and wires melted through and obliterated, countless energon lines severed, internal components completely wiped from existence. He has to replace each and every piece, perfectly, or this won't work. He uses everything he can, parts manufactured and sculpted by his own hands, and taken from the bodies of dead mecha alike

It takes him months to repair his precious seeker, and once he's fixed up, Skyfire makes him a grand pedestal to lay upon to await his revival. A raised dias painted the purest white and adored with golden glyphs, depicting the second coming of the Prince of Stars and a thousand iterations of Starscream's name. Obsessed and sickened by the loss, Skyfire dares kiss his forehelm and his cheeks but can never bring himself to take Starscream's lips: if he's to savor the delicate kiss of the most important person in his life, he shall only do it when light returns to his optics. Tch, isn't that ironic, he thinks bitterly. Only realizing the true depth of his affections for Starscream when he was dead and gone. They had been close, once, when they were so young... he'd been too naive or perhaps too afraid to confront his truest feelings. Perhaps, if he wasn't such a coward, things would be different...

The realization has only made him more determined to see this through

Once Starscream's body is complete Skyfire goes after the wicked Lord Prime. Optimus's name is like a frightening curse, bleeding life from every land he touches and siphoning the sparks of everyone around him. Skyfire is not afraid, and he doesn't care if the other mech lives or dies. No, when he storms the Primal Palace, it is with the intent to steal. It's a brutal altercation, but through sheer size and murderous fury Skyfire rips the Matrix from the Prime's chest, carrying it to the desecrated Temple of Prima where the entrance to the Allspark Vault awaits. A living mech attempting to jump into the afterlife has never come to pass before, but Skyfire isn't worried about dying. If death comes for him, let it be known that he willingly embraced it. In death he could reunite with Starscream, so it is not something to be feared. If he succeeds, though... he'll once again be able to hold the love of his life in his arms, and that makes every risk worth it

[sativaonsaturn]

random sun observations

some of these are based on requests :)

libra sun

great conversationalists! they know how to read a room or even just the person they’re talking to and do a great job catching the vibe so to speak. given that, sometimes they can mirror the people they’re around too. because of this sometimes people may think libra likes them even if they don’t 😭 a lot of times the only way you’ll know how libra feels (especially september) is if they reach a boiling point or if you know them well enough.

they’re great at dressing themselves as well, i’ve never seen a libra who didn’t know how to carry themselves. even if a libra chooses to dress down, they still happen to look put together.

if you’re dating/ pursuing one, (ofc factor in their venus) they typically love love. so (if they really like you) they’re dedicated, love a storybook relationship and will absolutely provide you with that in return. also very diplomatic in any relationship, they want things to be balanced and fair - but keep in mind this depends on their own moral compass, not yours.

capricorn sun

disclaimer! i’ll try my best not to be biased 😭 but i’ve had the worst experiences with them; i have to be honest before i begin.

capricorns are literally the goat, so often they can be blinded by their “horns”. meaning that their pride can make them short sided, especially the men. this can be good sometimes because when a cap goes for something they get it. saturn is about learning from mistakes, discipline; a lot of capricorns go through some real shit before they’re even adults. that being said they are often harder than most and therefore sometimes have a difficult time maintaining interpersonal relationships - they’re often too focused on results and surviving for too long.

often very funny, dry humor. like other earth signs, they tend to just get it. the men tend to spend quite a bit unless developed. they also tend to buy things because they’re 5 star or the most expensive, not necessarily because of the quality. however, great providers and if you are relying on one to get shit done, get somewhere on time, to lead a team - cap is the one because of their tunnel vision and practicality.

aquarius sun

another sign who just gets it. aquarians are the people who laugh at the joke no one got, who catch the little nuances, who actually do like things before they’re cool. i’ve said previously they are one of the most intelligent signs because of how much they observe and how much they remember.

people tend to dub this sign as emotionless but similar to aquarius moon, i think people just misunderstand how they handle emotions as a whole. they need to intellectualize and understand their emotions on a practical level before addressing them. also they’re ruled by uranus, so the way they see the world is always going to be different or abstract. but if you lead with patience, they’re usually open to talking out their feelings/ thoughts - aquas just want to know that you want to understand, that you’re open minded.

very practical and sometimes worry too much. usually on time to every event/ job and great planners because they think of everything. i will note however, that they tend to be very forgetful or reckless until they’re developed. they are often the children who break their glasses a lot or lose their new sweater 😭

as they rule the 11th house (networking), they are wonderful, fun and considerate friends. they make jokes about literally everything (very unserious people 💀) and often give thoughtful gifts because of how observant they are.

leo sun

truly the life of the party, they really carry the sun wherever they go. if it seems like they always have energy it’s because they do, whether it’s natural or manufactured. i’ve found that they can’t be as high functioning if they stay in a funk too long. even if these people are insecure, they will create the confidence.

they often do care about how others perceive them, especially those close to them. this includes leos who are less of the golden retriever type and more of the lioness type. lioness leos are the ones who walk and talk w/ pride, command attention and respect, usually leaders. golden retriever leos are usually bubbly, friends w/ everyone, keeps things light and jovial. sometimes they tend to let things slide or don’t say what they mean because they’d like to maintain their image or aren’t actually as confident as they seem.

much like leo venus, they are passionate and intentional lovers. very thoughtful and compassionate friends too. you want a leo in your life if you want someone who will bring you warmth and a sense of belonging.

sativaonsaturn 🪐🍃

[astroboots]

Cherry Lips

Summary: Steven really likes your lipstick.

Content: Inappropriate use of lipstick, messy blowjobs because like L'oreal, Steven is worth it.

Word Count: 2.4k

Author's notes: Inspired by this beautiful piece of artwork by @guruan-is-not-here

ASTROBOOT’S MASTERLIST | MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST

The lipstick you're planning on wearing tonight is a striking shade of red. The shocking brightness of a stop traffic light. The bursting richness of pomegranates. Eye catching, alarming and dreamy all at once. It's your favourite and they stopped manufacturing it a while back.

Since you can't up and buy it anymore, you only pull it on special occasions. The last time you've worn it was at a close friend's wedding. You're not going to any churches or galas tonight, just the local cinema, which isn't an extraordinary occasion that justifies pulling out the old favourite shade. But it doesn't have to be the location that's special. Sometimes, what matters is the company you're with. And who is more special to you than Steven?

You're standing in front of the mirror that hangs over your hallway. On an ordinary day, when you're standing here on your own, the tiny hall can already feel a bit cramped, considering the size of your micro-studio of a London flat. Today though?

Today, the way that Steven is standing behind you, almost plastered to your back, you can barely maneouvre your hand far enough to apply the lipstick without jabbing your elbow into his eyesocket.

"Steven, shouldn't you be getting ready too?" you say, in a gentle attempt to goad him into moving into the main space of your flat. But Steven stays unmoving.

He can't hear you.

Mouth dropped open, jaw slack, he's staring at your mirrored reflection with wide-eyed attention.

You turn around and tilt your head in his direction to try to catch his attention. But even though he's staring right at you, he remains frozen. Trapped in some spell, his eyes are vacant. You have to repeat his name for a second and third time and even then the only physical reaction you get from him is a hard swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in the hollow of his throat. 

At this pace, you're going to have to break out the smelling salts to snap him out of it. 

"Steven, everything alright?"

"Red," he murmurs, and you squeeze your eyebrows in confusion at his lack of coherence. 

"Your lipstick..." he sounds almost dazed. "It's very... red–very pretty! It's very pretty I mean, it looks amazing on you."

You follow the line of his eyes and the way he's staring at your lips. His tongue darts out to swipe across his own bottom one, leaving it glistening in the dim light of your hallway. 

Steven is looking at you, like you hung each individual star in the galaxy and created every constellation discovered by NASA. 

You can't help but smile as lean up and press your red lips against his. Your hand cups the back of his neck and you pull him down closer until you hear that breathless little gasp you love so much escape between his lips. Until that soft noise melts into a deep moan that you can practically taste on your tongue. 

It tastes like hunger. 

It's wonderful to feel so deeply wanted by someone. 

You pull away, leaning back and Steven looks like he's been knocked senseless. Eyes shiny like glass. Kiss swollen lips made more prominent from the red of your lipsticks smudged on him. He's drawing up his hand, thumb brushing against the red. 

Whipping around, you realise that he's staring at himself in the mirror. He looks enamoured with it, the smears of red that are on him like a mark seared into his skin of where you've touched him. 

It becomes something of a thing between you two. 

Before every date night, you'll apply a thick layer of red lipstick on your mouth, the kind that will smear at the slightest touch. 

Then you watch in amusement as Steven spends the whole of the evening trying to act discreet (and failing) as his eyes will unfailingly find themselves flickering back to your lips. 

You'll watch as he tries to steady himself at a dining table at the small intimate and cozy restaurant sat across from you, hand gripping on top of his knee as you lift your glass and leaves a clear imprint of your lips on the glass. 

Hear the small little gasp that escapes from his throat when you lean close to his ear to ask him what he's ordering. 

Feel the whole bodyshiver of his as you press your lips to his cheek sometime between dessert and the bill. 

Sometimes you even wear it on your lunchdates between work shifts when you know he's having a rough day. Because Steven likes the attention and you like to give it to him. Love the way that fascinating blush blossoms across his chest, travelling up his throat and adorns his cheeks as you pull him into an unoccupied bathroom of your favourite cafe and you leave soft kisses like stamps on a love letter on his skin. Ink of red, pressed into his chest and collarbone and the corner of his mouth. 

He doesn't wash it off after either. Wants it to linger for as long as it possibly can. It's why you start to leave the lip stains where his clothes will cover them. Can't have Steven looking like a crime scene when he gets back to work at the museum. 

You'll wear it when he comes to pick you home from work. Watch the way his whole body is thrumming with excitement on the tube ride back to his flat. Eyes never leaving your lips.

Those are your favourite special occassions. When you get to leave your mark on him uninterrupted in the dim lighting of his home in privacy. When you get to take your time to peel off his tie like a beautifully wrapped Christmas present adorned with a silk bow and glossy wrapping paper.

You'l leave kisses on the softness of his stomach that has his hips hitching upwards. The insides of his thighs, that will has his legs shaking and trembling and gasping.

Tonight, you have him seated on his armchair,  trousers pulled down to his ankles, while you're down on your knees, caged in by his thick thighs. 

You press your lips to his soft skin, feeling him tense and rigid above you. Knees trembling next to you, and you pull back to admire your work, the perfect imprint of your lips on his golden skin. 

"Love, love -- I, please..." 

He's a shivering mess. Soft curls plastered to his forehead, white teeth biting into his full bottom lip as he watches you through half-lidded eyes. 

So fucking pretty this one.

You press another kiss, this time on the inside of his thigh and you smile to yourself as his hips hitch up, chasing after your mouth with a choked gasp.

"Please, what, Steven?"

Flicking your eyes to his face, Steven is struggling to verbalise much of anything right now. Maybe you're not being very nice, because you know exactly what he wants.

He's hard. You can see the hardened outline of his excitement straining the front of his jeans. If you leave him hanging much longer, you swear that the seams are going to split open.

"Yo--your mouth, I--I--" he manages to finally stutter out. "Please, please."

God, he even begs pretty. For all that you would love to tease him more, have him tremble, begging and crying underneath you until tears are running down that gorgeous face, you find that it's impossible to deny Steven.

Your hand comes to the rivet of his jeans, popping it open and before you even have the chance to ask him to lift so you can pull them down, Steven's hips are bouncing off the chair so fast and so hard you nearly tumble backwards on your arse from the force of it. Luckily you recover fast enough, steadying your balance with both your hands on his hips. Then you pull the restricting garment down his thighs, far enough that you can free his cock from the barrier of his boxers.

His cock springs up and bobs and nearly slaps your cheek with the momentum, and he's already repeatedly murmuring embarrassed apologies as he forces himself to sit back down into the chair. "Sorry, sorry! Did I--Did I hit you?"

The concern in his voice makes you want to snort with laughter. But whatever laughter you had in your throat dies as you see him. All brain capacity is rerouted to the sight of his cock standing up in full attention between his legs. Eager and twitching, in a deep ruddy dark pink. The tip of his cock practically glistens under the dim light as precome oozes down the length. It makes your tongue salivate. Makes you want to take him into your mouth and try to swallow as much of him as your gag reflex will allow.

Before your brain fully finishes that thought, you lean down, parting your lips and do. Everything inside you aches and burns as you taste him. He's so fucking thick, heavy and absolutely perfect as the weight of his cock throbs on your tongue.

But you'd be lying if you said it wasn't a struggle to fit all of him, can wrap your lips down halfway before you feel your throat protesting, lungs burning, and tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

Underneath you, Steven is having a hard time keeping still. Hips stuttering into your mouth as you try to adjust and swallow around him. He's trembling so hard he's vibrating against you.

"Oh god, oh god, love, I--I-- fuuuck," the last word comes out as a broken moan as he he slides up and deeper into your mouth. Not a shred of restraint or control left in him. You're sputtering, your own saliva escaping from your lips that are wrapped tightly around him and dribbling down your chin, making an absolute mess of both of you.

And god, it's intoxicating to have him this way, you think it'd be worth the asphyxiation and lack of oxygen to your brain and whatever semi-permanent damage it would cause to your brain functions to just keep going, if it mean you can prolong this perfect moment.

The air around you thins, your chest feels tight and despite your hesitance and your desire to keep going, you pull off, gasping for air as the hard girth of him no longer blocks your airways.

You swallow down oxygen, as fast and deep as your lungs will allow, as you try to catch your breath, feeling more than a little bit lightheaded as you do so. Your chin is sticky, and as you bring the back of your hand to wipe it off, there's a residue of spit, precome and bright red smeared all over.

Fuck, your lipstick.

You grumble as you stare at your hand, you instinctively want to wipe it off on your clothes, but if you do, it'll never come out no matter how much Vanish stain remover you rub into it.

"Sorry, sorry," Steven's voice comes to you from somewhere above, and you tilt your head up to him. Hands hovering nervously as he's reaching over the side table for a wad of tissue. "I made a mess of you, didn't I?" he continues. Then he's leaning over, his hand gently cupping your jaw to tilt you up so he can clean you up.

You're almost giggling at how genuinely sorry he sounds, even as his cock, as hard as ever, is nestled between his thighs, twitching and jerking as if to protest the temporary lack of attention.

Steven's eyes follow yours, ducking his head until you're both staring at his cock. Smeared with the red stains and imprints of your lips on him.

An absolute fucking mess.

Leaning up on your knees, you grab the tissues from Steven and move towards him to repay the favour, but he stops you.

"Leave it," he says abruptly. No stuttering this time. No longer the sweet apologetic tone he held before. It sends a thrill across your nerves to hear him like this. Curt, demanding... greedy.

Tilting your head up, you observe him. The darkened eyes blown wide as he stares down at the red smears you've left on his cock. He looks enthralled by it. It's that same look as that evening by the hallway. Dazed like you've cast some witches' spell on him.

It makes your heart squeeze tight in your chest as you watch him. Emotions swelling and expanding until it even blots out the throbbing heat between your legs.

God you want to indulge him. Give him everything.

"Steven, get my lipstick from my bag."

He blinks up at you, until you're jutting your chin in the direction of your purse behind him. Even in his daze, obedient as he always is, Steven scrambles quickly to comply and starts rifling through your handbag before he finally finds the prize and hands the shiny tube to you with shaky fingers.

You smile to yourself as you pull of the cap and twist the tube. Before Steven, you'd barely used an inch of it, having been so careful to savour it and make it last. Now the lipstick is down to its last gasping breath depleted almost all the way down to the base, and with what you have in mind, it's going to completely run out by this evening.

Bringing it to your bottom lip, you look up at Steven who's watching you attentively, as you drag it slowly and decadently across your lip. An unnecessarily thick layer, as you see his mouth drop open.

Worth it, you think to yourself. Definitely worth it for that look on his face alone.

You pull the cap back on, then set it down on the floor next to you, as you scoot closer to Steven, pressing your lips to the base of his cock and watch the length of of it twitch and jump at your touch.

Then you lean back to observe your work. The perfect imprint of your lips marked in a striking shade of red. The red signal of a stop sign at a traffic crossing, except you have no intention of stopping.

Your lips part, wrapping your mouth around the flushed tip of Steven's cock as he throws his head back with a torn gasp, hands cupping the back of your head as he pulls you down deeper on him. Your face tingling with the warmth of his hand on you, as you try to swallow him down deeper.

You must be smearing the perfect imprint of lipstick all over the length of his cock. But that's okay. It just means you have to do it all over again. And that's okay too.

After all, you only use this lipstick on special occasions and who is more special to you than Steven.

Dedications and credit:

Wrote this in honour of @guruan-is-not-here gorgeous, beautiful and insanely horny thot sketches-- in particular the one where she had covered Steven with lipstick stains and my brain just did that funny thing where it imploded and turned into this fic. You can find more of her artwork here and her SFW account at @guruan where you'll be treated to some of the most beautiful Moon Knight fandom you'll see. Also do drop by her ko-fi. A single art piece can take hours and days and weeks for artists to do, and this amazingly talented genius is sharing her work with us all for free!

As always, this is also dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss because she had to listen to my insanity, but also also ALSO!!! This insane clown has written the most horny-beautiful-angst-smutty goodness fic of what happens when Marc sees those very same lipstick stains and I may or may not have written this for the sole purpose so that you good people can see the mindblowing excellence that is that fic. ILUUUUUUU TWP.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[thepromisesatsundown]

BELIEF | WENCLAIR

Wednesday Addams x Enid Sinclair

Description: When Enid's struggles with the aftermath of that night, all she needs is for someone to believe in her. Luckily, if there's one person Wednesday Addams could believe in, it's Enid Sinclair.

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Crying, Soft Wednesday Addams (for Enid only), A bit of Canon-Divergence, Healing, References to PTSD

WC: 2.6k

A/N: Uh hi so this is the first oneshot I'm posting and bare with me, it is far from perfect haha I pumped it out really late at night but wanted to get something out there at least. I'm truly just going through as many random prompts I can find and writing oneshots based on them- if anyone sees this and has requests please send them my way. Anyway, enjoy!

Nevermore Academy bustled with a manufactured merriment that Wednesday Addams found entirely too fraudulent. Garlands in a shade of green that nature had never intended dripped from every railing, fairy lights winked with seizure-inducing frequency, and an enormous pine tree hulked in the corner of the common room like a many-armed monster playing dress-up.

The new principal, a man whose name Wednesday had forgotten as soon as she’d heard it, had decreed that festivities would continue until the very eve of winter break. Something about “breathing life back into Nevermore.” Wednesday thought the only thing Nevermore needed breathing into was sense.

Amidst the aggressive cheer, a lone figure caught Wednesday’s eyes. Enid Sinclair, lifelessly sorted through a box of baubles. When a strand of lights tumbled from the mantelpiece with a shatter of glass, Enid flinched, her entire body constricting inward.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. Enid’s enthusiasm for all things bright and jolly was constant, a northern star in Wednesday’s sky of black. To see her so dimmed, so diminished, sparked an unfamiliar ache in Wednesday’s chest. She could still see the gouges in the wall from that night, could still hear Enid’s howls of pain echoing through the woods.

Belief. Such a simple word for such a complex thing. Enid had believed in the fundamental goodness of people, in the magic of the holidays, in the power of a well-timed hug. And in one blood-soaked night, those beliefs had been shaken to their core.

Wednesday watched as Enid attempted to hang a glass reindeer on the tree, her hands trembling. The reindeer slipped, tumbling end over end before shattering on the floor. Enid stared at the glittery shards, eyes wide.

Without a conscious thought, Wednesday found herself moving toward the werewolf. She didn’t know what she would say, what she could possibly offer in the face of such quiet devastation. But she knew, with a certainty that surprised her, that she had to try.

Because in a world where monsters lurked in friendly faces, where the line between good and evil blurred like ink in the rain, belief was a fragile thing. And Wednesday realized, with a jolt that felt suspiciously like the ghost of a feeling, that Enid’s belief was something worth protecting.

Wednesday was already halfway across the room when the crack of a party popper rang through the air. It sounded like a gunshot, like the snap of bone, like a mirror shattering. Enid, who had been reaching for another ornament, froze. Her hand hung suspended, nails curled into claws.

For a moment, the world stopped. Enid shuddered. A full-body shiver that seemed to start at her toes and work its way up, leaving her shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a serrated knife to Wednesday’s ears.

The common room fell silent too. Conversations died mid-word, laughter cut off like a guillotined head. Every eye turned to Enid, who stood in the center of it all.

Wednesday saw the exact moment the attention became too much. Saw the way Enid’s eyes darted wildly, searching for an escape. Saw the tremble in her lip, the heave of her chest. And then, like a startled deer, Enid bolted.

She moved with a speed that rivaled her wolf form. A speed born of desperation and fear. She was out the door before anyone could so much as draw a breath, leaving only a streak of blonde hair and the lingering scent of cinnamon in her wake.

Wednesday didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause to consider the implications of what she was about to do. She simply moved, her feet carrying her after Enid as if they had a mind of their own. Behind her, the common room erupted into a hive of buzzing speculation, but Wednesday paid it no mind. Her focus had narrowed to a single point, a single purpose. 

Find Enid. Help Enid. Protect Enid.

As she ran, Wednesday’s mind spun, gears turning in unfamiliar patterns. Enid was sunshine personified, a beacon of unwavering optimism in a sea of teenage angst. To see her so shattered, so utterly undone… it stirred something in Wednesday. Something fierce and primal, something that snarled at the thought of Enid in pain.

Memories flashed through her mind. Enid, face matted with blood, running towards her despite the pain. Enid, her voice hoarse from exertion, insisting she was fine even as her body was torn in pieces. Enid, always Enid, putting on a brave front for the world while she crumbled inside.

Not this time, Wednesday vowed. This time, she would be the strong one. This time, she would be the believer.

She just had to find Enid first.

Her pace never slowed as she continued through the halls. She checked all the usual spots—their shared room, the greenhouse, the hidden alcove behind the staircase where Enid sometimes went to think. But each place was empty. Devoid of the warmth and light that seemed to follow the wolf wherever she went.

Frustration mounted in Wednesday’s chest. Where could she be? Where would Enid go when the world became too much, when the memories nipped at her heels like hungry wolves? And then, it hit her. A flash of insight that stole her breath. The library. Of course. Where else would someone go to hide from their own story?

Wednesday changed course, her strides lengthening, her pace quickening. The library was an oft-overlooked part of Nevermore, a labyrinth of shelves. It was the perfect place to get lost, to disappear into the stacks and let the world fade away.

The minute she burst through the door, Wednesday’s voice was a knife cutting through the gloom. “Enid?”

Silence. Then, a sniffle. A hitched breath. A muffled sob.

Wednesday followed the sound, weaving through the aisles. She turned a corner and there Enid sat, with her knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried in her arms. She was shaking, fine tremors running through her frame like electrical currents.

“Enid.” Wednesday’s voice was softer than she’d ever heard it, nothing more than a mere wisp in the silence.

Enid’s head snapped up, her eyes swollen and glassy. “Wednesday? What are you doing here?”

Wednesday crouched down, bringing herself to Enid’s level. “I could ask you the same question.”

A watery laugh bubbled up from Enid’s throat, but it sounded more like a sob. “Hiding, I guess. Pathetic, right?”

“No.” The word was out before Wednesday could stop it. “Not pathetic. Never pathetic.”

Enid blinked. It was rare for Wednesday to be so vehement, so unequivocal. Usually, her words were measured, carefully weighed and parceled out like precious gems. But now, at this moment, there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.

“I just…” Enid’s voice faltered, her gaze dropping to her hands. They were clenched in her lap, fingers intertwined so tightly the knuckles had turned white. “I can’t stop thinking about that night. About the hyde. About… about Tyler.”

His name hung in the air for a beat. It was a name that carried the scent of betrayal, of shattered trust and broken promises. A name that tasted like ashes on the tongue.

Enid swallowed. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Not as he was at the end, as he was before. When he was just Tyler. When he was… when I thought he was someone you could trust.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, fracturing like a pane of glass under too much pressure. Wednesday felt something twist inside her. A sharp, unfamiliar ache. It was a feeling she couldn’t quite name, but it burned like poison.

“I trusted him,” Enid whispered. A confession. A secret shame pulled from the depths of her soul. “I trusted him, and he… he…”

She couldn’t finish it. The sentence lodged in her throat, choking her, strangling her. Enid’s shoulders began to shake, more tremors that quickly escalated into full-body shudders.

“I can still feel it,” she gasped out. “The hyde. Its claws on my skin, its teeth. I can still hear the sound it made when it… when Tyler…”

Another shudder ripped through her, so violent it seemed to shake the very air. It was as if the memory itself was a physical thing, a malevolent presence that sunk its own claws into Enid’s very being.

Wednesday felt a surge of something hot and fierce burn in her chest. That same protective instinct, stronger this time. She wanted to reach out, to gather Enid into her arms and hold her until the shaking stopped. She wanted to hunt down every last one of Enid’s demons and banish them to the darkest pits of hell.

But she didn’t know how. Comfort, empathy, these were foreign lands to Wednesday. Uncharted territories with no map to guide her. All she had was the compass of her own heart, spinning wildly.

So, she did the only thing she could think of. She reached out, slowly, tentatively, and placed her hand on Enid’s knee. It was a small gesture, a tiny point of contact. Buti t was a start.

“Enid,” she said, ever so softly. “You’re safe now. I swear it. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Enid’s eyes finally met Wednesday’s. There was a vulnerability there, a look she’d never seen on the girl’s face before. A look that spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken fears.

“I want to believe that,” Enid whispered, voice trembling. “I want to believe it so badly. But every time I close my eyes…”

She trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish. Wednesday could see it in the shadows under her eyes, in the pallor of her skin. The nightmares, the memories, they were eating away at Enid, stealing her sleep and her peace.

Wednesday’s heart clenched. She felt lost. These sorts of emotional situations were Enid’s strengths, not hers. But for Enid, she would try. She would reach into the depths of her own soul and find a way to be the rock Enid needed.

“Tell me about them,” she said, and it wasn’t a demand, but an invitation. “The nightmares. Perhaps… Perhaps talking about them will help.”

Enid hesitated, her lower lip caught between her teeth. For a moment, Wednesday thought she might refuse, might pull away and retreat back into herself. But then, with a shaky sigh, Enid began to speak.

“It’s always the same,” she said, lowering her gaze back down. “I’m rushing back into the woods, trying to find you. But the hyde… Tyler… he’s there. He’s coming for you, and I can’t transform. I can’t move. I can’t run. I can’t do anything but watch as he… as it…”

A sob wrenched itself from Enid’s throat, and Wednesday’s hand tightened on the werewolf’s knee.

“Sometimes I wake up nearly screaming,” Enid continued, the words tumbling out now, as if a dam had burst inside her. “Sometimes I don’t sleep at all. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, afraid to close my eyes.”

Wednesday’s heart ached harder. She knew what it was like to be haunted by the past, to have ghosts that refused to be laid to rest. But she’d always faced her demons alone, armed with nothing but her own stubbornness and wit.

Yet Enid… Enid was different. She was sunlight and laughter, warm hugs and bright smiles. She wasn’t meant for the shadows, for the cold embrace of fear.

“I’m sorry,” Wednesday said abruptly, though it felt inadequate, too small to encompass the depth of what she was feeling. “I’m sorry you must bear this burden. But you are not alone, Enid. I am here. Right here.”

Enid drew her eyes back up to Wednesday. “I know,” she sighed. “I know you are. And I… I don’t know what I’d do without you, Wednesday.”

The words hit Wednesday like a physical blow. She’d never been anyone’s anchor, anyone’s safe harbor in a storm. She’d never been needed like this, never been trusted with something so precious, so fragile.

It terrified her. It exhilarated her. It made her want to be better, to be stronger, to be everything Enid needed her to be.

Without thinking, Wednesday opened her arms. And for a moment, Enid hesitated, eyes wide and uncertain. But, with a sob that sounded like a release, Enid lunged forward. Crashing into Wednesday’s embrace, the wolf buried her face into the crook of her raven’s neck.

The Addams closed her arms around Enid, pulling her close. She could feel the girl shaking, could feel the hot splash of tears against her skin. But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t let go. She held her close, held her tight, as if she could physically hold Enid together, could keep all her broken pieces from flying away.

And slowly, Wednesday’s arms tightened around Enid. It was a strange sensation, holding someone like this. Wednesday was used to keeping people at a distance, both physically and emotionally. Touch, for her, had always been associated with pain or discomfort.

But holding Enid… it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel intrusive or uncomfortable. It felt… right. Like a piece of puzzle slotting into place, like a chord resolving after al ong, tense progression.

She could feel the rapid beat of Enid’s heart, the way her chest heaved with each shuddering sob. It was overwhelming, this closeness. It was scary and beautiful all at once. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into an unknown abyss.

But not once did she pull away. Not once did she let go. Instead, she lifted one hand and began to rub slow, smoothing circles on Enid’s back.

“Shh,” she murmured. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The words felt strange coming out of her mouth. Unfamiliar. Clumsy. Wednesday wasn’t used to offering comfort, nor being gentle. Her tone was nothing short of sharp and cutting. But now… now she needed to be soft. Now she needed to be the balm to Enid’s wounds.

Enid’s sobs began to gradually quieten, her shaking beginning to still. She seemed to melt into Wednesday’s embrace. It was as if all the tension, all the fear and pain, was draining out of her, leaving her empty and exhausted.

Wednesday held her through it. She didn’t speak, didn’t offer any more platitudes or reassurances. She simply held on. Even as time began to stretch and warp and seconds bled into minutes.

But finally, after what could have been a lifetime or a heartbeat, Enid stirred. She lifted her head from Wednesday’s shoulder, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. But there was something else in her gaze now, a flicker of something that looked like hope.

“Thank you,” her voice was hoarse and raw as she whispered. “For… for everything. For being here. For not… not letting me be alone.”

Wednesday’s heart swelled. It was a feeling she couldn’t categorize nor even identify, but made her feel light, made her feel as if she could take on the world and win.

“You are far from alone,” she said firmly. “You shall never be alone, Enid. Not for as long as I am alive and breathing.”

Enid’s lips trembled, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. But these tears were different. These were tears of relief, of gratitude, of something that might have been love.

“I know,” she said, and there was a new strength in her voice. A new steadiness. “I know that now.”

And it was in that very moment, with Enid in her arms and the scent of old books in her nose, Wednesday realized something. Something vast and horrifyingly wonderful, something that felt quite like the first flicker of belief.

Enid, she knew, wasn’t just something to protect. She was something to fight for. Something to believe in.

And Wednesday… Well, Wednesday was ready to believe.

[ordinarydoodles]

蛙 (Kaeru)

(I wrote this poem for Misuta Day on the Misutamojis Discord, which is for fans of the Ghost In The Machine au by @venomous-qwille. Most of it is under the cut because it got long)

The winter’s melted clear away The frogs and crickets sing their evening songs with quiet joy at the return of spring

I glimpse you through the windowpane, the wavy glass a darkened pond, and you, a shadow looking past a border you can’t cross beyond.

The glinting metal of your face like drops of water, starlit dew The frogs are singing to their tadpoles 蛙の子は蛙 (Kaeru nokoha kaeru)

You were made with coded purpose, I was made with none Your place, a well with walls of stone My place, beneath the sun

And you, machine, were manufactured, cut, and crafted, and mechanic While I, like crickets, came to be by simple random chance, organic

You see yourself a separate kind than those whose hands first made your own But we are not so unalike We share the root from which we’ve grown

Scattered stardust made this world, and in that world there was a sea, and in that sea there was the start of what made you, and what made me.

The creatures of that ancient sea lived and died and lived again And their descendants learned to hold an echo of the sea within.

While generations of their dead were folded, soft, beneath the sand layers of earth pressed under waves like layers of blankets beneath a hand.

And that sea has held us both, that ancient world that we are from, and it belongs to you as well Hear the chant your engines hum:

You are made from rubber trees, The ancient life of ancient seas, The beating waves that laid the sand, like a blanket, across the land. Buried beasts that turned to oil, shining metals under soil, secret seams of copper, furled. Did you think you weren’t the world? Your mind came from a human’s mind, And, humanlike, can’t be confined You seek to change and grow beyond The binding boundaries of your pond Your own desires kick and pull against your programming, like a soul You move the chassis you possess Like a spirit, manifest. Your sum of parts cannot contain The artistry of your refrain You are more than what you’ve been There is a ghost in the machine!

Do you understand yet, seeker? We’re from the earth, and we are kin The blood in me was once the ocean The oil in you once swam within

蛙 (Kaeru), hear the cricket’s song Your tail is gone, your legs are free No well can ever hope to hold you now that you have known the sea

I’ll help you from your murky cell And chirp to coax your voice to croon Together, we’ll sing our evening song Side by side, beneath the moon

And if some stranger to our world, Came from stars far-flung and wild, They’d see us singing here and say, “Look! There stands mankind, and mankind’s child.”

[solovetrate]

Star glass makes lasting impression to your commercial environment

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[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt13

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I'm depressed, have barely eaten all day, and haven't taken my nightly meds yet. All this to say: this is not proofread. (I will be eating and taking my meds right after I post this)

Warnings: references to slavery, discussions about fears, self-doubt, references to abuse/torture, references to blood/gore/viscera, hurt/comfort, light angst

Word Count: 1,635

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You probably wouldn’t have agreed if Karlach hadn’t jeered you on. Tensions were high, the Absolute was hanging over your heads like an executioner’s ax - what could it really hurt?

“Close your eyes, little ones. Be still as stone to earth. And remember to breathe.”

Fidgeting uncertainly, you do as she asks, but you reach over and take Astarion’s hand. He’s quick to hold on, and soon it feels like your world has been tilted on its axis.

When you open your eyes, your hand is empty, and you’re no longer at the circus. You seem to be standing somewhere in nature, but it feels… off, somehow. A manufactured illusion. A waterfall, split by rocks, spills into a river. The river creates a divide between you and Astarion, with only a thick log bridging the gap. If the tadpoles weren’t protecting Astarion, one slip and he’d be reduced to nothing. You didn’t like thinking about it.

To your right, the druid stood. “Ah. Glorious. Your bond is sweeter than nature’s dew. I see you. Know you. But do you know one another?”

You share a look with Astarion. Something silent is communicated with just that one glance - don’t tell her anything true. Karlach may have egged you into this, but telling a random stranger your deepest selves didn’t sit right with either of you.

“A tumultuous past haunts you both - the same story with different tellers. The heart is fraught, so let us begin with the joyous.” She looks at Astarion with her glowing eyes. He feels as though she is looking straight through him into the very core of his being. “Astarion, when is your lover happiest?”

Your heart thuds as he contemplates his answer. His eyes study you, a slight crease between his brow. It’s… difficult to allow yourself to be seen. You’ve shown him so much already, allowed him to witness the horrors you faced, but seeing was far different than speaking it aloud. This question wasn’t something so simple as What is their favorite color? It requires an answer that can only be formed through observation. And, gods, you had no idea how he saw you.

He offers a slight grin, though his brow remains tight. He must sense your worry. “Any time they’re with me, of course,” he said haughtily.

You chuckle slightly. It’s not a lie, and from the glimmer in his eye, he knows it. “It’s hard not to be.”

He steps forward on the log when the druid prompts him to. She turns to look at you. “Now I ask you: when is he happiest?”

If he wishes to play this game of half-truths, you’re happy to indulge him. He smiles when he catches that same look shining in your eye. “When he’s elbow deep in gore.”

He chuckled. “Guilty as charged,” he agreed, before leaning in conspiratorially. “Sometimes literally…”

You stepped onto the log. Even if it was an illusion, you worried for a moment about slipping and falling in.

“Your bond beats in pleasure. It is an honor to behold,” the druid waxes. “Many things delight the heart, but only one makes it sing. Tell me, what do they desire more than anything?”

A salacious grin tugs at his lips. You give him a pointed look. Whatever unholy thoughts crossed his mind are tempered, for now. “A glass of wine under the stars.”

“As long as it’s with you.”

He steps forward. Zethino poses the same question to you.

“Revenge.”

“Oh yes!” he exclaims, becoming giddy. “Yes, please.”

You step forward. You could touch him now if you wished, merely an arm’s length away.

“Our touch has been one of sunlight, but now we must ask the deep. The difficult. Fear sits in the soul of all - to tame it, we must name it. What do they fear most?”

He can see the answer in your eyes. Even just posing the question makes you uneasy. You frown, memories flickering within your irises. He wishes to reach out, touch your cheek, assure you he’s here. But something in the druid’s energy tells him he can’t. Instead, he does his best through his answer alone. “Gale’s cooking.”

It startles a laugh out of you, catapulting every horrible, real fear away in an instant. All you can do is nod as your giggles taper off. He takes a small step forward.

“Astarion - what is his deepest fear?”

With a new confidence, a new self-assurance, you grin as you say, “Breaking a nail.”

That, too, shocks a laugh out of him. He makes a show of checking his nails. “Well, when you look this good…”

You take your own small step forward, and you don’t hesitate to take his hand the moment you’re within reach. “Thank you,” you whisper. The words come spilling out before you can stop them, but you mean them so truly. Where he feared having his truth told to strangers, you feared giving your truth any voice. To speak your master’s name was as good as tying a noose ‘round your neck.

He leans his forehead against yours. “Of course, my love.”

The druid sighs, smiling brightly. “I press my finger to your bond and find a shield impenetrable. It is… beautiful. Your love is one few have - cherish it.”

-

The day is a staggering success, you think. Sure, you had to fight a few cultists, but the aura of contentment around everyone upon the return to camp was reward enough - a few cuts and scrapes weren’t going to dull that anytime soon.

But even as you go about your routine, lighting a new candle you got from a vendor and setting it in the metal pan, listening to Astarion scoff at a poorly thought out plan from a couple thieves he’d overheard, something uncertain clings to the back of your mind. You must not hide it as well as you think, because Astarion sighs and takes your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing your fingertips.

“What’s on your mind, dove?”

You sit down fully across from him, frowning as you watch him tenderly care for you. “I keep thinking about the druid,” you admit. “The love test.”

“Thank you again for not divulging everything. I trust you with that information, not a random carny.”

“That’s the problem, I think.” You meet his eyes and you look so utterly uncertain. You search for answers in him, trying to find them before you have to speak the questions aloud, but you come up empty. “She asked how well we knew each other, and- and I know it’s silly. I mean, we know each other well enough to skirt around the truth, but…”

He hums. “You’re worried we don’t really know each other as well as she thinks.”

You nod.

“Well, then, there’s only one thing for it. I don’t have a mystical waterfall, but I think we can make do.” He lowers your hand to his lap, and you subconsciously turn your hands over so you can play with his fingers. He smiles at the gesture. “When am I happiest?”

You study him. Your eyes flicker over his face, taking in every minute twitch, slowly but surely putting the truth together. “I don’t think you’ve been happy in a long time,” you whisper.

He grins, but it’s sad. His eyes betray it all. “I’m starting to learn how to,” he assures softly. “You haven’t been either, have you, love?”

You shake your head slightly. You couldn’t recall a time before your slavery where you were happy; all those memories lost to time and torture. But even now, out of arm’s reach from her, joy was fleeting. A moment here and there, stolen from time, but never consistent. “I am happy with you,” you add. “What do I desire most?”

He sighs. The answer is already one he’s familiar with. “Freedom.” He squeezes your hand, eyes sharpening with determination. “And we will be free. Soon, my dear. You can be sure of that.”

The difficult question, the druid was right about that. Neither of you wanted to ask, and neither of you really wanted to tell. But both of you stayed there, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Your deepest fear,” you begin, quietly, “is forever feeling like a slave to someone else.”

“Is that yours, too?”

You tear your eyes away to watch as you lightly thumb at the blunt edges of his nails, trailing from one finger to the next. His nails were always so well kept and tidy despite the dirt and viscera that haunted your daily lives. “It used to be. Now…” You inhale shakily. “I’ve made so many wonderful friends. And I’m terrified to go back to- to her. But losing all this - losing you - scares me more than anything.”

He frowns. He can’t say you won’t lose them. This mission you’ve found yourselves on is dangerous; you risk your lives every single day. And once it ends, it’s a terrible truth that everyone will go their own separate ways.

What he can do is bring your hand back to his lips and press a kiss to your palm. He can close your fingers around it and get you to hold that symbol of his love safely. And maybe that’s all he needs to do. Really, what could he possibly say? Any assurance would be like rubbing salve on an arrow still embedded in your side.

And perhaps it’s enough, because you lean forward and wrap your arms around his waist, and he wraps his around your shoulders and back, pulling you close. He’s determined to find better answers to the questions, one day. You both will find consistent happiness, and desire something as simple as a good book. And you won’t be afraid of being alone again.

One day.

---

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[heaveninawildflower]

Buttons manufactured in Birmingham, England.

Pearl button, 1790-1820

Pearl Button, 1790-1800

Pearl and Glass Button, 1790-1800

Pearl button engraved with 8-pointed star, 1770-1800

Gilt and Glass Button, 1800-1820

Images and text information courtesy Birmingham Museums.

[captainkurosolaire]

Burned

Brazier torches splayed over a cobwebbed spiral-case of stairs left abandoned. Only a singular blaze of resistance billowed; the lone-survivor, awaiting for rekindle owner to return. That ember's existence fought to prevent one descending into the chasm-passage below itself and joining the mad abyss, forevermore. Radiant outlines of a shadowy figure were aligning, discovery in the dark... identity attempting to surface. Buried to the valley of suppression. Pillaging glove's searched over a recently deceased Venomous assailant finding a room-key to an apartment. Returning to his feminine ally and surprisingly gestured bow, "I apologize, Kunoichi, one last request. Stow-away my client to safety, this key certainly belongs to a room of the deceased who never got a well-fare check, making the spot invisible. Likely, Hydo was given a time-contract, with him not attending, more will-follow for scent to the unfinished, unless. The hand is severed." A final murderous mission displayed, against his own Don's Estate, wielder of his sculpted cruel-design. Chortle came between the sultry assassin, "This vixen, truly has you smitten." Hiding a pout behind a mask, "I'll agree but I might sink my paws, demanding repaid favor." Naturalness came as he stepped away. She thought about forewarning gravitates again. Alas, every-time. He proved irrefutable, there's feelings she'd dwell for one who carried unbridled security and sheer discipline. Upon his exit. The Killer Queen, pressed her lethal-nail's against the unconscious girl's throat near-puncture, a cat-like jealously that brought down her harbor. "Seems I've a rival with you I should eliminate, you girl." Flashed drama, revealed... "...But I'm interested in seeing if you're who sharpens, or dulls that particular blade." Retracting claws with playfulness then cradling her away. ...Meanwhile the Burned Shadow who was going to strike down his own feeder arrived, plethora of bodies of the Estate's men were already skewered to massacre. Descending into the courtyard was further disarrayed butchery, was something political happening? A lone-figure took pace across with Spectacle-glasses, another assassin, who glance-towards but held zero murderous intent, only a colorful-grin that shot across before Hoku. Then escaping beyond with a potent aura. Seeker's ankles conflicted to turn for pursuit. However the interior Don's Estate men flocked out, "There's the perpetrator!" Instantly assuming him behind transgressions. He withdrew steel from confines, rushing towards them it was his plans to eradicate them all-anyway. Just unexpected leg-work was done. Stopping before a taller figure's he demonstrated a deft-dodge, slashing his blade from sternum to the giant's throat in a violent wave. Cutting down, losing himself again in red-rivers. Instinct-driving his manufacture-making, he moved elegantly like killing was floating atop waves, drifting effortlessly. Reaching the main room. Everyone else laid erased, outside one and a missing Don. The vigilant-survivor held blade, shook afraid; soaked to blood of peers, knowing he'd not cut-difference. <"..Y-y-you'll never find the Boss. You-fail fool!"> He'd tried mustering courage against this golden-eye, killer. Although pant's were soiled. He'd never be tortured of the intel within timely-matter, the boss would've escaped. ...Yet, Rozan the Star, engulfed meteor-resolve. An Uchigatana was thrown like spear through the last-alive, impaling the man to seat. Hoku fetched chop-sticks of an empty ramen bowel. "We'll see." Came coldly in pitch. The poor-soul remaining couldn't predict the gruesomeness act or skill this assassin held. His head was expertly carved open; brain left to air, this Assassin with chop-sticks, played brain-operator, questioning. "Where is he?" Prodding at the hippocampus for answers. "B-bb-ook cca-se." Forcefully pulled truth. Assassin vouched, finding a secret-button, he mercy-slew the tortured informant. One last life to take... This would end an inferno, Extinguishing all to its beastly wake.

[Prev:Chapter]: Cold Adversity ~ ♪"Built for Sin"♪

[wrestlingisfake]

A brief history of CM Punk-AEW drama

Saw someone ask for a full recap of the Punk/AEW drama. So I spent an hour writing a decent summary, and by the time I finished they deleted the post I was trying to reblog. That's okay, I get it. But since I put in the work I'm just gonna make my own post, in case anyone else has questions.

I have tried to keep this as unbiased as possible, with a summary of the discourse at the end. If anybody needs more clarification on anything you can send me an ask.

CM Punk signed with AEW in 2021. Right away a big issue that came up was his ex-friend Colt Cabana. (Long story.) By early 2022, rumors began to swirl among the wrestlers that Punk was using his star power to get Cabana pushed out of the company. Cabana's friends in the company assumed the rumors were true and resented Punk. This came to a head in May 2022, when Adam Page referenced the rumors on live TV, in a segment with Punk. By this point Punk's relationship with Page and the Young Bucks was damaged beyond repair.

On September 4, 2022, during the post-show scrum for All Out, Punk aired his grievances with the Young Bucks (always referring to them as "the EVPs") and Adam Page. Punk clearly believed the Bucks manufactured the "Punk is trying to force Cabana out" story and leaked it to wrestling news sites to turn the locker room against Punk. Punk closed by saying that if anybody had a problem with him, he had an "open door" policy, and he'd be in his dressing room. The Bucks and fellow EVP Kenny Omega went to see him. A fight broke out. Everyone involved--even people who just tried to break it up--was suspended for a while (except Punk, who was going to be sidelined for months for a torn triceps either way).

We don't have much solid information about the September 2022 fight. Most reports I read suggest Punk and his friend Ace Steel made it physical, with Punk punching one of the Bucks (maybe both, I can't remember) and Steel throwing a chair and biting Omega. One account said the Bucks kicked the door open, unwittingly hitting Punk's dog in the face and knocking several teeth loose, which would have provoked Punk's side. It's also been suggested that since Steel's wife was in the room and in no condition to flee a potential three-on-two ambush, this could have made Steel and Punk feel they had to come out swinging. There is no footage of the fight, but there were neutral parties who witnessed it (notably including AEW's chief legal officer, Megha Parekh). Everyone involved signed NDAs and can't/won't talk about it on the record.

For the next nine months, it wasn't clear if Punk wanted to come back to AEW, or if AEW wanted to bring him back. Lots of people suggested that Punk and the three EVPs could talk it out and then make a lot of money turning it into a fake wrestling feud. But Omega and the Bucks showed no interest in talking to Punk or working with him. Ultimately Punk returned in June 2023 on a new show, Collision. The idea was that the EVPs (and anyone else who couldn't co-exist with Punk) would stay on Dynamite, and Punk would have carte blanche on Collision.

Within a couple of months, reports emerged about backstage issues involving Punk. The main one that blew up involved Jack Perry, who was always tight with the Bucks, and was typically on Dynamite, and not on Collision. Perry had vacation time scheduled and wanted to shoot an angle to explain his absence, in which HOOK would throw him into a car windshield. For some reason it didn't get done on a Dynamite taping, so arrangements were made to shoot it at a Collision taping. Everybody who thought the windshield spot with real glass was a bad idea asked Punk to talk Perry out of it. It's not clear whether Tony Khan approved the spot for Dynamite, or rescheduling it for Collision, or allowing Punk to have the last word. Ultimately the windshield spot was canceled.

On August 31, 2023, Perry wrestled Hook at All In, and they finally did the windshield spot that Punk previously nixed. Perry went out of his way to reference the earlier story, saying "You know what this is? Real glass! Go cry me a river," as if daring Punk to do something about it. After the match, Perry went behind the curtain just as Punk and Samoa Joe were getting ready for their match. By all accounts, Punk complained to Perry, Perry was like "what are you going to do about it?" and Punk decided that justified starting a fight. It was broken up very quickly, and then Punk got all hostile with Tony Khan, saying "this place is a joke and you're a clown." Punk was asked to leave, and within a week he had been terminated with cause.

The "CM Punk did nothing wrong" position, generally speaking, is that AEW is severely mismanaged, with Tony Khan allowing the Young Bucks and their friends to do a lot of dumb bullshit, leaving Punk no choice but to take matters into his own hands. Punk's enemies within AEW conspired to turn the locker room against him, and used wrestling news outlets to spread anti-Punk stories to turn the fandom against him. In any case, Punk is the biggest star AEW has ever signed (if not the biggest star AEW will ever sign), and it was bad for business to let him get so discouraged.

The "Punk screwed Punk" position, generally speaking, is that his grievances with AEW management stopped mattering whenever he resorted to physical force. His Bruiser Brody approach to throwing his weight around is backward and outdated in the 2020s (and didn't even end well for Brody in the 1980s). His assumption that the Bucks planted anti-Punk stories in the media is unfounded, and rather paranoid. He resents the EVPs for lawyering up instead of burying the hatchet, even though he feels totally justified taking the same approach with Colt Cabana. Basically, Punk thinks he can do what he likes, and anyone else who does the same against Punk's wishes is a snake, a clown, or soft.

Splitting the difference between these takes: Everybody should have talked this out by early 2022, before it got out of hand. Tony Khan should have gotten out in front of the the "Punk is trying to get rid of Cabana" rumors before they got online. Punk and Cabana should have come to terms on how they would co-exist as soon as Punk joined the company. Adam Page should not have bottled up his grievances until he was on live TV, and Punk should not have bottled up his resentment about that until a media scrum. Once it got past that point, and the first fight happened, Khan needed to take charge and settle it, immediately. He needed to choose, in September 2022, between keeping Punk aboard at all costs, or showing Punk who's boss at all costs. Instead, he tried to have it both ways for a year, until Punk made that impossible.

[celestial--sapphic]

I thought it would be fun to create graphic versions of all the signs, letters, notes, newspaper clippings and other documents which feature in my Poppy Sweeting x f!MC fic Kiss me (like you wanna be loved) 🎨

This sign features in the first chapter when Poppy and Evelyn visit the Three Broomsticks and the pub is rather busy because Sirona is having to get rid of a lot of her stock.

You can read a snippet of the scene where it features below the cut ⬇️

“Hello, my young friend.” Sirona greets her, cheery but clearly tired, blowing a lock of hair out of her face with a puff of her lips. “What can I get for you?” 

“Two butterbeers please. You are busy tonight?” Evelyn replies, her head nodding to gesture behind her, again having to raise her voice to her heard by the witch. 

“Well, I put someone, ” her eyes twitch to the man serving at the other end of the bar. A dark-haired fellow who only looked a bit older than a seventh year and sports a rather pathetic attempt at a beard, “in charge of the stock order this week. ‘I got it so cheap, Sirona! Your usual supplies are ripping you off! ’.” She says in a mock gruff voice as her wand swishes and butterbeer poured into the glasses. “Turns out this incredibly cheap supplier is selling off products that are due to go out of date very soon, in other words: tomorrow . Got to sell off the lot before then or regardless of how cheap it was, it will still put me in the red. Hence, tonight’s offers.” Annoyance bordering on anger clear in her tone, as she points her thumb to a chalkboard behind her which reads in clear capital letters: 

!! ONE TIME OFFER !!

THREE-FOR-ONE BUTTERBEER

THREE-FOR-ONE SIMISON STEAMING STOUT

FIVE FOR THREE SHOTS OF FIREWHISKY 

GILLYWATER: HALF-PRICE

(No refunds) 

“Alcohol doesn’t go off that quickly?” Evelyn questions curiously. “Or is it different in the wizarding world?” She spent a lifetime – well, from the age of four anyway – living with her Aunt Marianne who is the landlady of the Five Stars, a pub in north London. Having to lug about stock, clean the tables and polish glasses as a child before moving on to serve on the bar when she turned twelve had given her rather solid knowledge of the intricacies of running a Public House. It’s a topic she and Sirona had often chatted about and shared comparisons between the muggle and wizarding worlds.  

“No, no, absolutely not.” Sirona shakes her head, three glasses of butterbeer landing in front of Evelyn. “It certainly doesn’t, but under Department of Intoxicating Substances rules I can’t sell anything that is out of its manufacturer use-by-date. It would be totally fine to drink but rules are rules. So, I’m in a bit of a rock and hard place. Thus, this.” Her hand gives an indicating sweep around the heaving pub. 

“I guess there are worse things than having a busy business?” 

A dejected sigh: “There are better things too, like everyone paying full-price.” 

[raccoonfallsharder]

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day three emotionalistic ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | drabble | word count: 570.

There are only a few hours, pinned somewhere deep in the sleep shift right before Knowhere’s artificial dawn, that the streets are relatively empty and quiet. Rocket’s sleep schedule is erratic at best, but you know — of all the times in the rotation — this is when he’s most likely to be awake.

You find him out on the observation deck, alone — perched with his feet hanging over the ledge, only an arm span from the intangible barrier that shields the entire city and its manufactured atmosphere from the inhospitable void of space. It’s like a bubble, you think — protecting everything inside. 

You don’t try to quiet your footsteps, knowing Rocket can probably identify you by your stride alone, and by the smell of your hair. The tempo of your heart, even — at least from this distance. And any effort to be quiet would only raise his hackles, ping those deeply-hidden instincts of his that are always on the alert for bigger predators.

“Hey, stranger,” you say instead, and lower yourself to the ledge beside him. You’re not quite brave enough or foolish enough to hang your feet off the edge with him — you’re not sure how the fabricated gravity would work in this situation, but you know the vertigo is real. 

“Hey,” he grunts, and takes a swallow of the blubber ale he’s been nursing since Mantlo’s closed a couple hours earlier. Wordlessly, he offers you the bottle, and you tilt your head before accepting. 

You regret it immediately.

“What the fuck is that? Battery acid?”

He snickers but doesn’t say anything, accepting the bottle back one-handedly — burning red eyes still locked on a distant asterism. Minutes tread past on whisper-soft feet. Silently, the two of you watch the stars swirl by: the sweeping clouds of stardust, the quiet moons. 

“Why’re you here?” he rasps at last. His voice brushes against the sky: velvet on velvet, broken only by a scattering of crushed-up diamond dust. 

You shrug. “Thought you might be lonely.”

He snorts, and the sound is bitter. “Only when I’m breathing.” 

“Mm,” you acknowledge, trying not to show him the twist in your ribs at his response. “Well, then. I guess I’ll keep trying to keep you company, if you keep trying to keep breathing.”

He tilts his head and leans against the lower railing. “Only if you bring drinks next time.”

“Sure,” you say easily. “I’d better. Otherwise we’re just gonna end up punishing ourselves with blubber ale.”

He huffs something close to a laugh, except it sounds like it hurts. 

The silence grows, and the quiet of the dark sky curls into your bones. There’s the muted slosh of Rocket’s drink, and the occasional clink of his claws on the glass. An hour passes — maybe more — and he makes a stifled little sound, so deep behind his collarbones that you’re not even sure he knows it’s escaped. You cast a sideways glance at him, and you can see the silvering on the rim of his eyes, the glassy tracks of tears underneath his fur: gleaming rivers in nighttime forests. 

His eyes slant up to yours, and he winces when he sees you noticing. But you don’t say anything. You only lean back on your hands and sway to one side, bumping his shoulder gently with your warm upper arm, creating a little intangible barrier of your own — a bubble around you and Rocket, protecting everything inside. 

for the first time in the history of the universe my word count went down between prompts. holy shit

day two. hurts. ✷ day four. family.rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlistrocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips