#that's all the tags i can think of. i am sleepy

[veebeeboo109]

"A Morning Workout"

{From Ch. 11 of "Cleaning Up the Timeline". After a less-than-peaceful sleepover, you wake up with Zayne and Sylus. Snowcrow is snowcrowing}

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: Smut, MMF, Zayne x Sylus x You, Threesome, DP, Wear a condom kids, and practice safe-sex practices.

“Can you take the day off? Please?”

Your timid question has him turning back around, “Really? I– I don’t think I can.”

“A sick day? You never take a sick day. Just a day to relax. I think you need it.” You argue. 

“I’m on call. There isn’t anything scheduled but I should go anyway.” Zayne’s arguing with himself more than you at this point. Debating against the part of himself that likes his work, and the part that really likes you. 

If there was an award for best puppeteer in the house, it would go to Sylus. (That is until Rafayel woke up.) You felt Sylus wake up, rising into consciousness and wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you more securely. Sleepily, lazily, he presses kisses to your tummy, then to your sternum, and then to the exposed skin of your chest. Taking his time to drift slowly upwards until your attention is torn between the two men. One who is still debating leaving, and the other baiting the hook to dangle in front of him. 

“We could have a lazy day,” Sylus rumbles against you, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or Zayne. “Stay in bed all day.” 

“I have responsibilities.” Zayne stands when he speaks, sounding a little irritated by Sylus’ taunt. 

“Oh, I know.” Sylus is pushing himself onto his elbows and moving to pepper your neck with kisses, unable to resist letting his tongue lap at your skin. “So responsible, Dr. Zayne. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of our kitten while you work. Such good, good care.”

Your breathing is picking up, steamy little pants leaving your lips as Sylus punctuates his words with branding fingers dragging down your sides, hooking into your shorts and panties and taking his time to pull them down your legs. 

“Hear her?” Sylus sounds almost pitiful, “How can anybody leave such a sweet little thing like you? Oh, I could never, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll give you what you need.”

“Sylus.” You gasp as he flattens his hands on your legs and caresses upwards. You can feel your heartbeat get faster the closer his hands get to the mess of slick between your legs. Barely a touch and your sopping, clenching around the mere idea of more. The pound of your heartbeat pulsing in your core, a desperate wanton drum. 

“You’re incorrigible.” Zayne seethes. His tone is icy and disapproving, arms crossed across his chest. But if he meant it he’d be leaving. Turning away to get ready for work and all his responsibilities. But he doesn’t. Zayne doesn’t move a muscle, standing at the edge of the bed like he’s anchored there. “You’d have me quit my job if I let you.”

Sylus’ laugh vibrates the live wire inside you. A pluck against that too-tight harp string of desire. The white-haired man glances over at the other, and he smirks like the devil himself, “Now there’s an idea. What do you think, kitten? Do you think Zayne should quit his job to take care of you?”

You mewl as Sylus drags his fingers up your slit, any words evaporating against the white-hot fever of his touch. You're getting a little dizzy, and feeling a little lost. Sylus begins playing with you slowly, drawing out little breaths of saccharine pleasure in a sleepy, thoughtless way. 

But he’s never thoughtless, never sloppy. You’ll realize later it’s on purpose. The loose swipes of fingers that leave you half-mad. He’s missing on purpose, making you whine in frustration on purpose. Is it because he’s mean? No. It’s because it’s the final straw for your fair, high-strung doctor. 

Zayne moves with scalpel precision, kneeling on the bed and grabbing Sylus’ wrist with an offended huff, “You’re not doing it right.”

Sylus grins like a victor after a fight, all canine. “Am I? Show me then, doc-tor.”

Zayne throws Sylus’ hand aside and gives him a glare, “You move too fast. You can’t just jump into touching her like that. She needs more affection. Watch.”

The dark haired man moves to pull you upright, placing himself between your thighs and holding the sides of your face to bring you to him. He opens his mouth like he might ask for permission, but you're already closing the gap. Pressing your lips to his hungrily. He responds in kind, matching your rhythm. 

Zayne is so measured. So even. Like the soft untouched surface of freshly fallen snow, but it's only a cover. A thin lay of snow and ice revealing dark waters below. You could drown in them, You would drown in them. Get lost in that painful abyss that’s equal parts comfort and consumption. 

You feel loved in his arms. Like you might find forever in his kisses. His hands drift down your body and pull you closer, and you’re taking the initiative to grip at his sleep shirt and tug it upwards. 

He pulls away to let you pull it off him. And you're back to kissing him. Breaking away from him is to be without air, to be without warmth. 

Zayne gasps when you bite at his lip, and he’s pushing his hand into your hair to hold you more firmly. 

When Zayne pulls away, there’s a sinful string of saliva connecting you. The delicate web snapping as he draws you away from him with the hold on your hair. “There. That’s the right way, isn’t it? Tell him, love. Tell him you like it better that way.”

You gasp and nod, “I like– ah–” Zayne doesn’t let you finish because his fingers are between your legs, drawing circles around your clit and down to your fluttering hole. Never lingering too long on the sensitive nub– too much stimulation making your eyes flutter. 

Sylus is behind Zayne, pressing against his back and dragging his lips along the other man’s neck. “So good…Keep going. Show me how good you can make her feel.”

Zayne sits up a little, turning his head to the side and meeting Sylus’ gaze. “It seems like you need the practice, Sy~lus.” 

The way Zayne purrs Sylus’ name makes you clench and roll your hips against Zayne’s hand. It’s a sight that you want to imprint into your mind forever. These two beautiful, massive, dangerous men, turning their attention to you and their eyes shining with lust and affection. 

“Sylus likes to be in charge,” Zayne says to you with a smirk, “Have you ever noticed how much he likes to boss others around?”

You nod, moaning as Zayne presses one of his fingers inside you. He grunts at the resistance, and exhales through his teeth. His glazed eyes dropping down to watch the digit disappear inside you. “So tight, love. Can you even handle another?”

Your head spins with how quickly you nod, “Yes, ngh– Yes, I c-can take it. I can.”

Sylus growls from behind Zayne, “Don’t push her too hard. Don’t–”

“I’m not going to.” Zayne bites back, but pushes another finger inside you. You squeal at the slight stretch and roll your hips down onto him. 

“I want–” Sylus sounds a little breathless when he speaks, looking at Zayne like he’s waiting for permission, “I want to taste her again.”

“I heard you got plenty yesterday.” Zayne chastises coolly, staring at Sylus almost disapprovingly while he simultaneously finger fucks you into oblivion. “Maybe you should just watch.”

“N-no.” Sylus whines, and the sound of it shoots like an arrow through you. “Please, let me. Come on, kitten. You want me to lick you again, don’t you? Tell him. Tell Zayne you want me to.”

“No.” Zayne’s voice is an even command. He draws his fingers out of you and you mewl at the loss, but watch with rapt attention as he lifts his dewy digits up to Sylus, “This is what you get. You get what I give you. You’re already getting your way by me staying here. You want to taste? Then lick them clean.”

You nearly come just from his words, and feel the pool of slick beneath you grow as you watch Sylus obey without a second thought. He grabs Zayne’s wrist and pulls the fingers to his mouth, dragging his long tongue up the length of them and then drawing them into his mouth, sucking them so thoroughly the sound of it fills the room. 

  Zayne pulls his hand away. His expression is even but his cheeks and ears are red, the skin of his chest flushed a sweet strawberry blush. He’s clearly affected, twitching as Sylus claws at him to draw him into a kiss, sharing the taste of you between them.

“I’ll help you,” Sylus breathes as he pulls away, “Just let me touch her. I’ll be good, but just let me–”

Zayne snorts, “Go on then.”

With permission granted, Sylus crawls over to you, “Sweet girl, oh, you smell so good. You’re twitching with it, aren’t you? You need to be filled up. Tell me, can I kiss you, sweetheart? Can I take care of you?”

You reach out to pull him to you, as easy as guiding a paper boat across a pond. There’s no resistance to him as you pull him on top of you, drawing him into a sloppy kiss. “Yes.” You rasp against his lips, “Anything– ah. Anything, please.”

Sylus groans and grinds his clothed hips against you, “Anything? You can’t offer that to me, sweetheart. Or I’ll actually take it.”

You’re tired of waiting. Tired of touching and grinding and not enough. So, you take matters into your own hands, and push Sylus’ shoulders and twist him around. He’s too big to move unwillingly, but the way his eyes widen tells you he’s more than willing. He moves with the tiniest pressure of your hands onto his back, letting you straddle him and remove his shirt. He’s a puppeteer at the mercy of someone else’s strings, lifting his hips when you hook around the waistband of his pants and pull down. 

You’ve barely got the pants past the roundness of his ass before there are hands at your waist, squeezing you.

“Slow down.” Zayne whispers, “We have the whole day, don’t we?”

“Zayne…” You whine airly, “I don’t want to wait.”

“Neither does he.” Zayne says with a pointed glance to a panting Sylus. The white haired man’s hands are raised, as if to show Zayne he was innocent in this stripping game. Zayne chuckles softly and pulls you by the back of the neck to kiss you, and when he lets you go,  he mumbles against your lips, “Do you trust me, love?”

You nearly smack your forehead into his when you nod, and can’t help but kiss him once more. A light, soft kiss. 

“Use your mouth.” Zayne hisses into you, “And I’ll use mine.”

You’re not clear what he means but you don’t care. You’re back at the task at hand, grabbing the elastic band of Sylus’ briefs and pulling down, eager like opening a present. Too excited for the prize within to care about the wrapping. 

Sylus’ cock springs out, slapping obscenely against his stomach and he hisses through his teeth. There’s a magnetic pull to him, drawing into his aura like a moth to flame. The heat emanating from his skin is addictive, only magnified by the cool air coming from Zayne as he grabs handfuls of your hips and ass. Guiding you onto all fours in front of Sylus with your hips in the air. 

A long ragged moan leaves Sylus’ lips when you drag your tongue up his thick, monstrous cock. It’s large like the rest of him is– thick and weighty. Even as furiously hard as he is, the weight of it makes it droop against his bellybutton, twitching upwards. 

You wrap your hand around the girth of him at the base and lift it up to your lips. Kissing the tip before you press the head into your warm, wet mouth. Sylus’ hand is in your hair the instant you touch him, and his fingers tremble with the untempered desire to grip and hold. 

It’s a stretch. He barely fits into your mouth, and you nearly gag on more than one occasion, but the wrecked sounds he makes are more than enough motivation for you to press on. 

A sharp yelp shocks out of you when Zayne is at your cunt, licking a long stripe up the messy line of your sex. He’s slow and gentle, polite even as he licks at your clit and presses his tongue into you. 

A chain reaction occurs. Your squeal makes Sylus groan, gripping your hair tightly which makes your eyes cross. You’re pressing back into Zayne’s tongue without thought, only pure delirium. 

It takes effort to focus on Sylus’ cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When your mind starts to drip into syrupy pleasure and your movements become sloppy, Sylus seems to enjoy it. His breathing hitches and the grip on your hair tightens. 

“That’s it…” Sylus growls, beginning to guide your head up and down his length. You can feel his thundering heartbeat against your tongue. “G-gorgeous girl... So good for us. Right–ahh that’s it– Right where you belong.”

He’s stuttering through the pleasure, his hips starting to thrust up. Something in his face shifts. A curl to his upper lip that makes Zayne stop. Zayne is quick, pushing Sylus’ hand off your head and pulling you off with an arm around your chest. You gasp as you're physically removed from Sylus, a wanton whine escaping. 

Sylus chokes, caught right at the precipice of orgasm but caught off. A flash of anger crosses his eyes before sense returns to him.

“You come when I say you can.” Zayne says as he uses his hold on your waist to maneuver you. Moving you further up Sylus’ body until your chest to chest with the man. 

Zayne is kneeling behind you, his hands finding holds on the sides of your hips, and shifts you from side to side just because he can. He hums, a deep, pleased noise as he watches you and Sylus share the same breath. Both fucked out and dumb– higher functioning off and nothing but writhing, sensory beings. 

“So pretty.” Zayne coos, “Looking at you two…what a sight you make. Lean back for me, love. That’s it– press back into me.”

“You want Zayne to fuck you, sweetie?” Sylus whispers against your lips, swallowing the soft gasp you make. 

“Yes– ahn– please Zayne!” You shift back, presenting for him like a bitch in heat, “Please, please, please.”

Sylus is grinning against you as he watches over your shoulder. Zayne releases one side of your hips to hold his cock and line it up. The fat head catches on your entrance, and you keen as he slowly presses in. The stretch is sublime. Edging just on the edge of discomfort. 

Zayne is quiet– the softest hitch of his breath the only sign he’s feeling anything. But then Sylus is moving his hands to the soft globes of your ass and spreading them, pushing you back and further down onto the other man’s throbbing cock. 

A dewy moan leaves you, and Zayne chokes on the staggering sound that his chest makes. He’s only halfway in, and you’re breathlessly full, unsure whether you want to move away or further down. 

“G-god, you’re so tight. Oh. Oh, don’t move.” Zayne snaps, “I don’t want to hurt you, love, so don’t move for a second. F-fu-uuck…”

“You can handle it.” Sylus whispers in your ear, sounding nearly as wrecked as you feel, “Keep going. Take it all. Fuck, just like that. Take it. Take it. Take it.”

You’re clinging to Sylus as Zayne presses in, coaxed deeper and deeper by needy movements of your hips. Completely surrounded by the two of them and every sense is overwhelmed. 

Sylus swallows your cries as Zayne begins to move, slow and steady.

When Zayne finally bottoms out, he grips the curve of your waist almost too tightly, pulling you back ever firmer against him, but he’s already as deep as he can possibly get. His hips pressed against your ass, and his cock tucked snugly against your cervix. 

It’s almost painful, but it dissolves into feathery pleasure when Sylus kisses you through it, muttering sweet words of praise and moving his hand to rub little circles on your clit. 

Your orgasm is fast approaching and Zayne’s barely moved. 

“O-oh fuck!” You squeal, nails digging into Sylus’ shoulder, “More, please, more!”

Zayne pounds into you. Long, hard thrusts that make stars sparkle behind your eyes. The sinful squelch of your slick and the slap of his hips is a symphony. It’s hard, and it’s lovely, and it’s perfect. 

You’re unable to keep kissing Sylus, mouth open and gasping for breath. He’s smiling– a wild, feral smile.

And a horrible thought occurs to you. Horrible only for your self-preservation and your sanity, but so so good for that depraved whore inside you. 

“B-b-both.” You stutter out between breaths. Zayne slows down, giving you half a second to find your voice. “I want both. Both please.”

Zayne’s cock throbs inside you, pressing against that sensitive spot deep in your core that makes you clench. Sylus looks a little lost, his face slackening in rapt eagerness.

“You sure, sweetheart? You want me to fuck you too? Think I’ll fit in your pretty little pussy?” Sylus bites your lower lip and groans, “Oh sweetie, come here.”

Zayne groans, and moves with you, never pulling out as you shift down to lay against Sylus’ chest, your breasts pressed into his face which he wastes no time nipping at. 

“This isn’t–” Zayne hisses, “She needs more prep.”

“She’s so determined, Zayne.” Sylus argues, shifting to press the head of his cock to the stretched rim of your hole. The instant he adds pressure you’re sure it won’t fit, but Sylus’ eyes are glazing over and his jaw is falling open. Practically drooling. “Let her try. Let my sweet girl try. She’ll feel so good, won’t she? I want to be inside her with you.”

Zayne’s hips thrust forward of their own accord, the most ragged moan yet leaving his dry lips. Sylus is pressing in tightly, and the stretch is unreal. He’s barely got half the head in and you're sure you’ll split in two, but god what a way to go. What a perfect death. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You whimper, “Oh god, it’s too much. Don’t stop. Ah! Don’t stop!”

“You’re mine, sweet girl. You’re ours.” Sylus snarls, hips pushing up into you, and the fat head of his cock slips in with a wet squelch. “Take us both. Take it so fucking  good for us.”

“Oh love,” Zayne’s back is pressed against yours, his voice in your ear and it's such a contrast to the depravity in Sylus’. “You feel so divine. You’re doing so well. So well. Yes. Yes, ngh.”

It’s ages before Sylus is all the way in, and there are tears shimmering down your face when he finally bottoms out. The two of them nestled within, swallowed by delicious friction. Divine death is the vice of your cunt and the slide of their cocks against each other. 

Zayne stays still while Sylus moves. There’s too much violent energy in the white haired man for him to stay still any longer. Long, slow thrusts and he’s barely half a dozen glides inside when you're clenching, vibrating on the precipice. 

“Oh fuck I’m gonna–” You choke, hips jerking and making the pair inside you groan in unison. “I’m gonna come. Please. Please, please. Oh god– you feel so good. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me please.”

“I’m not gonna last,” Zayne bites into your shoulder softly, “Come on, love. Come around us. Let me feel it. Yes, yes.”

“Not going anywhere, sweetheart. You just hold onto me. I’ll stay inside forever if you let me. Yeah, fuck. That’s it, come for me. Come for us.” Sylus’ fingertips dig into your flesh, and your mind is struck with the sudden feeling of loss. There’s a lack of digging. A lack of points at the tips of his fingers. Where did they go?

You’re coming before you can debate that odd sensation. Tipped over the edge into writhing oblivion and crying out. Gushing around their cocks and soaking the bed sheets below. 

Your peak is a trigger, firing off the other two in rapid succession. Zayne thrusts up once and then twice and you can feel the throb of him when he comes, pressing his face into any skin he can reach and panting for breath. 

Sylus snarls like an animal lurching forward to latch his mouth and teeth onto the junction of your shoulder as his cock jumps, slamming to the hilt inside you– slickened by the other man’s come leaking out. It’s filthy, and his teeth dig into your skin so sharply your vision blanks. 

They come down from their highs in different ways. Zayne slowly rolls his hips, relaxing like the unwinding of a tightened spring— easy and slow. Relishing in the afterglow and the slick heat of your pussy around him. 

Sylus is a serrated blade. Fucking up into you with sharp half-thrusts and pushing the mixture of their come deeper and deeper. He growls through it, keeping himself clawing into the sensations for as long as he possibly can. Breathing harshly and lapping his tongue against the bite mark he left behind. 

Your body protests any movement, and you’re not ready to let go of them just yet. So you let your head rest on Sylus’ shoulder and focus on the full feeling of them both inside you. How did that even happen? How did they both fit?

Zayne runs a hand up your spine. A gentle caress, “Shh, relax love. Let me–” He’s pulling out, and the drag has you keening, twitchy in aftershocks and then left horrifically empty. 

You turn to Sylus and he kisses you mushily, “I’m not going anywhere, kitten.” He whispers, “Let me stay for a minute, yeah? Let me feel you for just a bit longer.”

Zayne is gone and back but your mind is still filled with rose cotton. He’s got a water bottle in his hands that he presses to your lips. You drink a few swallows and then collapse back onto Sylus. 

“A lazy day, then?” Zayne asks with an affectionate shake of his head. 

Sylus’ laugh vibrates against you, “I’m feeling particularly lazy now.”

You giggle softly and shift to get more comfortable on top of Sylus, “I hope you don’t blame me if I slack off today, right Zayne? I’ll be sure to catch up on cleaning tomorrow.”

Zayne sits down next to you on the bed and brushes his hand through your hair, “Don’t worry about any of it. Perhaps we should revisit the contract again.”

You sigh and shake your head, “Not happening. I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it.”

“Even if I ask you nicely?” Zayne’s smirking when he teases you, and you reach up to poke his cheek. “We can talk about it later, if you ask me nicely.”

[book-nerd-emi]

Vent Poem kinda thing idk. It is but it’s more of a letter. to my moots here. ig. IDKKK

when i was writing this i had very specific people in mind so ill tag them but if you are a moot and you come across this, this is for you too.

Tags: @balladofareader , @wish-i-were-heather , @shattered-glass-roses , @sweetreveriee , @meangirlsbway , @letmeliveinelfhame and @sleepy-boything-shit

To those people that I love,

To those people I write messages to and then delete, fearing what you'll think.

Here are the words that I can never seem to type to you otherwise.

Here are the words that I needed to say but could never figure out how to.

Here are the words that have been stuck in my fingers, begging desperately to be typed

Here are the words that were never said but desperately need to be.

I love you.

That’s the main one.

I love you.

I love you like the moon and stars make a beautiful night sky.

I love you like the sun goes up and down so surely every day.

I love you like the fictional men we gush over love their women.

I love you like I love the dogs we own.

I love you like it hurts too.

And yet it hurts to type sometimes, so I don’t.

And it becomes the cycle of running from what hurts me.

The cycle starts with that 3 word, 8 letter phrase.

And then it keeps going.

I love you

Then,

I wish I were there

Then,

You’re the light of my life.

Then,

I wish I could forever be by your side.

Then,

I want you.

All these words written when my clock reads 3 am.

And I watch.

3:01, then 3:02, then 3;03

And at some point it gets to be 4:00, then 4:01

And somewhere along the line, before the clock hits 5:00,

The words are erased, forever gone like a leaf on the wind.

Only for me, my phone and the hours to see.

I love you, and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I am scared to send simple words.

But theyre not simple.

They are the gate to my soul.

And desperately I want to give you the key.

I desperately want to live free, no gates surrounding the kingdom anymore.

And I want to hold parties and galas and gossip with you and share my deepest secrets.

But I can’t.

And for that I am sorry.

I’ve had many traitors in this kingdom.

This kingdom has had to leave and come back to the same places,

Packing everything up only to come back a couple days later.

Never staying in one place enough to invite neighboring countries.

And all of this to say,

I’m sorry if I’m distant.

I’m sorry if I always am happy, because I’m not.

I’m sorry that I lie about how I am.

I’m sorry that I feel like I have to lie, no matter how much you tell me that you are here.

I’m sorry for the person I’ve become, because she isn’t pretty or great with people.

The person I’ve become is not someone I am super in love with.

And maybe one day we’ll look back on this and laugh or cry

Say “Wow look at her! If only she knew..”

Or make fun of how cringey I am.

Maybe one day we will.

But today, just listen to what I have to say.

The person I am is unstable,

She’s insecure.

She’s scared.

She’s anxious.

She’s stressed.

She doesn’t really like people.

She’s scared of the word “no”, even though it is a simple 2 letter word.

She doesn’t like reaching out for help, even when she is on the cold bathroom floor.

The floor that holds her deepest regrets and secrets; her lowest moments are spent there.

She actually hates asking for help; it means she has to admit that her problems are real.

She’d rather go day by day, ignoring them like they aren’t real, pretending she is fine.

She’d rather bottle everything up, say “I’ll deal with that when ___ is over”.

But then one thing turns into another test, or performance and then all of a sudden..

There’s nothing else to blame except her own procrastination and the fact that she’s scared.

She can’t really remember a time where she wasn’t like this.

When she wasn’t traumatized or scared or imaging running away to her friends house.

When she was in love with the night and somehow also scared of it.

The night is dark, and it is beautiful, until the night gets too dark.

The moment when you can’t see the walls anymore, and when closing your eyes makes it worse.

When you sit in your bed looking down at where your hands should be, feeling them shake

As you just sit there.

Unable

To

Do

Anything.

And for all of this, I am sorry.

I am so sorry that this is who I am behind the masks.

And maybe this was too dark.

And I’m sorry for that too.

I am happy too!

I’m happy when I talk to you.

Those moments, specifically in the early hours of morning,

When I have to cover my mouth with my hand,

Laughing with my eyes watering.

Or when I smile from ear to ear like an idiot.

I do love you.

I really really do.

And I’m very sad that this is how I have to tell you.

But sometimes words written speak louder than words spoken.

Maybe I did this as healing.

But as I finish this,

I realize how this could make you see me different.

And I don’t want you too. Really. Please don’t.

I don’t think I could live if you saw me different.

So please don’t.

I think I said this more for me than you.

But.

Don’t see me different.

I still am that girl you know and love.

And will forever be her.

But just know this poem is her too.

[forrest-of-sins]

Hello!! I just binged reading all 3 parts of your cookie run X reader and I am IN LOVE with how you write shadow milk’s manipulation of Firefly. Fan art may be on the way!! See how my own motivation is! Got any flat colored pictures of firefly I could use as reference? (You also be cool with me drawing them more transmasc? I’m a trans guy so may or may not get a little self indulgent haha)

Some more thoughts of mine that aren’t art related. (OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A TUMBLR THAT I CAN INTERACT WITH!!!)

1st Fic: I was so so SO delighted at the reveal of pine cookie actually being alive! SM’s manipulation got me I guess haha (complements to the writer *tips my hat*)

The dance if puppets was so dark and lovely! AHH!! God I can’t stress how much I love the dark writing in this series!!

The slow corruption by Shadow milk’s. I like to think if it as a bad end timeline. Where SM and the beasts all escaped, although the ancients are still out there the beasts are more at charged and it gives that sweet apocalyptic vibe and adds to firefly’s fate. Where there is really likely no one that could save them due to how wastelandy it’s gotten. Leaving SM to have further ammunition to not only isolate firfly but manipulate them into truely believing SM is their only savior!

(Also love me a man that will force me into position <3)

2nd fic

Mmm yummy yummy touch starved. Mmm yes, good!! I think there is atleast 1 SM doll in that pile and there is no way to tell me otherwise! Firefly cuddles that bitch to sleep every morning! Bonus points if SM uses their more delusional sleepy state to talk to them through the doll! It’s like a walky talky when they’re lonely and SM is busy gutting some cookies to death! Let them have just a little bit of Firefly’s self indulgence!

3rd: GOD I AM GNAWING AND TEARING AT EVERYTHING!!!! Dude I KNEW as soon as I read SM was looking out into the forest something was up! Even if firefly is a little bit too dumb dumb I’M NOT!! I KNOW HE WAS UP TO SOMETHING!! And oooooohhhhhh! Was I very rewarded. Pine cookie not only shown to also being toyed with by SM in a different way bit FORCED by the beasts are to watch as who they knew as a friend is turned into a pawn that only wants SM and hates them!! YES!!! GOOD SHIT!!!

The cat and mouse game was sooo good to read!!

A fanfic that not only is good at smut but ALSO HAS A GOOD STORY?!

All of this to say I am eatting your depiction of Shadow Milk. My fangs are bitting his limbs iff as I eat him whole!! Good yummy yummy!!!

hiya!! thank you so much for reading and enjoying the fic, im very pleased that you think its both good narratively and in regards to the smut not bein too shoehorned in! :D

it's very flattering that you'd consider making fanart too tho, omg, please tag me if you do! ;///; and of course you can make em more transmasc! everything about their appearance is ambiguous in the fic so honestly go crazy with it- that goes for anybody else that wants to doodle em too! :] here's a lil ref for em, sorry if its a bit scuffed!

now, for the rest of your ask! >:3

I adore writing dark fics hehe, so I'm glad that you think that its alright in that aspect! I wanna keep pushing it further and further as the story goes on, it's gonna be one no good very bad time for all involved in it >:L

I love the idea of the fic being set in a beasts won world tho omg..its a very good excuse as to why certain other cookies aren't about fgfhjg :'L

I'll defo have to draw a sleeped up Firefly mumbling to a Smilk plush omggg, that's a huge big brain idea!! silly bug cookie gets gaslit by wretched jester plushie...what a fool.......

ehehehe, i think the third fic was defo the most fun i had with the series at that point and it shows with the amount of cruelty Smilk displays towards Pine and Firefly lol, it's definitely a huge turning point for the both of their characters :3 I'm glad you like how i write Smilk, cause he's only gonna become more of a bastard as time goes on!

thank you again for your support and enthusiasm for the series, this put a huge smile on my face when i first saw this ask!! :D

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Spoil Me Gently: Chapter 2 - masterlist

Chapter Summary: What began as connection deepens into something harder to dismiss. Messages blur into moments, laughter tangles with longing, and silence becomes sanctuary instead of exile. James, Sirius, and Remus weave themselves into the quiet spaces of your life—carefully, persistently—until even the walls you've built begin to soften. It's not about gifts or promises. It's about being seen, being chosen, being wanted without having to earn it. Trouble finds you—and for the first time, you don't mind.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, soft!marauders, emotional whump, hurt/comfort, emotional slow burn, classism, ableism, protective!marauders, sugar daddy!marauders, famous!marauders, chronic pain, ptsd recovery, emotional angst, reader was in an abusive relationship, reader is poor.

Taglist: @miwi-moore

By the third day, you notice a change — not a breaking apart, but an expansion. The group chat remains active, but now there are tendrils reaching out, small private conversations growing like offshoots from the main root. Sirius sends late-night photos of his motorbike, James shares sleepy voice notes from dawn Quidditch practice, and Remus, ever the poet, sends lines of verse that seem chosen just for you.

And so it goes, a gentle but persistent wave eroding the shore of your resistance. Not to destroy, but to reshape, to create space for something new.

You're checking your phone more often than you'd like to admit, fingers betraying your eagerness before your mind has a chance to catch up. And if your heart lifts every time the screen lights up with a new message, well, you tell yourself it doesn't mean anything. But maybe it does. Maybe you've grown tired of pretending you don't care, or maybe you never really did. Maybe there's a hunger in you that you've ignored for too long, and now it's demanding to be fed.

It's been so long since anyone wanted your attention, and now that you have it, you're surprised by how easily you give it back. You wonder when being wanted became a need instead of a luxury.

There's a version of you that no one warned you about. The you who smiles at every notification, heart racing when his name lights up the screen, the you who forgets to hide her joy, even though the world outside is unrelenting. There has always been a price to pay for kindness in your experience, yet here you are, basking in the glow of attention without consequence. It's disarming, this lightness that lifts the corners of your mouth and lets hope slip through the cracks.

Every morning, without fail, you wake to find James's message waiting. His voice notes arrive as predictably as the sunrise, a constant in your life when everything else seems to be shifting like sand beneath your feet. He knows your routine well—the way you linger under the covers, fighting against the chill that clings to the early hours, the battle with discomfort as you finally rise from your bed. It's almost unfair, how this boy who is all vibrant energy and sunshine can reach into your quiet moments, grounding you with his presence even when he's miles away.

Today is no different.

Your eyes flutter open, the world beyond your curtains still cloaked in pre-dawn shadows. You fumble for your phone on the bedside table, your fingers brushing the cool screen. The new message icon blinks up at you, and even before you press play, you know it's him. You sink back into the pillows, letting his voice fill the empty space around you.

"Morning, darling," the voice is sleep-roughened, softer than you're used to hearing. "Hope I didn't keep you awake with dreams of me. Sirius tried his hand at breakfast and set off the smoke alarm. Remus says we're banned from the kitchen now because apparently it's my fault too. So here I am, standing outside in my joggers, barefoot, cradling a cup of coffee and thinking about you."

You laugh quietly into your pillow, picturing the chaos that must have ensued.

"So," he continues, the teasing tone replaced by something more serious, "your latest post? It's not a warning, it's an invitation. And believe me, I'm tempted. More than tempted. You'd ruin me without a second thought, wouldn't you? And the worst part is, I want you to. All of us do."

Your breath catches, fingers stilling over the keys. You're not one to blush easily, but you feel a warmth creeping up your neck, spreading across your cheeks.

You: Keep talking like that, James, and I might start charging rent for all the space you're taking up in my head.

His reply comes before you can even set your phone aside. Another voice note, his laugh low and unrestrained. "Or maybe I should pay rent—with interest, love. Backpay. Bonuses. And perhaps I'll make you breakfast too. Though I can't promise Sirius won't try to 'improve' it. But I'll make your coffee just the way you like it. I'd memorise that."

You lie there for a long time, phone pressed to your chest, letting the warmth of it sink in.

Remus is not like the others. He doesn't try to fill silence; he becomes part of it, wrapping himself in its comforting embrace until he is indistinguishable from the quiet moments that stitch your afternoons together. His presence lingers like the last trails of smoke, a testament to his existence even when he's gone.

With him, you understand that silence can be as potent as noise, that there is beauty in the spaces between words.

Today, sunlight filters through your window, casting slanted shadows that dance across the floor. The world outside is vibrant, alive, but inside, time slows to a lazy crawl. Your phone vibrates on the table, the screen lighting up with a new message—it's from Remus.

Remus: Reading Auden again. Stuck on this line: 'If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.' Sounds like something I'd say to you.

Your heart stutters in your chest as you read his confession, the implication hanging heavy between the lines of text. You stare at the screen for what feels like an eternity, a whirlwind of emotions churning within you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, uncertainty gripping you as you grapple with finding the right words to respond to his candidness.

You: You send me things like this and expect me not to fall apart? Rude.

Remus: I never expect you to fall apart. Only to be exactly as you are. I'll be here regardless.

You draw in a shaky breath, feeling the walls you've built around your heart crack under the weight of his words. This feels dangerous, like a precipice you're not sure you're ready to leap off. But there's something liberating about it too, a sense of being seen that you've craved for so long.

You: You have a talent for walking through walls I thought I'd sealed.

Remus: I only walk through when invited. I knock, darling. And I bring wine, patience, and possibly a blanket, if you need it. Maybe a book I think you'd love, and enough silence to fill the room without crowding it.

A soft huff escapes from you, more pained than amused.

You: You ruin me. Quietly.

Remus: Good. Loud ruin is Sirius' department. Mine is slow. Deliberate. Undeniable. My way is slow, deliberate, and impossible to ignore— like ink spreading across parchment, staining it with words that weave a story you can't help but get lost in.

Your heart throbs with an unfamiliar longing. What would it be like to let him in fully, to bare all your scars without fear of judgment or rejection?

And Sirius?

Sirius is a tempest, all storm and fury. He's the spark that sets kindling ablaze just to watch it burn. His photos arrive unbidden and unexpected, as if he knows you'll want him before the thought even forms in your mind. Low-lit selfies. Smudged eyeliner like war paint. Shirtless beneath silk sheets, with an ocean view behind him that suggests he owns not only the world, but everything beyond it.

At 12:47 a.m., your phone lights up with another photo. The caption reads: Do you think ghosts should pay rent?

You look at it for too long, tracing the line of his collarbone with your eyes as if it leads somewhere thrilling and forbidden.

You: Only if they fold fitted sheets. Otherwise, they're out.

Sirius: I'd purposefully fold them wrong, then haunt the place just to be a menace.

Your laughter is soft, absorbed by the fabric under your cheek. You can almost see him there, tall and tousled, up to no good as always.

You: That's grounds for calling in an exorcist.

Sirius: I might haunt your television set, recite poetry at inconvenient hours, steal your last cigarette.

You: Touch my coffee and I'll find a way to banish you for good.

His words are warm, teasing, wrapping around you like smoke. You close your eyes, wishful thinking filling in the blanks of this impossible conversation.

Sirius: I'd go for your heart first. I'm selfish that way. And who knows, maybe I'd just wear the sheet instead of folding it.

You're grinning at your phone. Helpless. Wanting.

You: You make a persuasive ghost.

Sirius: Good. Then don't stop thinking about me. Don't stop feeling this... whatever this is. I'll remain here, as long as you want us to. As long as you let us be part of your world.

On the fourth day, a link suddenly appears in the group chat. No explanation, no heads-up. Just a link, dropped into your day as unexpectedly as rain in the desert. It's from Sirius, of course, ever the one to dive headfirst into the unknown. This kind of chaos is becoming normal—and maybe, secretly, you're starting to enjoy it.

The blue hyperlink stands out against the white background of your phone screen, an island of possibility in a sea of text messages. You tap on it without thinking, even though every rational part of you screams that you should know better by now.

But it's from Sirius.

And the dress looks back at you like a challenge.

It's both striking and gentle. The structured lines are softened by the slight sheen of silk, giving the illusion of light dancing on water. It's as dark as midnight yet glows with an intensity that seems impossible, like moonlight reflecting off glass. This isn't a dress that whispers; it demands attention, wraps around the wearer like armour and allure combined. It belongs to a life you've never led, a world you've only glimpsed from the outside. It fits someone else's narrative.

And yet—

The price tag reads like a bad joke, a number so high it could easily cover your rent for several months, maybe even your income for a year or two. It's a figure that doesn't seem real, twisting your stomach with its sharp edges. But Sirius? He doesn't hesitate.

Sirius: You'd destroy worlds in this.

Three words, simple and direct, yet they carry the weight of galaxies, and your heart stutters. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, unbidden and inexplicable.

James: I'd create a world for you if I could. Make it perfect if you'd let me. Step by step, just say the word.

Remus: Just say the word, love. The dress is nothing. You are everything.

You stare at the screen longer than you intended. The dress glows back at you like a secret, like a dream you shouldn't want but do. It's like something from someone else's life, just out of reach. It's not about the material or the price.

It's about them. How they see you.

You laugh, a sound that's almost foreign to your own ears. You type before they can make this real, before it turns into deliveries and luxury that has no place in your world.

You: You three are a dangerous lot. I don't need presents. Just coffee and compliments. That's all it takes to make me happy.

The response is almost immediate, as if Sirius has been waiting just for this opening.

Sirius: Consider this our version of coffee then. Coffee laced with gold leaf, my dear. And compliments as fine as wine from the cellars of Versailles. Perhaps served on a tray kissed by starlight. Perhaps poured from crystal decanters while you recline in that dress on a balcony meant only for those who can appreciate its view.

The chat erupts. James floods the screen with heart emojis. Remus shares a picture of an antique coffee service, promising he's already scouring shops for the perfect one. Sirius jests about hiring a fancy courier to deliver a handwritten love letter, sealed with wax and tied with a ribbon as soft as a whisper.

And yet beneath the jests and the imagery, something else hums quietly. Something steadier, more persistent.

They look at you like someone already remarkable. Already worthy. As if knowing you, noticing you, is like discovering something precious and rare. As if you are a sun they can't help but orbit, each in their own elliptical path.

Trouble indeed.

And maybe—just maybe—you find yourself revelling in this trouble more than you've ever dared admit.

That night, when the air is still and your stomach complains louder than it should, your phone vibrates against the worn surface of your table. A screen illuminates with a notification that seems absurd in your reality—not this one, where you've learned to make do with less—less food, less care, less attention. Not in this version of your life that doesn't allow for kindness or unexpected good things.

You stare at the display, blinking slowly, your heart stumbling over an invisible step in its steady rhythm. Your pulse quickens, beating a frantic tattoo against your ribs, as if it understands the gravity of this moment better than your mind does. It feels like a warning, like instinct. Like a memory buried so deep you've almost forgotten it exists.

£100.

The message reads: "For your comfort. Not a bribe."

And for a second, your body seizes up. Not from surprise, not even from joy. From fear.

Because it's them.

James, Sirius, Remus. Their names are a constant echo, persistent and unyielding—a threat or a promise, you're not sure. But something stirs within you, a flicker of hope trying to catch flame. Yet your heart refuses to kindle it, not fully, not when their names attached to that sum makes the floor feel like it's falling away beneath you, makes every scar on your skin remember what could come next.

Your stomach tightens, and your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat a reminder of past hurts. You've been here before, haven't you? Money, promises—always with strings attached. Always with the weight of expectations you could never meet, words that twisted into lies, and kindness that turned into pain.

He used to do this too—your ex. Shower you with gifts that felt more like traps, money that came with stipulations, presents that seemed generous until you realised they were just another form of control. It was care wrapped in barbed wire, love laced with poison.

Your body remembers.

You stare at the message on your phone, the chill of dread settling deeper into your bones. Part of you wants to delete the app, to shut it all down and cut off this dangerous lifeline before it can ensnare you further.

But another part of you—the part that's hungry for something more than food—hesitates and holds on. Because this doesn't feel like him.

This feels like... an open door. Quiet. Respectful. A choice offered with no expectation of what you'll choose.

They don't know how you've been surviving on the bare minimum, just enough to keep the worst of the hunger pangs at bay. They don't know about the near-empty fridge or the calculations you make every time you go to the grocery store, deciding what not to buy because your budget won't stretch that far. They don't see the way rationing has become a part of your routine, the small hopes whispered between hollow cupboards and the last slice of bread.

But they know something is wrong.

They've pieced it together from your posts, from the sharp edges of your jokes about heating costs, from the way you talk about meals as if they're special occasions rather than daily necessities. They notice the pauses in your writing, the moments when fatigue seeps through and colours your words with an unspoken heaviness.

And they care.

Your fingers tremble as you type out a response, each keystroke echoing the disbelief that tightens your chest. It's hard to find words, hard to articulate the jumble of emotions that threatens to overwhelm you.

You: You didn't have to do this. Thank you.

You mean it. You hate that you mean it so much.

The words sit on your screen, and you want to believe them. You really do. But there's something about the way they seem to reach out to you, offering solace you've forgotten how to accept, that twists in your gut like a confession.

James replies immediately, his words bouncing back with an almost palpable warmth.

James: We like to make sure our best people are taken care of, well-fed, rested, and perhaps a bit spoiled. It's in our interest to keep you happy. And besides, everyone deserves to eat a good meal, no questions asked.

And it shouldn't feel like this. Like understanding without judgment. Like care without condition. Like being seen without having to scream first.

You stare at the phone, the light casting long shadows across your face. The grip around your phone tightens, as if holding onto it could anchor you in this moment, make it real, make it last. The hum of the empty fridge grows less insistent, less accusatory.

You open the app for grocery delivery, pausing momentarily at the sight of your last order—a list of bare essentials, cheap and long-lasting. But not this time. This time, you'll choose better.

Not just the cheapest stuff, or what will last longest. Real food. Fresh. Fruit that won't easily bruise. Bread that isn't stale before it's even sliced. Milk that doesn't taste faintly sour. Cheese—real cheese, not powdered or processed—that feels like a treat instead of an extravagance.

You add vegetables, ones you haven't tasted in months. Their names feel foreign on your tongue, but there's something bright about them, something that promises color in a world that's been too gray. A small dessert, because maybe tonight you can allow yourself to believe you're worth the sweetness. Maybe tonight you can let yourself enjoy this.

You schedule the delivery for 10 am to noon tomorrow.

Your phone thumps lightly as you set it down on the table, leaning back against the sofa cushions. The hollow pit in your stomach remains, but now it's accompanied by something else—something that feels like the beginning of hope.

Care.

***

The house is quieter than usual the next morning. It's not a peaceful quiet. It's stiff, unyielding, like something tightening its grip around your chest. This silence is born of years spent scraping by, of holding your breath and not realising you've stopped exhaling, of waiting for the next crisis to rear its head and disrupt the fragile balance you've managed to maintain.

You're putting away the last of your groceries, arranging them in the nearly empty fridge and cupboards like it means something. Like it's proof that you're still here, still breathing, still worthy of these small, mundane comforts.

Then there's a knock.

A sharp noise punctures the silence of your sanctuary, too loud in a home that has become a fortress by necessity. Even though you've been expecting it, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You freeze, heart pounding an erratic rhythm that drowns out the quiet you've meticulously curated. Your breath catches, held hostage by the tightening grip of anticipation. Every knock carries the weight of history, of consequences.

Courier.

The word is a lifeline, grounding you even as your instincts scream danger. It shouldn't matter—you know this delivery isn't a threat, that there's no reason to be wary. And yet, your body remembers other knocks, other packages, other hands that offered gifts only to seize more in return.

Your muscles tense, preparing for a blow that doesn't come. The door swings open to reveal not a snarl or a demand, but a small box resting innocuously on the doorstep. Still, you flinch, bracing for the catch—the hidden cost that will be exacted later, like a debt you never agreed to pay.

But when you lift the package, its weight is reassuring—a solid presence that grounds you in reality. It's heavier than it looks, the heft of it suggesting value without ostentation. The label is embossed, dark against the rich green velvet of the wrapping—green like the depth of a forest or the hush of an old library. It speaks of luxury without flashiness, intent without pressure. Already, something inside you tightens, an unexpected response to the thoughtful precision evident in every detail.

Inside, you find a folded piece of parchment, its edges crisp and clean. The paper feels foreign in your calloused hands, like something that doesn't belong to your world.

"For your hands, which deserve softness - R"

Remus's handwriting is neat and careful, just like him. Every letter is etched with thought and purpose, the loops and lines forming words that wrap around you like an embrace.

You pause, fingers hovering over the edge of the card, afraid it might crumble under the weight of your confusion. You trace the letters, half-expecting them to vanish under your touch, as if this can't be real, as if gentleness was never meant for your grasp.

Beneath the note, wrapped with a precision that speaks volumes about the sender, lies a pair of gloves. Not just any gloves, but ones lined with silk, their outer layer soft yet resilient, built to withstand the coldest winter days. Their design is such that you could perform delicate tasks without hindrance, and upon closer inspection, you see your initials embroidered into them, each stitch a testament to thoughtfulness and attention to detail.

Your fingers trace the embroidery, the usually steady digits trembling ever so slightly as they brush over the threads. A sense of disbelief mingles with gratitude, unfamiliar and overwhelming in its intensity. It's as if you've forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end of such personal care or perhaps, you realize, you've never truly known it at all.

You slide your hand into the first glove, flexing your fingers as the cool leather moulds to your skin. The chill is gone instantly, replaced by a warmth that seeps into your bones, dispelling the cold that had begun to settle there. The second glove follows, encasing your other hand in the same supple embrace.

The gloves are light but sturdy, their exterior hardening against the world while the inside remains soft, a sanctuary for your hands. They fit like an extension of your own skin, hugging each finger and cradle, every knuckle and curve. It's as if they were made just for you, knowing the ache in your joints when the weather turns, the dryness of your skin from long days exposed to the elements and the relentless march of time.

They seem to understand, these gloves, the way you must be both hard and soft, how you navigate a world that demands strength yet punishes those who forget tenderness. They cradle your hands, offering protection from the smallest of hurts, the ones that go unnoticed until they're soothed away.

You flex your fingers again, feeling the leather respond, and let out a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. The sound is barely audible, a whisper carried on the still air of the room. It's the sort of noise one makes in private, when emotion wells up unbidden, not from weakness but from something deeper, more raw. It's the sound of barriers falling, of vulnerability acknowledged and offered reprieve, if only for a moment.

Tears don't fall, not right now, not here in the open where anyone could see. But behind your eyes, a dam threatens to break, held back only by the sheer force of your will. It's a pressure that causes you to blink more slowly, makes things look a little blurry around the edges, like you're viewing the world from underwater.

The ache in your chest is a strange thing. It throbs dully, a sensation that doesn't know if it should be ascribed to joy or sorrow. So, it settles for both, intertwining emotions too complex to fully understand.

Not because of the price—though it's more than you would ever dream of spending on yourself—but because of the thoughtfulness. Because someone saw your hands—the cracked skin, the nails worn down by countless tasks—and didn't recoil. Didn't dismiss them as just the tools of labor but recognized them as part of a person who deserved care and comfort.

Your fingers trace the soft material, almost reverently. The gloves are beautiful, yes, but it's the consideration behind them that sends a shiver down your spine. The realization that someone noticed enough to address a need you had long stopped considering as important. That they saw beyond the worker, the servant, the faceless cog in the machine, and acknowledged you for you.

The glow of your phone on the counter is a beacon, silent and waiting. You stare at it, the digital pulse steady in the quiet room.

It takes you a moment—longer than it should—to reach out, fingers brushing over cool glass as if it might shatter under the weight of your uncertainty.

You open the conversation with Remus. It's the quietest one. His words are always gentle, never imposing. His patience feels like an anchor, grounding you when everything else threatens to pull you under.

You: I don't know what to say. Thank you doesn't seem enough. They're... perfect. They're already making it hard to stay cynical.

Time stretches between his response, each passing second heavy with the promise of considered words.

Remus: Then I'm doing something right. You deserve softness and warmth that asks nothing from you but to feel it. But I'm very patient, love, and I can wait until you can believe it, too.

His words hang in the void between you, and you can't help but shiver despite the layers wrapped around you. It's not the gloves that make you feel this way.

No, it's the patience.

The lack of urgency. The freedom offered without a price tag attached. The way Remus, even from miles away, wraps you in something stronger than any physical embrace could offer.

Safety.

The house is quiet around you, the only sounds the distant hum of city traffic and your own steady breathing. The tension in your shoulders eases as you lean back against the plush cushions, eyes half-closed. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, a single vibration that sends ripples through the glass surface.

A message notification lights up the screen—it's from James. You pick up the device, the cool metal warming in your hand as you tap open the group chat. A thumbnail teases the video he's sent, the first break in the silence of your evening.

You press play, and his laughter fills the room, vibrant and infectious. It starts in your ears but soon spreads, a warmth that radiates from your chest and bleeds into the corners of your small apartment. It's the kind of laughter that sticks with you, replaying long after the sound has faded.

The camera pans across an expansive kitchen, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. Half-empty espresso cups sit abandoned next to a silk tie draped casually over the back of a chair. James appears in the frame, shaking his head with a smile that's equal parts fondness and exasperation.

"Fans are calling us queer Disney princes again," he says, voice rich with amusement. "What do you think?"

The corners of your mouth lift without prompting, betraying the flicker of excitement stirring within you. You raise your phone, angling it for a quick selfie. One eyebrow arches, your lips curve into a half-smile that promises secrets and whispers of intrigue. There's a challenge in your eyes, a silent dare you're more than okay with them picking up on. Let them chase. Let them want.

The words are light, teasing, yet they carry weight—one more layer added to the mystery that is you.

You: Does this make me the misunderstood seductress with a tragic past?

The typing indicator appears almost immediately. It's Remus, as predictable as the moon he's named after. His responses are always prompt, always thoughtful, a steadying presence amid James' boisterous charm and Sirius' smouldering intensity.

Remus: Obviously.

There's a pause—a beat longer than necessary—and you imagine him on the other side, considering his next words carefully.

And then, almost as if he can't help himself, he adds:

Remus: The kind I write stories about.

You sit there longer than you intended, your thumb hovering over the screen, the heat of a blush creeping up your neck. It's ridiculous, really—you've only been talking to them for four days. Four days is not nearly long enough to get used to anything. Not this sort of attention. Not this level of care. Not this easy banter that somehow feels more intimate than any conversation you're accustomed to.

But it isn't just the familiarity that's unsettling—it's the way your mind has started to expand, making room for possibilities you hadn't dared to consider before. How long will it take, you wonder, for this to feel less like an anomaly and more like something... natural?

You hope it always feels like this, like being part of a story you never knew existed but now can't imagine yourself without. Like being seen for exactly who you are—flaws, quirks, and all—and wanted not despite them, but because they make you, you.

The next day starts with a debate over fish and chips.

Of course, it's James who instigates it, sending a voice note your way as if he never doubted you'd want to hear it, as if your response has already become part of his daily rhythm.

"Okay, real question—where's the best fish and chips in town? I've had four arguments about it this week and I need you on my side. Or to argue with me. Either is fine."

There's a pause at the end of the note, and you can almost see him grinning, waiting for your chuckle, certain it will come. His voice is warm and teasing, an echo of familiar banter that stirs something inside you. It feels good, better than you thought possible, and that scares you just a little.

Sirius, never one to let a moment of chaos pass him by, jumps in with a voice message of his own. His tone is low and dramatic, like he's about to recount an ancient tale.

"James is wrong, by the way," Sirius begins, his voice carrying a note of solemnity that belies the humour in his words. "He always picks the place with the worst vinegar-to-chip ratio. It's a travesty, really. Someone save me. Bring whiskey. And better chips."

In the background, you can hear James' laughter again, but it's closer this time, softer, as if he's leaning in to share the joke.

"You love the suffering," James retorts, amusement lacing his words. "It's why you put up with us."

"Exactly," Sirius agrees, his voice smooth as he plays along. "But there are limits. Even I won't stand for soggy chips."

Remus doesn't answer with a voice note. Of course not. Instead, a photo pops up in the group chat. It's a book—thick and worn at the edges from constant use. The title? 'A Social History of Fish and Chips in Britain.'

Of course he has that book.

Laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, louder than you intended. But it's the kind of laugh that feels freeing, slipping out before you can censor it.

You: Remus, please tell me you're not fact-checking their argument with an actual history book.

There's a beat of silence, then a new message from Remus appears.

Remus: I fact-check everything, especially when those two are involved. It's the only way to keep some semblance of sanity.

James: All I know is that we end up buying the most expensive fish and chips in all of the city. That's got to count for something, right?

You: Your logic is astounding, really. The cost must always equate to quality.

James: Wait, are you being sarcastic? I can never tell with you.

You: Me? Sarcastic? Never.

James: Alright, alright, point taken. Teach me how to eat like a local, then. I'm at your mercy.

Come evening, the threads of conversation unravel into music. Links are traded like secrets, each song a piece of the sender's soul laid bare for others to touch. You listen to tunes you've never heard before and ones that stir up memories long forgotten. Some pulse with a beat that quickens your heart, others drip with a melancholy sweetness that leaves a lingering ache in your chest, and still others are so strange yet enchanting they defy categorisation.

You share your own favourites too, selecting each track with care. It feels like giving away pieces of yourself, tiny shards of glass reflecting who you really are. Will they see the colours or look beyond, into the depth of your true self?

And they do.

The first one to really reach you is Sirius.

The night stretches on, and you find yourself unable to sleep. The house is too quiet, your thoughts too loud. You feel the weight of solitude pressing down on you until it's almost too much to bear. And then, your phone lights up, a beacon in the darkness. It's him—Sirius.

There's no preamble, no joke or casual greeting—just a link. You click on it hesitantly, bracing yourself for whatever might come next. What fills your ears is not the upbeat pop song you expected but something else entirely: a heartbreaking melody, a tale of lost love and regret.

It's the kind of song that seeps into your bones, evoking memories you didn't know were there. It's the ache of an old wound, never quite healed properly, now throbbing with fresh pain. It's the echo of a thousand unspoken apologies and a single, resounding truth: you deserved better.

And then, a message from Sirius, appearing like a ghost on your screen.

Sirius: This made me think of you. Not the version of you that everyone thinks they know. The real you. The one who's been through so much and still stands strong. The one who deserved better.

The words are a balm and a sting all at once. You read them over and over until they blur on the screen, each repetition driving the sentiment deeper into your already tender heart. The ache in your chest grows more pronounced with every passing second. Your breath catches in your throat as the reality of it all begins to sink in. The house around you feels suddenly too quiet, too still—as if the very walls are holding their breath, waiting for your response.

You type before you can stop yourself, before you can second-guess the impulse.

You: Tell her I'm... I'm starting to believe that. Slowly. But I am trying.

There's no pause before his reply.

Sirius: Good. Because we already believe it for you.

The phone falls silent in your hand, its weight suddenly significant. It's not the hardware that bears down on you, but the gravity of their words, the tenderness they've shown you. You lower the device, setting it aside with a gentleness reserved for precious things, fragile and irreplaceable.

Tears well in your eyes, spilling over in silent confession. There are no sobs, no shuddering breaths—just the quiet surrender to an emotion long held at bay. The tears trace tracks down your cheeks, each one a testament to the ache within, the pain you've carried silently for so long. They're not the hot, angry tears of frustration or the cold ones of despair. These are different. Warmer. Cleansing. A release of something deep inside you.

Your body curls instinctively, seeking comfort in its own embrace, your arms wrapping around yourself as if to hold the broken pieces together. The sobs come then, low and guttural, a primal sound that echoes the hurt buried within your soul. It's a private pain, shared only with the shadows that dance along the walls of your solitary world.

But tonight, perhaps, you are not entirely alone.

The next day, you receive a voice message from James. His words, their tone—it all leaves you feeling fractured and somehow whole at the same time. There's a softness in his voice that wasn't there before, playfulness still laced within but underpinned by something raw and sincere.

"Hey, just wanted to say—you're pretty incredible. Stubborn as hell and gentle when it matters. Thought you should know, in case no one else has bothered to tell you today."

You replay the message three times, each listen embedding his words deeper into your thoughts until they feel like a part of you. You save it, not because you think it might disappear, but because it feels important—like a bookmark in a story you never thought would be yours.

Your eyes scan the screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard, heart thrumming an uneven rhythm against your ribs. Then, with a sigh, you let honesty take the lead.

You: You three are dangerous. You know that, right? I was fine being a grumpy little cryptid until you showed up with your feelings and ruined me.

A few beats later, a notification lights up your screen. It's an audio message from James, and his laughter rings through the small space, rich and infectious. "Cryptid confirmed. But you're ours now, grumpy or not. No escape plan necessary."

The next day, while you're still grappling with the reality of their kindness, Remus poses a question that feels both jarring and tender in its simplicity.

Remus: What's your favourite kind of quiet?

Your fingers hover over the keys, the question lingering in the air between you and the screen. It's been a while since anyone asked you something like this, something that requires thought beyond the mundane.

You type, delete, then type again, second-guessing your answer. But Remus doesn't rush you; he waits, his presence patient and comforting as ever.

You: The kind that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. When everything slows down, and you can finally let go without the world falling apart around you.

Before Remus has a chance to respond, Sirius cuts in, his message popping up on the screen with a timestamp only seconds after yours.

Sirius: Preferably in a five-star hotel room, with ridiculously soft sheets and no plans for the following day.

A chuckle escapes your lips, the sound surprising you. A warmth spreads through you, reaching into corners where shadows have lingered for too long. You shake your head, wondering how they do it—how they manage to pull you from your thoughts, even if just for a moment.

For the first time in what feels like forever, it seems as if there might be more to life than merely surviving.

Maybe this is the start of something else.

Something new. Something different. Not an obligation. Not a trap. But something soft. Something safe.

Something that could feel like home.

Sometimes, you don't respond. It's not a conscious decision, not a punishment or a game. It's simply survival—how you've learned to cope in a world that often feels too big, too loud, too much.

Your body is hardwired for flight, primed to retreat at the first sign of danger, even if it means overlooking an offering of kindness. The instinct is so deeply ingrained, so much a part of you, that it doesn't always wait for your mind's approval before taking over.

Some mornings, the buzz of your phone is an intrusion, a sudden alarm in the quiet sanctuary of your solitude. One new message, and your heart throbs against your ribs like a bird trapped against a windowpane. Your breath catches, shallow and quick, while your palms grow slick with apprehension. Old fears, never far from the surface, ripple through your consciousness, and your instincts kick into gear before rational thought has a chance to intervene. Hide, they insist. Stay safe. Be silent.

And so you do.

Time passes in a way that only silence can measure. The sun moves across the room, its angled rays painting elongated shapes on the floor. Your tea grows cold, the steam long gone—like the echo of your last spoken word, now just a memory in the heavy air.

The quiet feels oppressive, wrapping around you like thick smoke, blurring the edges of reality. You blink, and for a moment, the walls of your small apartment seem too close, the air denser. It's as if the world itself is pressing in, testing the strength of your resolve.

When you finally stir, the phone is still there in front of you, its screen dark and unyielding. A pang of guilt knots your stomach, familiar in its intensity. You reach out, fingertips brushing against the cold surface, bracing yourself for what lies beyond the silence: accusations, demands, perhaps even indifference—the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, turning safety into a concept rather than a feeling.

But when you tap the icon to open the chat, their presence greets you—not with the storm you were expecting, but with the calm after, steady and unwavering. There are no harsh words here, no pointed reminders of your shortcomings. Only patience and understanding, reaching out from the other side of the screen.

Sirius sends a video of a pygmy goat in a belted flannel shirt, charging and failing to mount a small couch. The caption reads: "Me trying to impress you with my life choices. Still falling over myself. Would do it again."

James leaves a voice message. His voice is warm, unhurried. It wraps around you like a blanket, offering comfort without expectation.

"Hope you're okay, love," he says, the words falling soft and steady like rain against a window. "No hurry. We're here. Always. Take your time. We're not going anywhere."

And Remus—ever patient, ever thoughtful—writes simply: "Thinking of you. Whenever you're ready. However long it takes. No deadline here."

Your throat tightens—not with shame or fear of expectations, but from the unexpected safety they weave around you. The space they leave for you to breathe, to exist without the need to explain or justify. They never make you feel as though your absence is a mistake, only that their door remains open, unwatched by the ticking clock.

You: Just had to claw my way back.

Sirius: We'll help you sharpen your claws next time. And paint them gold. Maybe add little stars. Maybe galaxies. You deserve all of them.

And just like that, something inside you gives way—a taut thread caught in the weave of your worries loosening its grip. It's like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding solid ground beneath your feet when your legs are unsteady.

You begin with the smallest of offerings. Little moments from your life that seem safe enough to share, each one a tiny step, a testing of waters uncharted by you until now.

A photograph of the embroidery you've been working on, threads tangled like constellations against midnight fabric. The second-hand jacket you found at a thrift store, worn and patched, each stitch a story woven into its very fabric. The way your living room window looks when you string up fairy lights, casting soft shadows across the floor and making your quiet house feel almost like a home.

Your bookshelf. A photo taken in the half-light, the spines of novels faded with age and use. A single line written beneath it.

You: I made a home in the quiet of pages.

Sirius: Read us something you wrote. Bet it wrecks me. Bet it ruins me. Please.

For a moment, you consider not doing it. It would be so much safer to say no, to keep the precious words tucked away where only you can see them.

But something in Sirius's words makes you want to trust him. To take a risk, even if it means potential heartache.

So you do.

Your voice trembles as you start, but you force yourself to go on. Each line comes out slow, deliberate, each word weighed and measured like a jewel under inspection. You pour everything into your delivery—the sadness, the longing, the hope.

When you finish, there's a silence that stretches between you, a gulf wide enough to swallow worlds. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic drumbeat echoing the fear that maybe you've said too much, revealed too much of yourself.

James: I've played this four times already. And it keeps getting better.

Remus: That was beautiful. More sometime? If you'd want to. No pressure. Just... if it feels good. If it feels safe.

The smile that curves your lips is both unseen and genuine. It's a small thing, but in a world held captive by fear and uncertainty, it feels like a tiny triumph.

You: Only if you read to me too. Deal?

There's a pause before your phone chimes again. This time, it's an audio file. You press play and Remus's voice fills the room, warmer than you remember, like the glow of a hearth fire in winter. He reads Neruda, first in Spanish then in English. The words are achingly intimate, each one cradling an emotion that feels oddly personal.

The tension melts from your shoulders as you close your eyes, letting the sound wash over you. It's as if the distance between you has shrunk, and for a moment, you're simply two souls sharing a love for words, for stories, for connection.

A link appears in the chat, leading to a playlist titled "Soft Chaos & Sweet Violence." The title alone coaxes a genuine laugh from your lips—a sound you'd forgotten could feel so natural, so human. You click open the description and read: "For you. For every hard-won battle. For each gentle moment carved out of the stone that is life. For resilience. For endurance. For still being here."

James sends a memory next, a story about learning to bake with his mother. His words paint a picture of flour-dusted eyelashes, a kitchen filled with more love than space, and laughter that seemed infinite and ageless. It's a small moment, but it shines brightly against the backdrop of a world that often demanded too much.

Remus sends a photograph of the sea at dawn. The water is a soft grey-blue, its surface as smooth as silk, while the horizon gently bleeds into the sky. It's a quiet image, one that seems to hold its breath along with yours as you take it in.

Remus: Calm, but deep like you. Steady. Vast. Still here.

A blush warms your cheeks as you read the message, the compliment unexpected yet not unwelcome. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you respond, words flowing with a truth you hadn't realised until now.

You: I want to live in this picture. To make a home from it. Never leave.

And then there's Sirius.

He sends you a voice message, breathless from a rooftop in Rome. He's there for a photoshoot, just for one night. The city stretches out behind him like a dream caught between the seams of reality. But his voice—it's unexpectedly soft, as if the night itself demands hush tones.

"The city shines like you do," he says, and you can almost see the distant lights reflected in his grey eyes. "I'll bring you here someday. Just say when."

And you believe him.

[theodeumachlys]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Regulus Black/James Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Pandora Lovegood/Lily Evans Potter, Barty Crouch Jr./Evan Rosier Characters: Regulus Black, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans Potter, Pandora Lovegood, Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Art School, Everyone Is Gay, painter Regulus Black, Sculptor James Potter, this is actually disgustingly gay get ready, Tattoo Artist Sirius Black, so many people are gnc mwahah, Genderfluid Character, Trans Male Character, guess who the trans one is...., Trans Regulus Black, omg who could have guessed that, Canon Autistic Character, Asexual Regulus Black, Denial of Feelings, slow burn but not that slow because i'm impatient, Religious Guilt, Regulus Black is a Little Shit, French Regulus Black, French Sirius Black, Regulus Black Speaks French, Sirius Black Speaks French, James Potter Needs a Hug, James Potter Has ADHD, Painting, Sculpture, Fanart, fanart will be included in later chapters...., teehee., Gay Panic, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Lily Evans Potter, why does it say evans potter if it's the lesbian tag :(, No Lily Evans Potter Bashing, We love her, Past Regulus Black/Barty Crouch Jr., Past James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Warning: Walburga Black, but we don't really mention her alot, just vague references, also fuck u jkr booo i'm making everyone trans, Mentioned Peter Pettigrew, he's just kind of there sometimes, Title from a Hozier Song, also many hozier references, I Wrote This While Listening to Hozier's Music, Enemies to Lovers, but mainly reg is making up the enemy part. james is just disgustingly in love, Idiots in Love, did i mention they're both competing for the same art prize, Autistic Regulus Black, forgot to mention he's the autistic one. big surprise again, fade to black but after a lot of gay things happen Summary:

His fingers itch with the thick flow of paint through his body as if it was a second bloodstream, sending his heart pounding in technicolour. He maps each perfect ridge, a symphony of hues washing over the once-blank canvas like a wave. Regulus meets those sunlit eyes, holds them like a gift he doesn't know if he deserves. He could get used to looking in James’ eyes.

His chisel moves with forewarned freneticism, desperate to unearth the boy’s features from unwieldy marble. The lithe slope of his arm as it dangles softly over the table, the way his dark curls pool under a pale cheek. His hands map the glittering marble; the unearthed slope of his waist, hips nestled in the stern of the ship James carves roughly around him.

’You’re supposed to be focusing on the background, darling. Don’t get lost in the figure yet.’

The chisel pauses, the marble takes a shuddering breath at the cessation of its exhumation.

‘Let me be lost if it means I can look at you a little while longer.’

✦

Or the Prestigious Art Prize competition between a painter who can’t look at people long enough to paint them and a sculptor who stares too deeply to ever add anything but their face.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

soon it'll be dawn again

transcript under the cut ⏬

page 01

Fig: no way? - you're still up?

Riz: Wh– yes?

Riz: Why'd I not be.

page 02

Fig: I me~~ean - that took.

Fig: whole day.

Riz: Yeah?

Fig: 'm beat.

Riz: you should sleep.

page 03

Fig: nah. my guy's still up

Fig: I wanna hang out.

page 04

Riz: That's really nice.

Fig: Hah! - Nobody ever expects an Archdevil rockstar to be nice.

Riz: … yeah. - 's just budget work tho. (the stuff I'm working on) - I've heard it's boring.

page 05

Fig: yeah, but you do it…

Riz: It keeps things going, right? - Nothing happens if nobody sits down and - does the thing.

Fig: That's right… - though. Yeah.

page 06

Fig: sometimes it's someone else who - doesn't want the same thing to happen.

Riz: … - mm.

page 07

Riz (off screen): …It took me a long time to get that not everyone likes doing what I do. - 's probably because you guys are so nice– - or. - kind.

Riz (off screen): to anyone too, not just. - the people you /love/.

page 08

Riz: that's not how it is elsewhere. - The world's– not. hostile. - but 's not like it's kind.

Riz: So I'm doing as much as I can now… 

page 09

Fig: Hey.

Riz: ?

Fig: Go dig some dirt with me.

page 10

Riz: [blank speech bubble] - oh you meant like - actual dirt. (not incriminating information)

Fig: o yea.

Fig: there's clay in the backyard soil. - sometimes when I'm sun deficient or something I go touch dirt for a bit.

page 11

Fig: here u go

page 12

Riz: uh

Fig: now we make a thing! - 'm pretty good at freehanding a bowl.

Fig: I'll show u

page 13

Fig: just– yep, flatten that out as evenly as u can, then–! - actually ur nails'd be so good at cutting out the strip. [larger than usual space] wait. - wait. wait u can carve patterns with them! we HAVE to try

Riz: uh - What. do I carve?

Fig: anything!!!

page 14

Fig: and– yep just seal the inside uh. seam?

Fig: yep that works - okay time's up! all contestant hands up

Riz: [blank speech bubble] - okay - wh. what's next?

Fig: haha - watch this.

(sound effect text): FWOO—MP

page 15

Riz: WH– DON'T JUST DO THAT???

Fig: Now it's fired!

Riz: THAT WAS NOT SAFE

Fig: (actually it's just dry. if u add water rn it'll dissolve)

Fig: ok catch!

Riz: [blank speech bubble] - careful!!

Fig: dw no need haha

page 16

Riz (thought bubble): oh - it's warm…

Fig: now I want you to throw this.

page 17

Fig: u gotta do it - c'mon

page 18

Riz: wh– - It's like 3AM right now

Fig: oh it's not /fired/ fired it's not gonna make a loud noise

Riz: And then just? leave a pile out here?

Fig: pour water over it & it'll be gone I told u

Riz: but

page 19

Fig (off screen): RIz.

page 20

Fig: I've done all this before.

Fig: Can you trust that at least?

page 21

Riz: no, I– - I do. - I trust you.

page 23

Riz: okay what happens now

(sound effect text): glob

page 24

Fig: we do it again!

page 25

Riz: wh. [larger than usual space] What do you mean. (this clay's too wet also)

Fig: see! you're already learning

Fig: [blank speech bubble] - there are flows that are futile to fight. - The world changes.

Fig: Things change.

page 26

Fig: I've learned my lessons with "forevers". - But - as an artist

Fig: I can give you one thing: - You can always do it again.

page 27

Fig: most of everything depends on the rest of the world, - but this. - making new. - that's yours as long as you want it.

page 28

Fig: So?

page 29

Riz: Yeah. - Yeah! - let's make another one.

[tohruies]

ha! 💌 ! except that i’m doing uno reverse and sending one to you! (and especially since you’ve already written it once for me and i even printed it out!!!)

dear coco, so i know how you always want to bring even the tiniest smile to people’s faces! you are the sunshine that peeks from behind the clouds during the cloudy days ⛅️ but i’m smacking you affectionately because oftentimes in your selfship dynamics you mention that your dear beloveds soothe your heart after you give it away to everyone around on an open palm — and you should listen to that inner voice! ✨ treat yourself first, be a little selfish, make sure to feel comfortable before you comfort others ❤️‍🩹 let me tell you again — i am shaking you and telling you this because a happy and healthy coco guarantees even more happy people around her! 🥺 i love your prose, love your poetry that you sneak so elegantly in between sentences and paragraphs — it’s been a while since i’ve read anything from you and i understand that there are things that you must focus on first, but no matter the passing time, yours will always be one of the styles that inspired me the most in my writing journey on here! 🥹 your presence here has been influencing my life in the most positive way ever since becoming mooties with you! you always put so much thought into remembering everyone’s personalities, lives, preferences and stories! 🌸 but i wanted to make sure that you know how it also feels to be on the receiving side of love (though i know i’m not the only one adoring you so much and certainly there are so many others who would stand right beside you if you only needed a shoulder to lean on) 🩷

༼ﾉ ´༎ຶ ﹏ ༎ຶ༽ ﾉ *: ·ﾟ💌 when manu wears the biggest ever size of meanie pants ever... /silly

(i will acknowledge & respond to your own 💌 to me in the tags, if that's okay!! 🥺 oh my goodness 🥺🥺)

3 days later and i think i have finally collected myself enough to respond to this WAH... I AM SO SORRY TO KEEP YOU WAITING MANU! 🥺 i am uno reversing your uno reverse >:3 hehe, i remember that i wrote you one of these last year, in april!!!! it's always been a difficult month for me, so it made me really happy + meant the whole world to be able to write something for you and have you receive it with all the love in your heart 🥺 so much so that you even printed it out (i cried tears of joy last year when you told me that AODKJFAJ i am so sorry 🙈). i hope you don't mind that i give last year's message a sibling LOL, with what i am about to say to you now!!!! (⁄ ⁄>⁄ω⁄<⁄ ⁄) 

dearest manu mousie, manu the great, my manumimii!

where do i even begin with youuuu ;w; /pos!!!!! maybe i can start with how much i love (and also fear /lh, because you are truly so... omniscient lol!) how perceptive you are... the way you make people feel seen (exhibit a, the contents of this ask asdfghjkl) and look so deep into their hearts... i think you are incredibly excellent at analysing people and charaters /POS and i feel like this is very evident in your fics and character studies!!!!! it is due in large part to your introspection which is another thing i love about you :D and why i think i find a great deal of comfort in you 🥺 because i am always especially drawn to these kinds of people!! people who you don't need to wear a mask around because they will be able to see through you anyway... it's very soothing in a sense to know that you are like this 🥺💗 and it only inspires me to be more perceptive too!! i hope i can be as caring and kind as manu is some day, heheh (๑•̀ᴗ•́๑)  💗

which brings me to my next point—i love all the ways in which you are quietly kind and looking out for your friends—again, as evidenced by this ask, wah... BUT ALSO!!! in how you do other things for them! 🥺 little blurbs in their mailbox (i revisit that xiangli one you wrote me not so long ago) or even drawings!!! perhaps i don't ship with haitham anymore, but the doodle you gifted me last year has always been a widget on my phone :3 and it will continue to be!!! that was the very first time anyone had ever drawn me something just out of the goodness of their heart, let alone gifted me anything of the sort!!!! 🥺🥺 so it is something i hold really really close. it makes me smile SO BIG!! and kick my feet all excitedly to see you do that for your other friends here too HEHE—when i look at femi's pfp... vana's pinned... i am reminded of just how big and bursting with love that your heart is 🥺💗

i love how much you have grown on here over the past year. ⭐️ in terms of your writing—which has been such a pleasure to witness over time how you've grown into a style that is so distinctly manu!! 🥺🥺 because like! 🥺 i remember so distinctly a certain post you made last year about wanting to improve your writing and your vocabulary and finding your 'own writing voice' 🥺 look at you now!!! with your lush descriptions and rich prose and dynamic characterisation, IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY!!!!! AND PROUD!!! and i hope you too, are proud of yourself friend 🥹💖 even aside from your writing, i'm so glad that you have grown more comfortable here in sharing more personal posts about yourself hehe AND OF COURSE YOUR SELFSHIPS!!!!!!!!!! :3 i am also very glad about how you have lots and lots of friends on here now!!! that all love and cherish and uplift and reassure you in the way you deserve to be 🥺

i'm just really happy you are here with us, babie. i hope you won't take it the wrong way when i say this, but i really do believe that you are so much stronger, kinder, and easy to love than you think yourself to be! 🥺🥺 i hope that you can continue to work on being less hard on yourself, and i hope that all your friends here can help with that in any way you'll let us!! i hope you will continue to share more of your heart with us here and let us cradle it and soothe it when you need it. i hope your studies will treat you as kindly as they can, and that you will succeed in them :3 i hope you know that all you need to do is try your best!! you have a beautiful brain and a tender, loving heart—so i am sure in due time that all the good karma will be returned to you 🥺💗 making you a steaming cup of pink chai with a dollop of condensed milk in it, and gently rubbing your hands in mine to warm them up 🥰 we love you so much manu, not just for all that you do for us, but for just simply existing as you are, and letting us bask in the warm light you radiate 💖💖💖

[iridescentis]

i am bored so im gonna choose one crane wives song for each rtc/legoland character :D

most of these are a stretch but it's fineee they're close enough

ocean - queen of nothing i think this song fits her specifically during the musical, i think it fits her false sense of superiority and her impatience and agitateness if that makes sense?

constance - pretty little things i have mentioned this one before i think this is very constance, it's fucking depressing to think about but yeah. ow.

noel - I ain't done this one definitely fits monique more than noel but it's the closest im gonna get to his vibes with a tcw song

misha - never love an anchor it had to be said. i mean the songs about a mother who never got to raise her child it's devastatingly fitting for misha

talia - shallow river mostly choosing this one for the 'fool in her wedding gown' because ow. that's all i can think of

ricky - daydreamer just off the title alone it's so him but i think it's also his vibes, it works!

jane - empty page self explanatory

penny (rtc) - new discovery also self explanatory i feel lmao

penny (legoland) - red clay honestly a lot of them have her vibes but i think she needs this one

astrid - show your fangs i can't explain why but im certain of this

trishna - naked, the night falls cutiepie in love

corey - once & for all i know barely anything about him and have no hcs at all so this is the best i got

hank - the diving bell loverboy energy off the charts

tammy - caleb trask religious guilt what more can i say

ezra - icarus did i pick this one just because it says brother frequently? perhaps. what else was i supposed to do

there were multiples for some characters that i thought of also plenty that fit ships specifically which i tried to avoid but yeah. those are my thoughts

[pocketramblr]

I always found it slightly awkward how media makes siblings or people who see each other as siblings call each other brother/sister all the time as in real life you almost never see people do that with their own siblings (maybe someone out there like that)

In the case of Arkham Shadows I see why they did though because Bruce quite literally tells Harvey he loves him and Harvey says it back. Can't have the audience think Batman is in love with the DA.

They had Bruce pay for his college, pay for his campaign, pay for his surgery, pay for his therapy and had Harvey have him as his best man at his wedding. Wow..... Sugar baby Harvey is real.....

The calling sibling title thing is less common in English than in some other languages for sure- me and a couple of my siblings do it on occasion, but it's for a bit then. More common is when I call one of my close family friends "my sister" or "my nephew" when talking about them to someone else because it's faster and easier to say that than to say "my friend who I've known since she was born and lived with for a few years and consider a little sister" or "child of a close family friend who considers me an aunt" to someone who doesn't know them. Which is a lot of words to say that if they wanted to fully sell me on the brothers thing they should have either had a different bit or should have referred to the other as "my brother" when talking to an unrelated character instead.

But "oh no we have to make Bruce not look gay" has been a problem DC has struggled with more than once for many decades and it basically never works so I guess at least they didn't try to solve it this time by having Bruce pick a lady love over Harvey or cutting the holding hands thing

Because I saw that scrapbook! I know Harvey has been Bruce's sugar baby since he was ten years old! But we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him the love of his life because ok technically that's Gotham but also because gay. And we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him his best friend because they're not ten anymore and somehow that seems gay also. So brothers it is, I guess. Even if I think my brothers would bite my finger if I ever tried to pay for everything for them on that scale, guess it's different at billionaire levels

[pup-pee]

this is basically my kyle playlist

california girls is rlly carrying the angst so sad((she eants me(2 b loved) is not the sadest song ots just the 1st))

[technicolorxsn]

thinking abt him......

[syn4k]

Hello! You said in your pinned post that we can ask about your inner world. I don't know a whole lot about how that works, but I know inner worlds can be very different, and I was wondering what yours is like.

you can indeed! i was wondering when someone was gonna take us up on that offer. not gonna go into too much detail here for privacy reasons but ok you know how in a lot of mcyt fics the setting is still minecraft but it's this weird half-realism version of minecraft with a lot of the same mechanics and dimensions and monsters and magic systems and stuff? it's like that, but there's also an entire expanded multiverse and a few pantheons floating around

currently, there are several dozen people living in the village immediately surrounding front (where people can come up and talk to people outside the system and even control the body for a bit if they want. we call this "piloting" because it is incredibly similar to having a robot mech like in evangelion i've never seen evangelion), although most of them keep to themselves and come up here quite rarely. i say "people" quite lightly here- there's a lot of nonhumans, including the two permafronters (me [Ray] and Lance)!

it's pretty chill actually. we get a lot of people who wander in and out looking for a place to stay the night or who are escaping rough places. not all of them have clearly defined sources, but those who do 99% of the time come from within headspace itself, because for some reason our brain saw every mcyt we've ever been fixated on and went "what if i ran that through the autism filter and then made it an actual place that you can visit up here" and then did that. this applies to the multiverses as well which means that at any given time there are at least two Pixlriffses and three Xisumas living in the same general area, to name a few (they all find the situation hilarious and get along great).

there's never really a dull moment because after two years of "hey wait a minute there's more people in my me", a lot of inside jokes and silly rivalries have formed. there's also a fully recognized pantheon of deities for the main universe (the one where front is physically located) alone, but that's a whole nother bag of rats

but yeah. headspace my beloved <3

[loregoddess]

Frederica Aesfrost or Cordelia Glenbrook for the ask game?

Oh, I'll do both, they're both great!

First impression: For Frederica, it was something along the lines of "Oh, she seems cool, I bet I'll like her" when I was watching the early trailers. For Cordelia, after meeting her for the first time in the game I didn't...actually have much of an impression of her, she seemed very bland "youngest sister, most gentle-hearted princess" and nothing more (I was very wrong).

Impression now: Love them both lots! Frederica went well beyond whatever I was expecting of her characterization, she's really interesting and I love how she comes into her own and really starts standing up for herself and her ideals as the story progresses. And I was SO wrong about Cordelia, she's literally one of the most interesting and complex characters in a "royalty" role I've ever come across in fiction, and I love her so much for it. She's got an incredibly strong will, she's very intelligent, and she was actually shaping up to be a really extraordinary leader. I'm sad she gets sidelined in the story as soon as Roland's able to reclaim Glenbrook Castle, because she had all this budding potential to be one hell of a powerhouse of a character.

Favorite moment: Hmm, it's been a hot minute since I played TriStrat, so my memory of the story isn't as sharp, but I really enjoyed the scenes where Frederica fights against Thalas and Erika (in her route of Ch13, "Born of Strife and Sadness" specifically, although her battle dialogue with them in Roland's version "Time to Say Goodbye" is good as well). It marks an interesting turning point in her character growth, and it was really nice to see her finally oppose them without fear.

For Cordelia, I'd...have a harder time combing the wiki for the specific chapter, but all of her cutscenes from her father's death to Ch13, where we get to see how she starts to come up with a plan to retake Glenbrook, and how she's able to inspire Avlora to her side, those were really interesting scenes, and I had a new appreciation for her character after watching them because I simply wasn't expecting her to deal with the grief of loosing her entire family (as she didn't know Roland was still alive at this time) to be "well, I'm the only one left and I am Not going to take this lying down, I will be queen of my people in my own right". Just, mm, really interesting character growth, I would have loved to see the type of leader she would have become if things had gone differently.

Idea for a story: Well, I'm always interesting in post-game type narratives that explore how the characters and world begin to heal after all is said and done, and I think that type of story would be really interesting to explore for both Frederica and Cordelia, but in different ways. For Frederica, exploring how her life as the official Lady Wolffort is, and what work she does to help the Rosellen people after the war while also balancing her new married life would be really interesting.

For Cordelia, I think there's a lot of potential to explore the intricacies and power dynamics behind the scenes of Glenbrook's restoration, as I'm sure she ends up doing a lot of work to help Roland even if she isn't the official ruler (again, all that potential she showed as a leader, you can't tell me she doesn't take up some sort of important position in helping to lead the country)--all this while she also settles in to learning that Serenoa is her half-brother (I like to think she learns that at some point), and her life with Avlora as her knight, and just, stuff in general for her since she has a lot to recover from and grieving she can finally go through.

Unpopular opinion: I don't think I have any wildly unpopular opinions about Frederica. For Cordelia, I guess I'm not keen on the Cordelia x Avlora ship, I just...can't see it as romantic (and the age gap doesn't work for me, I'm fairly certain Avlora is in her thirties at the youngest due to in-game dialogue about when Svarog took her in), although I am partial the idea of the platonic knight-liege friendship between the two, but platonic stuff isn't as popular in most fandom spaces.

Favorite relationship: I'm really fond of Frederica's canon romance with Serenoa, like, normally I'm kinda neutral on canon romances, but the way this one was written was so, so good, and I loved seeing her interactions with the other House Wolffort members. I also like her friendship with Geela a lot.

For Cordelia, her familial relationship with Roland is very interesting (somewhat bittersweet at times), and I would have loved to see and know more about her relationship with Frani and their dad. As I mentioned above, I really like her friendship with Avlora, because it was so unexpected but it makes a sort of weird sense. Would have loved to see more of her interactions with the House Wolffort members, and also would have loved to see how she reacts to learning Serenoa is her half-brother and how that shapes her relationship with him and Frederica after the game's events.

Favorite headcanon: Hmmm, I don't have as many headcanons for TriStrat in general but, I guess for Frederica that in Benedict's ending she eventually ends up breaking away from and opposing Serenoa so she can take up defending the Roselle (probably sometime shortly after Benedict's death), and that in the Golden Ending she grows into an excellent leader for both the Wolffort Demense and Roselle people alongside Serenoa, and the two are fondly remembered by their people in histories later on.

For Cordelia, it would be that her capability and tact for government makes her vital to ensuring Roland's rule is successful in the Golden Ending, and also that she eventually becomes very close with Frederica and Serenoa after learning she's related to Serenoa (catching up on family time), enough that if the two ever had kids she'd be the favorite aunt (she'd be their only aunt technically, but she probably spoils them more than Roland would).

[electrozeistyking]

Asked if I could offer Rotfrin for consideration, so I gathered a bunch of references and stuff for them (though one of the notes in one of them was accidentally made outdated recently; just ignore the stuff on “chest size not changing” ig). :DDD

Basically, In Rot and Infection explores the idea/concept of an infection AU in a time loop, with Siffrin continuously being infected with “pourrir disease” and becoming has been dubbed as... well, Rotfrin.

(folks always seem to draw what i like to call early loops rotfrin, with the big ol smile and stuff. i will point out that while i genuinely don’t hate it, meaning you can draw him in whichever state you’d like, i do personally think it’s funny folks keep doing that.)

A schmol request for all isat monsterish design havers may you. May you lend me some. I wanna draw monsterish isat designs but I cannot choose at the moment please help a thing in need......

if you have any other looperts (like... Isabeau loop version and such) please share I love these designs too thank you so much muac muac/platonic

ALSO HAVE IN MIND I MAY NOT. DRAW ALL OF THEM SORRY IN ADV ANCE.

[taruruchi]

I've been working on this for... a while

She was making fun of his physical abilities (flight, running, yk) and he wasn't about to take it lying down

Other ver + w/o text under the cut bc I wasn't completely satisfied with this one KDKDJSKDM

[silent-browser]

I am banning myself from caffeinated teas >:[

I heard that green tea was supposed to be very good for dieting. And guess who's sibling begged their parents for green tea and then proceeded to never drink any of it. So in an attempt I started drinking some. Two cups yesterday. One cup today.

It's PAST my BED TIME >:[

I AM NOW PARANOID ABOUT MY MORTALITY AND THE MORTALITY OF THE PEOPLE I LOVE >:[

I am SLEEPY yet UNABLE TO REST because when I try I get DEPRESSI >>:[

I'm switching to de-caff... that my sibling also begged my parents to buy for them but never drank...