#they'd use it selfishly

[soukokumychildren]

Is there something you would love to add to your AU, but doesn’t fit the plot?

I'm still fifty-fifty on it, but I kinda want Soukoku to accidentally stumble across the one "book" that Francis and Fyodor are looking for. They just find it in a bookstore, Chuuya thinks its a super neat cover and they buy it. They just keep it around until Dazai eventually finds out exactly what it is and (maybe) writes in it how only he and Chuuya can control its pages so nobody else can get their hands on said pages and ruin reality

[theflyingfeeling]

...

[queenlucythevaliant]

clean your sword

i. Peter had thought many times about dying for his brother, killing for his sisters, as all oldest children do.

ii. He'd imagined it a hundred times: how if his mother and father were ever killed, he'd get some low-skill job and make sure Lucy's clothes still fit her as she grew. How he'd make fists and fight dirty if Susan was ever threatened. What he'd do if Edmund ever had to flee the country on a dark, windswept night.

iii. Yet when he heard Susan's horn that day, he still froze. Only for an instant, he thought, "this can't be my job, right?"

iv. The blood on his sword shone red when it was all over. When he wiped it on the grass, the stain it left was almost black.

v. They'd put Susan in his arms when he was two years old. Peter didn't remember it, but he knew he'd been waiting for her till then. He wasn't a real person until he was a brother.

vi. And when they walked back to the pavilion, Rhindon bumping Peter's hip, all he could say to his sisters was, "I'm sorry I didn't come faster."

vii. The High King was almost obsessive in the way he cared for Rhindon. When he grew older and required weapons larger than those made for a child, he obsessed over them too.

viii. He told the others, in no uncertain terms, that if it ever came to it in battle, they were to leave him and live. As their brother and high king, he commanded it.

ix. The first time Edmund risked himself for Peter's sake, Peter didn't speak to him for a week.

x. He was oiling his sword when Edmund found him. "See, the thing is, Peter, being brothers goes both ways. If you can love me enough to die for me, than I get to love you just the same."

xi. Peter agreed with him then, to avoid the argument. He was sick of not talking to his brother. Yet privately, he knew that Edmund was wrong. That sacrifice was Peter's special prerogative, as the first-born.

xii. Back in England, his mother noticed that Peter had become more fastidious. She didn't notice that his protective streak has grown - and maybe it hadn't, really.

xiii. It was uncanny, how Peter would always show up just when his siblings needed him. He'd round a corner, and there was Lucy stamping her feet and scowling at a bully. There was Susan, crying, and now his knuckles were bloody.

xiv. He cleaned the blood off in the sink so carefully. The water ran red for a second, and it almost seemed black.

xv. When Caspian asked for the High King's advice, looking so very young, Peter jerked his chin towards the sword a Caspian's hip. "Be ready to use that," he said. "Keep it clean, and close."

xvi. Susan forgot Narnia and she forgot Aslan. Yet selfishly, Peter still hoped that she would never forget how quickly he came when she called.

[cosmal]

Poly!Marauders x touch-starved fem!reader who’s too embarrassed to ask for attention..

cuddle

summary you really want a hug from your boys

content poly!marauders x fem!reader

note i don’t like this sorry

You get home from work later than you'd anticipated. You're exhausted, every step you take feels heavy, slow. You smell like the tube and your limbs are screaming for a hot shower.

But when you see your boys, you bubble with adoration.

You've all only just moved in together, the routine is fresh and exciting. You're not used to coming home to being welcomed by a parade of love and something on the stove.

You hang your coat and take off your shoes. The feet of your tights are a little damp. Sirius meets you in the hall.

"You're home," he says with a smack of a kiss to your cheek. You beam. "Is it raining out there? Sweetheart, I would've come and picked you up."

"It's okay," you smile. You think he's just finished work too, he's probably just as tired. "I read on the train." Sirius doesn't look pleased.

James hugs you as soon as he sees you. He's all flushed like he's just gotten back from the gym. Grey sweats and a black hoodie. You melt under his affection. "Cold out there, huh?"

"Yeah," you say quietly. You struggle to not show how affected you feel under their loving. You tuck a damp curl away from his face instead. Ignoring how warm your face feels. "You feeling tired?"

"A little."

"My poor baby." You kiss his shoulder and follow the sound of your name from the kitchen. James groans.

You're welcomed by Remus's long arms and a kiss to the top of your head when you find him. He keeps an eye on his sauteed vegetables while he squishes you. The heat from the stove hugs your face while you feel just as shy in his hold as you did the others. You wonder if you'll ever get used to it.

Eventually, Remus gets busy with dinner, boiling pasta and adding sauce to the veg. Sirius sets himself up behind his computer, and James gets in the shower. You were hoping, selfishly, for an invitation from him but felt stupid for thinking so. He’s tired. Sirius would probably whinge. Understandably.

You sit on your bed, work skirt and top discarded. A pair of tights and the vest makes you look a little funny but you don’t have it in you to care. You know the boys wouldn't mind either.

You wonder what they’d say if you asked them to cuddle. You know, hopefully, that their answer would most likely be yes. You just don’t like how you’d sound. Because, you really hate yourself for it, you’ve never actually had to ask them. They hug and kiss you all the time like they have a sixth sense for when you need it.

You feel tired, bored. You know they'd be the perfect fix. You just don't know how to go about it. Hey, Remus, wanna cuddle? Sirius, come sit on the lounge? James, your lips look pretty soft today.

You walk out into the main part of the house and it smells even better. Welcoming. You stand in the lounge room, damp tights pressed into the crush of carpet. Sirius is busy, Remus is making sure his pasta doesn't turn to mush, and you think James is still washing his hair.

You're used to your own routine after work but now you want to include the others because it makes sense. You feel silly.

Sirius looks up from his computer, his jaw washed in blue light. He pushes his reading glasses up his face and into his hair. "You okay, darling?"

You turn, mildly startled, with the pad of your finger in your mouth. You blink slowly. "Hmm?"

He seems half-amused, turning in his chair until he can see you properly. You feel barer than your clothes can allow. "You're half naked in the sitting room."

"Sorry," you wrinkle your face up. You're without a plan now and feel embarrassed. "I was gonna..."

As Sirius stands from his chair, James comes out of your room in his pyjamas on and a towel over his shoulder. His curls damp and a little flat. You think you might put some cream in them later if you remember.

Sirius stands in front of you, James stands to the side, half curious. "You were gonna?"

You swallow. Sirius has a funny way of making you shy. Probably because you know he'd have no problem asking you for a kiss, he does it every day. You're half-envious, half-nervous.

You duck your head, much to both boys' displeasure, and twist your feet until your tights bunch. "I feel silly now."

"Sirius does that sometimes," James says from over your shoulder. You can sense the look Sirius shoots him without having to look at them. You bite back a smile.

Sirius encourages your face up with the side of his finger under your chin. Your skin feels branded. "Hey, it's okay. What's on your mind?"

"You guys are busy."

"Not really," Sirius says softly. You really, really want to hold his hand.

"Yeah?"

"Well, Remus is," Sirius says. "But James and I are free."

You try to work up your courage and remember it's just Sirius. "Could we, maybe..." Sirius smiles, pretty teeth peeking out from his smooth lips. It strikes your heart alight. "Coul we maybe cuddle? Or something, I don't know, I just really need a hug."

You watch Sirius's shoulders fall. Letting out a breath he's been holding in. He relaxes. "Oh, baby, that's all?" He gets you into his arms when you pout. "I thought it was like super serious."

"It is serious," you mope into his button-up. "I really wanted a hug. I just didn't know how to ask."

"You're right," He steals a hand from your back to cradle your face. He holds you back and pushes a finger into your cheek. He looks mildly put out. "You're right, that is super serious. You know you don't have to ask for a hug, right?"

James finally comes around to steal you from Sirius. Gets you into his chest and hugs you until you're smothered. "You never have to ask any of us for a hug. Or a kiss. We're free range, baby."

"You guys were doing stuff," you go a little limp against his frame. He holds you up like you're nothing. "I felt stupid. I was just bored."

"Doesn't matter," he kisses the top of your head, swaying you back and forth a bit. “Hug me whenever. I know the others feels the same.”

“Even when I’m dressed like this?” You smother a giggle into his neck.

“Especially when you’re dressed like this,” James says. Sirius seconds it.

“Okay,” you sigh.

Lovesick, still hugging in the sitting room, you hear Remus call out that dinner’s now ready. You follow each other into the kitchen like a bunch of children.

You plate up your dinner while Sirius butters you a fresh roll. You smack a loving kiss to Remus’s cheek. “Thanks, Rem. Smells amazing.”

“Hey, can we eat on the sofa tonight?” James asks, already shovelling pasta into his mouth.

“Why?” Remus asks.

“Y/N wants to spend more time with us,” James wipes some sauce from his face, “She really wants to cuddle.”

“Oh, honey,” Remus pouts, “Why didn’t you just ask? I’ve been wanting to hug you all night.”

“That’s what I said!” You hear Sirius from behind you.

You warm, stuffing your mouth full of pasta to distract yourself.

The boys cuddle you all night.

[jarofstyles]

eating from each others plates plsss 🫶🏼🫶🏼

BEAUTIFUL this is bit of dadrry too actually- I kinda changed it a little by accident but I still hope you enjoy it hehe

Prompt list for these asks

Patreon!

----

It was hard to get a minute alone while being parents.

Y/N and Harry loved their children, don't get it wrong. Being a father had been one of his ultimate life goals and Y/N had fallen in love with motherhood, both of them excited to be at every play, soccer match, doctors visit, the works.

But god, was it nice to have a moment of peace.

The children were finally asleep. It had been the entire routine of homework, bath time, bedtime prep, laying out their outfit for the next day before each of them got a bedtime story. They'd gotten back late from a soccer match and selfishly gotten the kids fast food on the way home because Y/N couldn't even think about cooking.

Her own stomach had growled loudly while cleaning up the kitchen, and Harry had laughed under his breath before giving her an innocent look when she grumbled at him for the action. It was these sort of things, the domestic and somewhat unromantic aspects of having a life partner that had surprised her with how much she loved it.

It was easy. Having Harry around made everything more fun, more bearable even at the tough moments. He had always been a good partner despite their tiffs, and that hadn't seemed to change in their 10 years together.

When he had insisted he finish cleaning while she took a shower, she had finally given in and let the hot water relax her muscles, the lavender body wash aiding in the experience before she applied lotion and pulled on a fresh set of pajamas. That was famously one of Harry's shirts and a pair of shorts that could pass for underwear.

"Made us food." He said as she walked into the kitchen. It was pasta. One plate of pasta. She gave him a look as he walked over to the dining table to place it down next to her glass of wine- has she mentioned she loved him?- and sat on the chair, spreading his thighs before patting his lap. "C'mon, mama. You're sleepy and showered. Let's share."

Y/N simply did as told. Too tired to fight, she collapsed on his lap with a hefty sigh, feeling him scoot the chair further in and bring the fork to her mouth to feed her the first bite. Alfredo pasta. Creamy, rich, and something they'd definitely be having as leftovers tomorrow.

"Guess I did alright?" He laughed at her moan, the clean fork falling back to the plate to get himself a bite.

"Mhm." She confirmed before swallowing, watching as he chewed the food before nodding. Yeah, it was exceptionally good. Out of the both of them, it had always made her grumble that he was the better cook- but now she was reaping the benefits.

"Fuck yeah I did." He nodded, taking a sip of his ginger ale. "Love you too much to let you go to bed hungry. Took care of my babies so well today." He smeared a kiss to the side of her head before feeding her another bite. "So now you'll let me take care of you."

[gofishygo]

price x trans ftm reader who started his transition later in life? like just thinking... they served a tour or two together before reader transitioned. had a little fling going on, potentially on the way towards more. but after whatever mission/tour theyre on is over, reader slowly stops keeping in contact with price.

years down the line, the reunite during some sort of mission. price recognizes readers last name or callsign but the face he's met with is different. this man is happier.

price and reader get to talking in some downtime and decide that once this is all over (the mission they're on), they'll try and take some time together to make up for all the time they'd lost together. and price gets to meet the real you.

[PRIDE MONTH- WEEK ONE] : through green hydrangeas (my heart lies) price x ftm reader (part 1/2)

notes : (somewhat innacurate) descriptions of military, injury, brief outlines of smut (no explicits mentioned), gender dysphoria, reader gets outed towards the end. this may be edited later on.

wc- 1.8k

urzikistan- take down six targets aligned with al quatala, all terrorist backgrounds. a mission where location and timing and team were everything, pointed into maps and plotted into files, handled with fine-cut secrecy, knife-point precision, landed directly into price's aged hands. And now, at the final stretch, he'd been handed a few recruits at his expense. Fought with laswell against them, argued that his team could run through the enemy.

(and by god, how can he focus on the task at hand when he sees the shine in that operator's eyes, the curvature of his face? warm and familiar, the mother's milk suckled by a pup.)

It’s odd, having to work with a man so similar to her. narrowed eyes and sharp teeth, even sharing the same gun hed swore he gifted her- considers for a moment that maybe she’d changed, now baring a different name on id’s and passports, records crossed out and scrawled over. stole her last name as well, and before he’d even met you, he had already considered asking laswell to ship you off to whatever pmc would accept you.

but at the same time, he bites his tongue, wire muzzle to some refectory dog.

you seem to truly be alive, words barked with flame, spilled from your stomach, full-toothed smile instead of the sleazy grin she wore. you are her and aren’t her- and sometimes, maybe, he lets himself think youre better. sweeter. hates the way he still gives you the same greeting as he did to that woman, selfishly using a subordinate to fill out some cavity in his chest. but he can’t have it any other way, doesn’t want to have it in any other way.

a world where slowing down didn’t mean stopping. had a nice ring to it.

-

it's 0400 on the day of deployment. there's brittle crust in the ducts of your eyes that you hadn't been able to wash of in the changerooms, and now you are holding onto gun and hanging onto the sky by plane, listening to the clicks as you load and unload the magazines. missions like these, capture-kills with enemies that outdid your measures of brutality and lived for the beliefs of bloodshed in liberty; they weigh in your chest, some layers of adrenal fear smuggled under the layers of methodical, stoical behaviour. the buzzing headache that never left as a child, the feel of pressure wrapped around crevices of the cerebellum, tightening.

in these plights, you'd used to knock on price's door, hands itching to roll into fist- turning the fear you'd guide like a shepherd into the spit in stout-littered kisses, how you pulled off his clothes like the vulture to a corpse. the way your body moved against his was the nicotine you'd smoke on long nights. it was sickening, at first, how much control that you revelled in, the way that his name had found its place under your tongue. the way that he grabbed at the bone in your hips, worshipping, devotee. taken to his body like addict to a drug, the dissociation between you heart and the fat-filled mounds on your chest washed out by lust. he makes it feel like the ache was never there, that you could scream with the voice that had been trapped beneath high-strung vocal cords, unfortunate biology. and you let yourself beg to god; why, oh god why, why were you given a body at the cost of your life?

but now, navigating through some twisted buildings under the cover of night, clearing rooms in the hotel, you know that you're changed. the revelation behind the woman beneath price's sheets all those years ago, who'd stolen your skin and your eyes and your face- it could cost you your life, could have you shunned and dying like a dog on the streets. and yet, you still hold a weary head up and dream about-

Johnathan price. he still festered in your ribcage, face slipped away into the back of your skull, the bug you'd yet to squish as you drive military blade into an enemy's neck and muffle their mouth through dying thrashes. He nods, gruff sound muted behind mutton chops, murmuring an audible 'clear' through the fizzle of comms. And you let yourself wonder, if maybe those prismarine eyes can find yourself in the body now known as home. (He swears that your smile matches the woman he'd fell for through sparring matches and facebook posts. that old face he'd barely managed to blot out with cigars and whiskey and downed with bourbon and-) your team proceeds down the hallways,

‘all stations on right wing, target four is down. I repeat, target four is down. zero KIA.’ and your mouth quirks up a little. ‘deems that Ghost’s aim still doesn’t fail,” you muse. His eyebrow raises- only slightly- at the tense of your words. still.

“certainly doesn’t,” and you want to drink the strain in his voice until its ache is gone.

another few minutes of clearing the building. the repetitions of breaking open the same doors with the same crowbars, gun peeking through the side of the frame. So similar, practiced in recon and real-world situations, yet never being comfortable, safe. it’s almost automatic at this point, reducing your phycology to nothing more than the gun that you wield- deciding, acting. but looking over at price- the look in his eyes know’s you’d been injured. Bubbling fire deep in your marrow, fear bittering the air around you; foul, unappetising, yet it feels the captain wants to swallow you whole.

-

and now it rips through you- feels like your insides are pouring out, scrap of kidney and intestine pooling out at the starburst entry point. some pained shriek ripped out of your throat. at one point, you waited next to the doorframe of a room, (sixty-four left wing, is it?) and the next, some enemy operator had opened a hole in your stomach.

whatever moment between that is an animated blur, dismal and discoloured where sound pools in your ears instead of song. a captain- your captain, tackling the man to the ground in a double-leg-takedown, throwing down the gun at their side, the high wail of shots fired ringing into your ear while a teammate -the milky white patch on her face makes you assume it might be nova- drags you behind the wall as cover, your teammates taking position to cover for price, but also rip through the inhabitants of the room. and for the first time in the mission, you let fear curdle in your throat alongside the blood clinging to it’s walls, drip into your bloodstream and bury itself into bone. cant tell if the shadow hazing your thoughts is the predecessor death or subdued panic finally breaking though it’s confines . and you find it bitter, stupid, wholly in your heart, that even as your stomach spills onto the floor of a home that wasn’t yours, that part of your brain still festers. a possibility that the only man who could make your heart beat- john price, and his affair with the woman who’d stolen your soul and locked it behind flesh. Letting out some bitter laugh, feeling blood trace your lips whilst some stray bullet manages to hit the skull of an enemy, heard by the ungodly gurgle and tear of bullet through flesh, confirmed by the hum of your comms. “target two on left wing down, one broken-” price, now next to you, lets hard eyes settle against your form, dying star. “-seems to need medic.” another voice fizzles to life on the radio- laswell’s, you presume. “team delta, split to d1-d2. d1 continue to clear left wing, d2 head to rendezvous point.”

you can only really groan, blood bubbling to your throat when price hauls you to face his side, hissing out some curse as you hold shaky hand to where the blood seems to be leaking from. “easy there soilder-“ john grunts, wrenching your hand out of the way with a firm grip- a bear gripping her cub the scruff of it’s neck, holding it so tenderly between her teeth. one of your other teammates- cant identify them, head too filled up with adrenaline filled cloud and the haze to blood loss to register their shape- seems to toss over a roll of bandages. and if you had breath left, you would have barked out some half-assed remark about how strategically awful it was to tear off the gear and pull off the shirt of your uniform, but the nerves of the paled scars below your chest being revealed to cold air had your mouth shut, jaws locked, like wired muzzle to a dog. trying not to choke on the blood and jerk away when his eyes meet the placement of the wound.

it's diasporic, shaped like a dying star above you tattoo you’d had engraved deep into your dermis all those years ago. the 141’s old symbol- jagged sword without the skull, olive branches extending through its frame. a part of you far more distinctive, more tolerable to remember than thought of the girl who had decided to have it etched into her skin. And now your captain can see both of those on you- in you- and shamefully, you let lurid fear bite into you, thoughts snapping with teeth, breaking down the glass bars that composed the cage you made. Price may never kiss that tattoo again during the long nights, now look at the memories you’d made with a lens tinted by hatred. “nice to put a name to the face,”

he murmurs, wrapping the bandage to compress the wound, once, twice, thrice around your waist. Hauls your arm around his shoulder and begins the trek to the rendezvous point. one arm was pressed just above where he knew your tattoo rested, no mind to whatever blood trickles in the cracks of his fingers. “ill see you back at burningham, love,” its like your submerged in water now, eyes blurry with seawater and ears deafened by the tide filling their crevices. with the last of your energy, you tug yourself towards price, fingers tangled in his, doubling over and feeling the bandages settle under the layer of fat and muscle on your ribs. letting yourself dream of him for what seems to be your last time, fingers tangled together, pretending that your gasps for air were nothing more than laughter echoes against crashing waves on british shores, letting fresh saltwater air tangle you hair and travel your windpipe.

by the time the captain scoops you up, you’re far too deep in oceanwater, back against rocky seafloor. “stand strong, soldier,” and even through his gruff voice, you still notice the way it almost begs, song of prayer tucked away deep in his voicebox . some words he had hidden. price pulls you closer with his arm, fingers clawed and desperate, and the world crashes against you all at once.

[oneforthemunny]

YAY MY FIRST TIME DOING THIS GAME!!!

Rockstar!eddie, rehab, angst (because I have been think of this concept all day)

starting the day off strong with some angst! tw bc it does mention drug abuse and some darker kinda themes.

"Eddie Munson," Eddie looked up from the guitar he'd been strumming towards the nurse- no, the holistic helper at the door. They didn't use words like that here, not at this rehab.

"You have a visitor here." She nodded, giving a soft smile.

Eddie set the guitar down, tucking the pick back between the strings, following the woman down the long hallway of the center. The music room was where he spent most of his time these days. He'd tried hiking and the spa once he'd finished detox, but always came back there- his own oasis in his own personal hell.

"We're going to go back to your room for this meeting, if that's alright with you, Eddie." The nurse smiled gently.

"Fine with me." Eddie grumbled, his shoulders feeling heavier and heavier with each passing step.

Ninety days, it's what he agreed to. He felt better after twenty, but he'd finish it out- for you, for your girls, his family that he'd fucked selfishly. His stomach turned at the thought.

"And, there's no limit on this visit today." The nurse stopped before she opened the door. "So no need to feel pressured to rush."

Eddie's brows furrowed. It was Gareth, maybe Jeff, he knew it was. They were the only ones who came to visit him anyways. Still, he grumbled in response, turning the knob to his room. It was nice, a private suite that felt more like a hotel room than the prison cell it'd become.

"Hey, man, didn't know you were coming by today. I've been working on some stuf-" Eddie's breath hitched, falling flat in the air when he turned.

It felt nearly like a mirage, like he might have been dreaming, hallucinating that you were here. Here, on his bed, sitting too rigidly to be comfortable, arms wrapped around yourself.

"Working on stuff?" You hummed, eyes barely meeting his and he didn't miss the way you swallowed. "What kind of stuff?"

"Y-You're here?" Eddie croaked, shutting the door with a harsh snap. "Wha-What are you doin' here, baby?" Every bit of his being screamed to hug you, hands tingling and twitching- itching to feel you, to hold you.

You shifted uncomfortably, finger running over your ring finger out of habit. Eddie nearly threw up when he saw you'd gone without your ring, he wondered how long ago you'd stopped wearing it.

"Um, Gareth came by the other day to see the girls." Your eyes cut to Eddie at the mention of them, how his face nearly crumbled at the thought. "He told me you'd been doing much better. Told me you were scared straight."

"Yeah." Eddie nodded. He was frozen, unable to move, so he stood in the doorway. "I am. I-I..." There was a million things Eddie wanted to say. He wanted to drop to his knees, beg for your forgiveness, for mercy, for anything.

"He," Your voice cracked, turning your head politely to the side to compose yourself. So prim and proper, Eddie's heart leapt at the action- he'd missed it so fucking much.

"He also brought me your letter." Your lip wobbled at the mention, pressing them tightly together to keep yourself from bursting into tears. Ten pages, front to back, with scribbling, tear soaked, inked ramblings about his feelings- poured his heart out onto those pages. Everything he'd ever wanted to say in his entire life, there on those pages, his whole bleeding heart.

"He did." Eddie sounded relieved, shoulders slumping, rounding with the weight of everything he'd kept in for so long.

You nodded slowly, watching him carefully from your own perch. "The girls made you some things." Your voice shook with your hands when you reached in your bag, piles of drawing and scribbles they'd made for Eddie.

Eddie looked at the colorful papers, just a glimpse in your hand, choking on a sob that was tearing mercilessly through his chest. "I, um, I didn't bring them today." You barely met Eddie's eyes, hand smoothing over the construction paper. "I didn't think you'd want them to see you like this."

"No," Eddie shook his head, tears falling down his stubbled cheeks. "No, I-I don't. Thank you."

The air was thick between the two of you, an unsure uncomfortable feeling that left you both on ease. Eddie finally sobbed when your hand brushed his, passing the drawings to him.

"I'm-I'm so sorry." Eddie broke, teeth gritted, trying to swallow back his own cries, hand holding yours tightly. "I don't-I don't know why I-I fucking did that. Why I did it to you, a-and to the girls, and fuck- I don't know why-" Eddie's sobs choked his words.

You knew you shouldn't have, that you should have stood strong, colder and meaner. Your mind screamed at you to stop, but you couldn't- not when your own heart was shattering all over again. So you held him, arms wrapped around his torso, body moving towards his in that familiar way. Your puzzle piece, you two fit so well. His arms hugging you tightly, nearly crushing you into his chest like he wanted you to fuse to him. Eddie's face pressed to your head, wetting your scalp with his tears, nose rubbing into your skin babbling apologies over and over again, promises that he would keep, that you hoped he would.

[hughiecampbelle]

Gen V Preference: Wearing Something Tight/Skimpy

Requested: Could I request the gen v reacting to you wearing something tight/ skimpy? I love how you did this with the boys ty💖 - anon

A/N: I hope you like it my love!!! My fave Luke was so sweet and I just know Jordan would get this look in their eyes omg!!! Also Emma would be so funny!!!! Feedback is always appreciated!! 💕

Luke would melt. You wear baggier clothes, cool and unique, but pretty modest. He's immediately speechless. It's your first time sneaking off campus, breaking curfew, and going clubbing. You borrowed something from your roommate, thankful they had the appropriate clothes for this sort of outing. When you walked towards his car you felt silly, stupid even, pulling at the hemlines of your outfit. Luke wears that goofy smile you recognize, the one that says he's all bubbly, no thoughts. He won't say anything outright besides you look great, but once you're dancing he can't keep his hands off of you. He loves what he sees and, selfishly, wishes to see more. To Andre and Jordan though, he goes on and on about how he wants to devour you, how starstruck he is, how fantastic you look.

Jordan's words come out compulsively. They see you at one of the many galas and just can't help themselves. Cate helped you get ready, realizing you'd never been to one of these things. They hand you a drink, immediately looking you up and down. They have no shame at this moment. Their mouth moves before they realize it. You hadn't realized they'd take this much of a notice over what you were wearing. You and Jordan even had a similar style: baggy, oversized, street style. They loved your outfits and said so a few times. Tonight, you were wearing something tight, skimpy, something that totally wasn't you. They liked it, though. They made sure you knew you have a good body and should show it off more often, that if they were you they'd walk around naked. Why waste the money on clothes? You just roll your eyes, used to the unabashed way Jordan speaks. They're upfront about everything, including this.

Andre can't keep his hands off you. He's instantly jealous of anyone who might even think about looking in your direction. You got mock-ups of your suit for after you graduate and you wanted to show everyone. Brink was the one to share it with you, to tell you that The Seven was interested in you, a sophomore. It was unheard of. There was still some necessary tweaking, mostly colors and fabric, but you loved it regardless. It was, however, a little more form fitting than you were used to. Or a lot. Your clothes were fashionably oversized. That's what you liked. Superheroes couldn't go around wearing baggy jeans and sweatshirts. He's mesmerized when he sees you, his hands all over you. While you talk about your meeting with Brink, he kisses you, leading you to the bed. If you'd known he was going to act like this, you would have made his visit the last. You still had Luke and Cate to show.

Cate is speechless. All smiles. You agreed to come out with her friends, to party with them at one of the off-campus frats. When you showed up, you were basically wearing nothing. You thought that's what you were supposed to wear, like it was the uniform of frats. Suddenly everyone had their eyes on you. People kept coming up to you, wanting to get you a drink, talk to you, get your attention. In the years you'd been at God U you'd never had this sort of reaction. Cate later explains, though she loves your usual fashion, it leaves everything to the imagination. This, however, shows off what they'd been wanting. She thinks you look amazing. Truly, you should do this more often. Used to the attention, Cate makes sure it's just the two of you. She gets you all to herself. She's not as handsy as Andre would be, but she definitely looks at you like she's hungry and you're forbidden fruit.

Marie stumbles her way through a compliment, backtracking to explain she doesn't want to sexualize you, before apologizing for the entire encounter. You and Marie agreed to go out clubbing with Luke and his friends as long as the other came along. While Emma dressed Marie, you found something tight and skimpy at the bottom of your suitcases. She's only ever seen you in baggy clothes so when you met up at the staircase in the freshman dorm, she was flabbergasted. On the walk to the cars she tries to compliment you, your body, heat rushing to her face, before she apologizes, unsure of what to say, how to say it. She absolutely adores what she sees (how could she not?), but she doesn't want to make you uncomfortable or scare you back into your oversized sweatshirts. You laugh, thanking her, even doing a playful spin. You admit you're not used to it, showing so much off, but it isn't a bad feeling. Just new.

Emma states it outright: oh my god you're hot! She says it like she's surprised. And she is. If she had known you were hiding that kind of body underneath sweatshirts and baggy pants, she would have insisted you throw on the smallest outfit you could find. She laughs, saying if she looked like you, she'd wear nothing. Emma is pretty up front about her feelings and, though you love her, she has little social awareness. The two of you are sitting in your theater class while she says this. It was your group's day to show off your skit and the only matching outfits you had were tight, black, and skimpy. She was so distracted by the curves and outlines of your body, she didn't notice you'd grown uncomfortable, self-conscious. She later apologizes, realizing just how loud she was and how much attention she was calling to you. She stands by her statement though, you should definitely, at least once, walk through the campus naked.

Sam has no idea what to do or say. You and him had both been locked away. Since escaping, you've been under Emma's care. She lent you both clothes. While Sam got her oversized sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, you were given a smaller outfit. Tight. It's all she'd given you, throwing clothes at the two of you before she went to class. Do I look stupid? You ask, coming out and showing him. It's been years since you've worn clothes that weren't sweatshirts and sweatpants. It wasn't as warm, but you didn't entirely hate it. Sam just shrugs, taking you in. He hadn't had a crush since he was a kid, back in elementary school, but looking at you now, in this outfit, he could feel butterflies in his stomach. He gets this crooked smile, kinda goofy looking, that tells you he likes what he sees. He's shy in your presence, too, like now you're all he can think about it. When you ask if you should change, his no is immediate.

[gemini-sensei]

Nightly Smokes | Shy!Eli Moskowitz x Goth!ChubbyReader 🖤

● Based off of these headcanons ●

CW: smoking 🍃, high sex, semi-public car sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, marking, biting, tit play. (unedtied)

The stars were so pretty. That was all Eli could think about as he laid on the open field and stared up at the sky, the air lingering with the smell of marijuana. He licked his lips and turned hisnhead to look at Reader, who looked stunning. She was even prettier than the stars.

She had the roach between her finger, nothing left to smoke. She snubbed it in the dirt and sat up, smiling to herself. But she felt her eyes on him and looked over her shoulder at him, and asked, "what are you looking st me like that for?"

He stared at her for a moment before he even processed what she said. " 'Cause you're so pretty."

She laughed and he grinned because her laughter is contagious and beautiful. He stared at her with nothing but admiration and love. Despite the fog of his mind, his thoughts about her were clear as day. It was funny in a way but also a total dream, because most days all he wanted to do was think about her and not have to worry about anything else, but when he was sober he didn't have that luxury. So, by all accounts, this was nice.

"Do you have another?" he asked. He still wasn't all that educated on the terminology of smoking weed, so he tried to avoid using certain words so he didn't sound dumb. He didn't want to sound stupid in front of Reader. "Like, more to smoke?"

She smiled at him and nodded. "Of course I do."

She reached into her jacket and pulled out a mint tin that never had mints in it. She opened it, pulled out a joint and put it between her lips. While she lit it, Eli sat up and watched her with admiring eyes. Then she passed him the joint and he took a big drag off of it, feeling his lungs fill with the happy smoke. He held it for a moment before letting it go. He didn't cough anymore, not like the first few times he'd smoked with her, and he was glad he didn't because it made him feel amateurish in front of her - even though he'd been a total novice.

She took it back from him and they laughed when she blew smoke rings into the night air. They were the only ones there to enjoy it, which was how they liked it; empty park, open field, quiet night. It was all either of them needed. No one was around to be obnoxious and bother them. Sometimes, Eli found himself wishing it could be like that all the time.

When the second joint was nothing but a nub, Reader stamped it out and stood up. They'd been there long enough and she probably had to go home. Eli selfishly didn't want the night to end. Nevertheless, he stood up and followed her to her car. Except when they got there, she opened the back door and crawled inside. He didn't exactly have the wherewithal to question her about it and just followed her inside, closing the door behind him. The lights went out and when he turned to face her, he barely saw her figure leaning into him. He liked having her close, though, and didn't stop her.

She kissed him lazily, almost breaking the kiss with a smile. Her arms wrapped around him and pulled him close and his arms wound around her automatically, his hands on her back. Their lazy kiss soon turned into a heavy, sloppy make out session. Before he knew what was happening, they were laid out in the backseat of her car and he was on top of her, and her hands were on his ass. He moaned and she laughed, finally breaking the kiss.

In the haze of their minds, the couple laughed and tried to move about the car, but there was little to no room inside. Eli smiled down at Reader, who was partially lit up by the moonlight shining in through the window over her. She looked spooky and beautiful, her black lipstick a little smudged and he just knew it was on his face but he didn't care. She didn't either. She just pulled him down for another heavy kiss.

They moaned as things got hotter between them. Eli was slotted between her legs and she was laid out so pretty. His hands were on her waist, squeezing her sides and pulling moans from her pretty lips. She held his ass and pulled him close, pressing his pelvis into hers and he groaned as he realized he was hard.

She broke the kiss again and whined, "Eli... I need you."

He looked at her and she was the only thing he could see clearly. "I need you too."

They had no room to move and as they realized this again, Eli just shoved his sweats down his thighs with his boxers. His cock sprang out and he hissed as the air hit it, making his throb with need. Reader was still in her day clothes, so her skirt was easy to flip up and pull her panties to the side. She was soaked and Eli couldn't help but get a little distracted playing with her puffy wet pussy lips with his thumb, spreading her wetness all over.

She whined and wiggled under him, reaching down to feel for his cock. When she found it, she teased him with a few pumps that got him whimpering over her. He dropped his head to look down at her hand touching him. "Reader... please."

"Stop teasing me then," she said and smiled at him in the near darkness. He did as he was told and she removed her hand from him, making him whine. She then spread herself open with two fingers and said, "Fuck me, Eli."

He guided his cock to her entrance and shoved the tip into her. It wasn't their first time, they'd done it a few time before, but he was still a little choppy with his movements. He was still inexperienced but he wasn't totally clueless. He slowed down and eased himself into her a little smoother, listening to Reader moan as he filled her up.

"Fuck, oh fuck, I love your big fat cock," she moaned out, especially mouthy when she was high. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down to her, his body pressed up against hers as he bottomed out. "You fill me up so well! Fuck me, babe. Fuck me."

He didn't waste any time getting to it, pulling his hips back before thrusting back into her. He honestly didn't pull back too much to fuck her, never wanting to be out of her once he was in her tight cunt. She never complained, moaning and calling out for him the whole time. So he thought he always did a pretty decent job only to finish and her tell him how amazing it was. However, high out of his mind, he wasn't really thinking about all that. His mind was on her fat cunt and how great it felt wrapped around him; how great he felt getting to fuck her.

His hands wandered her body as they rocked the car, not that they noticed. His hands found their way under her shirt only to discover she wasn't wearing a bra and her fat tits were just there for him to play with. His hands squeezed and fondled her breasts, pulling more moans and dirty words from her mouth.

"Fuck, Eli! Just like that! Fuck me just like that!" she moaned and his squeezed her tits a little harder. His thrusts never slowed though his rhythm still needed some work, not that Reader cared. His almost haphazard way of fucking her was almost too good to be true. "Harder! More, please! Fuck!"

So, he delivered. He thrust into her harder and faster, his fingers pinching her nipples. It sent volts of pleasure through her body and he loved feeling her cunt bear down on his cock. It made his head fuzzier and he only heard her. Her voice bounced off the walls of the car. His head fell on her shoulder and he kissed along her neck, mouthing at her choker and necklaces until he found her exposed skin and started sucking on it.

He was so quiet, mostly grunting and whining as he fucked her, but he never said much when he was high and they were doing it. It was as if his brain couldn't work both his cock and mouth at the same time, not that neither of them cared. But if they weren't high, he'd be whining louder and telling her how she felt wrapped around him. His mind just couldn't conjure up the words in its haze. So he marked her up where he could, pinched her nipples, and fucked her just like she wanted to say what he wanted to, I love you.

Reader felt like she was floating on a cloud while getting her cunt pounded. It was nice to not think about anything but Eli and the way he touched her. His hands on her were always so gentle and soft but when they got high and fuck - which was only about one or two other times, she couldn't remember - he threw all that delicacy out the window. If she asked to be fucked hard, he did it and he never disappointed. She liked it both ways and he was still figuring out what he liked, but pleasuring her and giving her whatever she wanted seemed to get him off. It was nice.

She threw her head back as his twisted her nipple at the same time he bit the space where her neck and shoulder met. Her cunt squeezed his cock, so close to coming. She just needed that extra push. So she wrapped her legs around his waist and pushed him deeper into her. His cock slammed into her g-spot and her eyes rolled up and the words fell from her mouth.

"I'm coming! I'm coming! Fuckfuckfuck! Eliiii!" she squealed. She came all over his cock, velvet walls milking him for everything his body was worth. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

He kept going, fucking her constricting pussy as she praised his name like he were some sort of god. Because of all that wrapped together, he didn't last long. He whined as his balls drew up and he pushed as far into her as he could. His hips began grinding into hers as he came, whimpering into her neck. Time felt like it slowed down and he didn't know how long he sat inside her like that for, but it was nice no matter what.

Reader laid there, playing with his hair as he filled her cunt with his cum. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth that spread through her, biting her lip because she felt every throb and spurt from his cock. Her body went limp under him as her high came down, but she just focused on his cock for a while.

Then she pulled his head up and brought his lips to hers, kissing him like they hadn't just fucked like high little rabbits. She shoved her tongue into his mouth and took what was left of his breath away, but it couldn't last long because of that. He whined breathlessly when they had to part and they both panted hard. The windows were foggy but they didn't help the matter. It didn't matter anyway.

She smiled up at him nevertheless. He smiled back and let his head drop onto her shoulder again, too tired to do much at that moment. His hands were still cupping her tits and he didn't have the strength to pull out yet, not that Reader minded. She loved the feeling of being filled with her boyfriend. She'd cockwarm him for however long he needed to catch his breath and recoup from them little romp.

He finally got some of his bearings together, though, and mumbled, "I love you, Reader."

She kissed his forehead. "I love you too, Eli."

[losticaruss]

chronicles of narnia: prince caspian will forever be a tragedy to me, especially in the way the movie presents it. it opens with peter, desperate to return to the respect he deserves (or thinks he deserves), a fully grown man trapped in this child's, this stranger's body, still adjusting to the life he'd long since forgotten. he gets into a fight because it's natural to him. don't they realize who is he is? not selfishly (a little bit selfishly) he expects people, his siblings, the crowd, to be with him in battle. it's another battle to him, and edmund, lovely edmund, young edmund, edmund who was 12 and on the verge of death, edmund who loves his siblings the most one could ever love your own blood, is in the fray with him, and they fall back into the rhythm they were used to back home- back in narnia, and lucy and susan are screaming at them to stop, and edmund and peter see the soldiers coming home from war, and all they wants is to go back with them, and they understand how these soldiers feel, shell-shocked and distant and they want to fall into line with them, but they're kids and they're fighting other kids, they're not undisciplined, they're unadjusted. nothing changed but so did everything.

and they hop on the train and none of the pevensies want to talk about what happened and they end back in narnia and they're finally back in narnia they're home on the beaches of their home and it's a joy so grand that there's nothing they can do but go back to being kids- again, and they find cair paraval, and everything's gone- and the chessboard that edmund loved, the chessboard he played on when he first beat peter, is gone, there's nothing left of it, and they fall through the ruins like ghosts. here's the dining hall, the ballroom. remember this, lu? it used to be your bed. do you remember when you were so homesick you begged me to stay with you until you fell asleep? do you remember the way the garden bloomed in the spring? and they fall naturally in step into the dais, empty, not even the familiar sound of their shoes clacking against the polished floor. everything's gone now, of course it is. they knew how time worked in narnia, but it didn't happen to them. how could it move on without them? and they make their way into the lower floors, peter naturally falls into the trait of the leader, hes the first to forget the world they came from, but edmund, clever edmund, desperate edmund, brings a torch. he doesn't say how he packed it in his bag every day, how he packed it and prayed that they'd return. and everything is still there, in that room. nothing prepares you for seeing statues of your face- not your face, but what will be your face, what used to be your face- cracked and covered in moss. their crowns are there. everything is there. peters sword returns to his side, and it's the first time he looks complete since they left narnia. and they adventure- how much had changed? the trees are so much taller. how long now had they been gone? it was natural for narnia to have moved on, but they were meant to move on with them. peter tries to bring his siblings through his usual shortcuts, through an overpass, far from the well-trod paths that had cropped up since theyd been gone. he can't have been abandoned by his home, not so soon.

but he was. and there's a kid here, claiming to be the new ruler of narnia. who is he? he looks so young, and susan is looking at him and he's... looking back? and the civilians are looking at this stranger, this kid, like he's supposed to know what to do. had he even fought a battle? he rubs his beard- and is blocked by the bare skin of his chin (of course it's not there. he forgot.) and peter wants to be the bigger person, he's the high king, that's how it should be. but there are all these emotions he hadn't felt before- he thought, not in narnia at least. and he doesn't want to be the bigger person, he finds. stop looking at him like he should know what to do! he stands up to take over- his people forgot about him. he left and they forgot. and he sizes up this child as he speaks- high king peter of narnia, he says. the magnificent. and there it is, he thinks. the familiar look, shock, awe and- confusion? that's a new one- but not incorrect, as he realizes his situation.

he wants to be recognized how he used to be. the pevensies have returned to what they were, the warrior, the archer, the diplomat, the healer. and this new one, the one who wanted to be all four at once so desperately it made ed look wise. and finally- finally he gets his chance to shine, where he belongs, on the field, against The Enemy. of course, not how he'd like it, not in broad daylight, sword and armor gleaming, but it was the smart move. and he's filled with these emotions- not dread, or worry (maybe a little worry), but excitement, and everything is pounding in his head and the adrenaline- he forgot how good it feels- and he leads the army, his army. he's the warrior, the high king, and for a night, the people remember, they remember the golden age. and ed is brilliant, and peter can't help but grin with glee as he sees him pull of a maneuver that pete knows took months of training.

and then the hoards come and they're losing- they can't be losing, this was his chance! he's right, he's the king this was his chance to show them. and he cries for a retreat but it's too late- he was a fool, he watches his army, the army who trusted him, he watched them be slaughtered against the gates that had sealed their fate. he watched the blood spray and stain the metal, oozing between the stone bricks and he just stares. and it's all he can do and he wants- what does he want? to say he's sorry? to save them?

no- no, nothing like that. he should be in there with them. he should be gutted like the rest of them (a hero's death, not this cowards life). he went in too fast, too proud, he knows that. but to have these innocents follow him in willingly, blindly, and he's the one to make it out? it's unforgivable.

and then he's given another chance. a fight- a duel, to the death. he leaves the arena a victor, or he dies a martyr, and everyone forgets his sins of the night of the ambush. and he fights the best he can, he loses his helmet, he's injured and he can hear death whistling it's grim tune, and he almost doesn't pick up his sword, and he sees edmund, lovely edmund, young edmund, with hope in his eyes- with faith in his eyes, and peter knows, he certainly doesn't deserve the life he's been longing for, but he picks up his sword because his little brother, his little brother who almost died, whom he loves with all his heart and so much more. and he accepts it. he realizes he won't get it back, his golden age, but he can fight for edmund, for narnia. and he fights. he fights and he fights and he fights.

and when it's over he breaths the sweet narnian air, and he clasps the hand of caspian, another brother, not a blood one, nor a narnian one, but one of a deeper connection, deeper than any love, and he sees susan smiling. the pevensies and caspian are celebrated like kings, and the pevensies help caspian, still a child, overwhelmed with all this love, they guide him through it, preparing for the many days in the future when parades and celebrations fill the streets, and the people adore their rulers- their king.

it's their last time, he tells the others. once they leave, him and susan can't return. there's more on the other side, the other world, another way to return to narnia, to Aslan, and he doesn't share the fear in his heart. another way, but not this way. not through his home, where he's surrounded by it, drenched in it. not the same not the same, never the same again. they could stay, of course, says a foolish side of him. but not, they couldn't, it's stupid to say so. his mother- had he forgotten his mother so soon? she would go mad with loss. his golden age, it's come and past, and narnia moved on without him, and he steps through to the train station, not to his home, (no. he can never go home again.) and susan follows him, and she grasps his hand, a look shared between the two of them that she understands. and peter, one last chance to be the bigger person, he sees her loss and he squeezes her hand back. edmund and lucy they think they understand, and they grasp their elder siblings hands, and it's comforting, but peter and susan know, they know they won't understand, not until it's their turn, they won't know how empty it is, how lonely it is in this world.

so yeah. it's a tragedy

[thelampisaflashlight]

To Take Care

[Dew being soft. That's it, that's the whole fic.] Below the cut.

Dew settles into one of the plush, leather armchairs in the ghouls' common room, the one that sags a little when anyone sits in it, the springs so pressed down they awkwardly cradle his form instead of pressing back.

The bump of his head against the backrest elicits a groan, from the chair or his own mouth, no one could tell, even Dew himself, and he's certain he felt the air pass through his lips.

He's the kind of tired that leaves his whole body feeling like a heavy, immovable lump, and, in spite of that, he's carried himself quite well up until this point.

Mountain calls it a "boots off" situation; When you sit down, suddenly you don't have the energy to get back up.

Any and all motivation is gone.

Boots off.

Left by the door.

Not going back on.

...Barring an emergency of course.

With a long, deep sigh, Dew feels himself sink deeper into the thinning material, eyes half shut as he uses a fragment of his willpower to turn his arm over to examine a stray thread between his finger tips.

He could sleep like this.

He really could.

But he fights it, biting back a yawn as he surveys the room.

The new kids are asleep; Aeon on the couch, his lithe body stretched selfishly across the entire thing, while Aurora is tucked into a ball on the loveseat, pressed so tightly against the upholstery Dew knows it'll leave a mark on her face.

Despite the protests of his knees, Dew stands, stretching slightly, before popping the top off of a nearby ottoman and pulling out a couple of neatly folded knit blankets from inside.

He takes a moment to knead the material, remembering when Cumulus had asked him to come along with her to pick out the yarn she was going to use to make it.

"You'll probably use it the most, so you should decide." she'd said, and she wasn't wrong.

Back then, he had only recently transitioned from water to fire, and his body had decided that anything short of an oven wasn't warm enough for him anymore; Essentially, with everything being comparatively cooler than him, he got chilly quite easy.

How and why that was -and still is- the case, even Dew isn't sure, but having a blanket or two ready and available was always a good thing, and the fact that it was handmade made it even better.

He sniffs the fabric and hums softly.

Even after years of use and several trips through the wash, it still smells a bit like Cumulus' perfume.

The other blanket is a heavy thing, bought on tour years ago from some chain store in America when they'd needed to scavenge some extra supplies for the bus.

It's an unfortunate bedpan pink, it's big and can be folded to add a little extra weight across your body.

He weighs the two blankets in his arms before setting about covering the two sleeping ghouls.

Aurora snuggles easily into the fluffy white knit of the blanket Cumulus made, her lips turning upwards in her sleep, but doesn't wake.

Aeon, however, blinks up at Dew, purple eyes peaking through his lashes as the watches the older ghoul layer the blanket over him.

He doesn't say anything at first, letting Dew tuck him in, but mumbles his thanks when the other is done.

"Go back to sleep." is all Dew says in return, returning to his chair.

Now.

Now he can sleep.

[heliotrope155]

You know that one time, Cas goes something like: "Dean the music maker's been broken the entire car ride and you've not complained once, what's up hot stuff?" (source: Cas Formerly of the Lord et al.).

And it got me thinking about how stupid Cas is to not realize it was because he was there, or remember their long ass phone calls, probably what Dean used to pass out to in the earlier seasons, and then just long calls while driving both of them filling the space with each other no need for music, and then talking on hunts too selfishly, even if they'd probably focus better without it. Because they want to talk to each other. Constantly. Because they're in love.

[bougiebutchbinch]

horrid little brainworm

Frenchie is still green at the start of the Kraken era.

He isn't, by the end.

But back then, when it all begins - when he isn't used to the sting of kohl-mixed sweat dripping into his eyes - he makes mistakes. Lots of them. Simple little things - fluffing a knot in the rigging that has their sail unfurling midway through the dogwatch, goods left unstowed to roll with the list of their ship.

Most of the time, Izzy yells himself hoarse for five minutes, then shows Frenchie how to fix it, interspersing his lecture with expletives. Whatever. That's fine. Let the little man scream - he's not the scariest thing aboard anymore.

Never was, really.

But then Blackbeard (Ed? The Kraken?) stomps out of his cabin, hair a black thundercloud, and snarls 'which one of you men is responsible for that fucking mop', pointing to some cleaning equipment Frenchie forgot to pack away.

And everything goes still, as if they're becalmed.

[CW: whipping, abuse, non-explicit mentions of Frenchie's past locked-box traumas]

No one says Frenchie's name - not even Izzy. He just ducks his chin and refuses to look his captain in the eye. But the eyes of every other crewmember jump guiltily to Frenchie, at least once - and Blackbeard is too smart to miss such a tell.

"A ship needs discipline," he says. "Isn't that what you always tell me, Iz?"

"I'll attend to it," says Izzy, voice scratchier than ever. Frenchie knows this is a bad fucking situation - memories battering against the inside of his locked box, trying to get out - but somehow he can't feel fear. Can't really feel anything.

"With the cat," says Blackbeard. "Give the culprit fifteen. Really make the lesson stick."

Ah. There's the fear.

Frenchie's breath stifles itself halfway up his throat, as screams sneak through the keyhole of his box, along with the crack of a whip -

No. No, no, no. He can't. Not again, he can't -

Izzy glances up. Frenchie expects him to grin, all vindictive sadism - but whatever he sees on Frenchie's face has his mouth pulling into a tight line.

"Yes, sir," he says, though Frenchie barely hears over the dull roar of his heart.

He casts his gaze about, looking for an escape. Over the side? They're too far from land, but fuck, if it isn't tempting -

Jim fondles their knives, glaring mutinously at Blackbeard's back as he returns to his cabin. They don't spring after him (though Frenchie selfishly wishes they would). They're well aware - as is everyone - that right now, with Blackbeard black-eyed and bloodthirsty, they'd lose.

Izzy swallows. Shuts his eyes. Then calls for Fang to fetch the cat.

Frenchie loses time then. Scarcely a blink passes before Fang reappears above the deck, the strings of the knotted whip scraping the floor like the tentacles of a shrunken sea-monster.

They're flaky with rusty residue. Old, dried blood.

Frenchie's fingers twitch in the chords of the first song his Ma taught him. No rituals or superstitions will save him. Nothing will. Because his old crew are marooned, almost certainly dead, and his new crew are - with the exception of Fang and Jim and Ivan - fucking monsters.

He's going to be whipped (again). He's going to shred open all those old scars. The box is going to open, and -

Oh, God. Oh God. Fifteen lashes is survivable (Frenchie knows, he knows) but he's still not sure if anything of himself will emerge from the other side.

He's still frozen, staring at the whip held in Fang's big hands, flat out like he's presenting it to Izzy. Only... Izzy doesn't take it.

No, Izzy moves to stand in front of the mast. Walking stiff, with a bit of a limp. While Frenchie's reeling, struggling to process what's happening, he yanks off his shirt. And - fuck, his back is almost as ugly a sight as Frenchie knows his own would be, if he could bear to study it in a mirror.

A few of the crew draw shocked inhales. Most don't look surprised.

Frenchie is one of the latter group. Sound travels, on a ship.

"Um," says Fang, cat dangling limp. "Boss?"

Izzy grabs the hawsers wrapped around the mainmast. Heaves a deep breath. Rests his forehead against the wood.

"You heard the captain," he croaks. "Fifteen lashes."

Fang's eyes are moist - though they are more often than not, nowadays. "Boss - "

"The captain wants the culprit disciplined," Izzy says. His muscles flex beneath their coating of scars. Bracing himself, Frenchie's mind supplies. For the oncoming pain. Not that any amount of tensing is ever enough. "First mate's responsible for maintaining a tidy deck."

This turn of events finally settles into Frenchie's bones. The whip's not for him, thank everything. His key slides gratefully into the lock of his box and turns, ensuring it's shut tight.

Still, sickness churns in his guts. Last week, sleep eluded him. He'd intended to skulk above decks and breathe the sea air to clear his head. He never made it - because who should stagger out of the captain's cabin, so dead-eyed he didn't even notice Frenchie lurking in the shadows of the galley door, but the Revenge's thrice-cursed angry gremlin of a first mate?

Izzy hadn't looked much like a gremlin then, though. Doesn't now, either. Just looks. Tired. And old. And bruised to shit beneath his shirt, and not all of those lash marks are old, weathered scars, and -

Frenchie's fingers twitch more rapidly, pressing through their imaginary chord sequence.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit -

"Fifteen lashes," Izzy reminds Fang. "If you can't do it, anyone else is free to step up. I'm sure there'll be fucking volunteers."

Frenchie eyes Jim. They and Izzy aren't exactly friends - not when Frenchie has heard them mumble a word that sounds horrifically close to 'Oluwande' in their sleep.

But Jim stays right where they are. Hand on the hilt of a knife. Ivan emulates, and, well, Frenchie's feet have damn near put down roots. He couldn't move from this spot if he was ordered to.

Fang's tears well over, and his hand shakes on the whip handle to the point where Frenchie thinks he might drop it.

A clash from the great cabin has them all jumping - all but Izzy, who rests his cheek on the mast like it's a particularly splintery pillow, eyes drifting shut. Blackbeard barges back out, sousing the air with body odour and smoke and self-hatred and whatever the fuck else he's been marinating in.

"What's the fucking wait?" he demands. "I expected way more screams by now." He halts, frowning at the sight of Izzy, stood where Frenchie ought to be (because fuck, he shouldn't have left that mop and bucket out; how many times has Izzy told him - ). For a moment, the harsh line of his brows crumples on itself in something that could be mistaken for regret. But then that dark sneer crawls onto his lips, the one with which the whole crew is becoming familiar. "Can't pick who gets the privilege, eh? Well, lucky for the lot of you, that's what a captain's for."

He stalks forwards, feline-graceful. Frenchie scuttles from his path. When Blackbeard snatches the whip from Fang (not seeming to notice his whimper, his flinch) Frenchie fully anticipates that he'll turn on Izzy, not him.

He certainly doesn't expect Blackbeard to smile, cold and white as a toenail moon, and thrust the whip towards him, hilt first.

"Oh, no." Frenchie raises both hands in surrender. "No, no, no. I couldn't. Awful with a whip, me. Wouldn't, um..." There's the noise of it again, slithering out through the keyhole of his box. The swish. The crack. The scream. "Wouldn't be able to strike hard enough," he stutters. "No upper body strength, yeah."

Blackbeard doesn't approach Frenchie. Just keeps the whip held out towards him, like the accusative finger of a god.

"You give him fifteen," he says, gently. "And make each one count. Or I give him fifty."

Against the mast, Izzy makes a sound - not quite a whimper. Worse; it's far too much like relief. His hands don't shake, but only because they grip the hawser tight as rigor mortis.

Fifty can kill. Has killed before. Frenchie's seen it.

But Blackbeard doesn't want Izzy dead, right? Who would he torture then?

Blackbeard's blank, lifeless eyes pour into Frenchie's.

Who indeed?

Fuck. Frenchie swallows dry. He tells himself it's for self-preservation that he unsticks his boots from the deck and shuffles forth to take the whip. Not for Izzy. Not like he likes the angry little prick. Man's vicious as a cat and thrice as cursed.

Maybe, if Frenchie tells himself that, it'll make this memory easier to lock away with all the rest.

"Ready?" he asks Izzy, softer than he intends. Izzy twists over his scarred shoulder. He looks at Frenchie - really looks at him - for what feels like the first time. Not even glancing to his left, where the Kraken lurks.

Frenchie can't decipher his expression. Pity, for whatever made him offer himself up in Frenchie's place? Frustration, that Frenchie prevented Blackbeard from whipping him into the grave? Misery and fear - no, that's far too sane for a guy like Izzy.

Izzy turns back to the mast.

"Give me your worst," he says.

Frenchie breathes in, breathes out, and obeys.

[deafsignifcantother]

sanctum

♥ summary: after being flabbergasted at meeting a deaf person for the first time, and after husk gives him a little lesson, angel approaches with an apology. based off of if music be the food of love woot woot but i changed the reader to be a little less obvious it's the other protag so it's easier to consume for people who aren't interested in the series bc i love my audience :3 ♥ relationship: angel dust and x deaf woman reader (platonic) ♥ word count: 2.2k ♥ notes: for @glitched-out-dusk , reader talks with alastor a lot bc i actively hc alastor knows asl and i'll never change that in my stories

The first time Angel saw you, he didn't try to communicate. He just analyzed you, staring you up and down, wondering if you were faking your Deafness. You stared at him back with a small smile. The moment only lasted a few seconds since Charlie decided it was time to butt in and start a conversation with you. Angel kept glancing over, his arms crossed, watching your body movements and how your eyes flicker around. You stare at others' lips, which is a weird habit, and though you have a clueless look in your eyes, you never look away from others' faces.

You are the first visitor in months after Sir Pentious. Since he came, Charlie hoped another visitor would seek redemption, and her positive affirmations came true. Angel only has expectancy this day. It's not like any other person will come knocking on the door.

His brain sinks into dirty thoughts while he watches you: how loud would you moan if you were doing the nasty? What would please a deaf girl most?

Husk can practically hear the porn star's thoughts, but Angel Dust's forcing those thoughts into his head to repress what he really feels. His heart decides on feeling a tinge of forsaken loneliness, he's going to be forgotten again, isn't he? But you're the one most isolated with the language barrier. You might be the forgotten one, right? Does he, selfishly, want that?

It is all Angel can do to imagine what you must be feeling, understand the situation you've found yourself in; dealing with everybody and losing social interaction. He's become a part of that cause, hasn't he?

Damn you. Damn you for forcing him to learn something new. Damn you for making him realize how empty he feels in the group and how he doesn't want you to feel the same way.

So sometimes, after you go to sleep, he'll stay up with Husk, both cooing at him and begging him to teach basic sentences.

Simple signs stick with Angel, even as drunk.

"Is hello that easy?" He asks. Husk just laughs.

"Some signs are a lot easier than you'd think."

Husk is rusty in his ability. He's only had to use the language a few times when he was alive, and he doesn't remember ever interacting with an actual Deaf person. Surely, he had learned it for a good reason. His soul is so long gone that he can't even remember.

But the alphabet sticks with him, and so do gambling-related signs. He picks apart those sentences and tries to teach Angel the words rather than their meanings when pieced together.

And one night, not even a week since you arrived, somebody tapped Angel's shoulder as he leaned over the bar's counter.

He turns, hair bouncing with the whip of his head, and he bites the inside of his lip when he sees you. He finger spells your name, and you can only give him a sympathetic smile in your sleepy haze.

"Good job," you sign to him before turning to Husk. "Do you have water over here, or is it in the kitchen?"

He stares at you blankly. You, water, pointing to the bar, pointing somewhere else, question face. "Yeah, give me a second."

Angel eyes you, taking notes in his head. Your hands move slower when you sign to Husk, compared to signing with Alastor, and you tend to sign high so Husk can focus on your hands instead of your eyes.

Holding back a yawn, you rub your eyes while sitting on a stool, taking the very full glass of water and sipping the top. If you sit here, they'd have to acknowledge your presence, but they need to be more confident to hold a conversation. What could they even talk about? Card dealing? Sex?

You look between them and smile to yourself, dropping your head and looking away in case they try to start signing. You're just here for water, not to be a test subject. The more they practice, the better they'll be.

A small groan leaves your throat. As you turn to Angel, he stops talking to Husk, closing his lips and searching your lifted hands. You sign your name, giving him your name sign, hoping he'd understand. When he stares at you in panic, you fingerspell your name and then wave it off, signing your name again.

Husk speaks up, dropping his voice. "It's her name. You don't gotta fingerspell it all the time."

Angel glances over, whispering as if you'd overhear. "Do I gotta use it everytime I see her? When do I use it?"

"It's a fucking name, you don't go around naming Charlie every time you see her."

Your eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them. Husk pauses, and so does Angel, almost in alarm.

"Idiots." You're not even sure they understood the insult, but you keep going. You grab the glass with one hand, signing with the other. "I know you filled this up just to keep me here."

Husk shrugs, pretending to understand, and grabs a bottle (copying your actions) and drinks it. Angel stares with red cheeks, awkwardly holding his own and mimicking the movement.

You fight a frown; they're so annoyingly cute.

So you chug the drink, closing your eyes as you do so. Angel would have preferred if you had stayed, but he had to say his goodbyes with his hand twitching as if he was waving wrong. You get up from the stool. "See you tomorrow," to Husk and a simple wave to Angel.

They both watch you walk off.

"Could have been worse," Husk mumbles.

"Great. What if she thinks I'm a dumbass." He puts his check in his hand, his elbow pressing hard into the wood of the counter. The words sound faint coming from Angel. The change of heart has Husk grinning behind a bottle. "What's come over you?"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Nothing, it's whatever."

.

Once again, once you wake up, you walk downstairs and head straight to the bar. But Husk isn't there. A prominent frown falls onto your face. The water you drank last night was the most comfortable liquid you've ever had the pleasure of drinking in Hell. It cleared your throat and overstayed its welcome in your need for hydration. You enter behind the bar, eyeing the crazy amount of bottles and the array of fridges. How does he remember all of these products? Perhaps he just drinks them and hopes they do something. Your hand runs across the area for mixing, feeling the sticky covers. Maybe he's not the best bartender.

You grab a glass, wiping off the rim just in case, and you eye the hose-like thing nearing the sink.

Husk watches from afar but your focus is too direct to perceive his presence. You push down on a trigger as lightly as possible, and a powerful burst of water fills the cup, wetting your arms. You place the glass on the counter and use a hand towel to dry yourself off. Is this thing stained? You hope not. It's so unclean back here.

You see the blurry colors of Husk in the corner of your eye before you look up at him. He can't help but give you a small, unadorned smile.

You figured the water out yourself; that's cute; the whole ordeal was a show he would have paid to watch.

He crosses your body and stands next to you, grabbing the hose from you and showing you the switch on it. It's not a button but a pressure-related scale. Your mouth forms an O.

Angel isn't the only one who wants you to feel welcomed.

Vaggie is having issues letting Angel be the second guest getting so close to you. She knows that he is undoubtedly someone who can't read the room and will fit sexual words into any conversation. His ability to read the room is either nonexistent or actively ignored. She watches him practicing signing with Husk whenever he can. Maybe he's trying to learn complete sentences before harassing you.

She also notices that whenever he hears the click of your shoes against the floor, he'll look up with excitement, clenching his fists to calm down his delight. He always tells himself, 'this is the day I'll actually talk to her.' The day doesn't come for a while since whenever he sees you, you're by Alastor. Alastor will tell you stories about his life (lies?) and things that happened in the hotel. He'll describe the nightshade assemblages before explaining how often their railings have fallen apart.

Angel can't understand anything that demon says but glimpses at your hand shows how comfortable you are around him. Angel stares expressionlessly at the two of you, signing back and forth, and your smiles, wide. The jealousy heats him constantly, but nothing ever comes from it.

It will take a while before he can talk to you like that. The realization puts him on the brink of giving up.

Beer dribbles downward, discoloring the tips of his chest fur. The bar is messy, as if it's not the middle of the day. His confidence rises when he drinks. All he needs is a moment where you're alone. Or not.

With all his might, he drags himself sloppily towards the lounge and almost flops onto the couch next to you. He steps over the threshold, inhaling deeply. Alastor eyes him with his every step, and you follow his gaze, staring at Angel. Angel braces himself by gripping the top cushions when he staggers close enough to the couch. He raises his right hand, fingers wiggling in thought. It almost comes across as a "wait."

Alastor's eyes go to you, half expecting you to look back at him and roll your eyes, but you continue your stern gaze at Angel.

Angel drops his head, looking up at you through his eyelashes, "I'm sorry."

The chandelier darkens his face from above, and gravity pulls down the fluff of his head that seems to have been unbrushed this morning. At your silence, his confidence melts leisurely down from his head to the tip of his fingers.

"Sorry for what?" You drop the smile that was on your face and adjust yourself to face him a little more. The major thing you notice is him signing with one hand comfortably.

"I'm sorry you only have him to talk to." Angel's interpretation of 'him' wasn't a point but a wave in the direction, almost a 'that guy over there.'

You laugh. "We are talking now, aren't we?"

More apprehension burns a hole in his chest. He finally stands up, using two hands instead of one. "I'm running out of signs I know."

"Are you sure?" You finally switch your position on the couch to face him completely, ignoring Alastor at last. Your eyes look him up and down. "You look tired."

Tired, he knows that sign.

"Just a little."

You hum, reaching out to him. Your fingers brush his fur, feeling the drip, trying to wipe it away. "Sure."

You unveil a smile that looks as if it were snatched from Charlie's at her bondings. But your eyes continue to stare intently. "You should go to sleep. Stop drinking so much. It's not even night."

"I got things to do."

"Really? Astonishing."

He snaps into focus. One day, he was worried about whether he was waving right, and days later, he signs simple sentences you understand. His vision aims at your eyes, the area he wonders he should actually be looking at.

His thoughts are interrupted by the clearing of a throat. "I'm afraid you're intruding," Alastor says. Angel frowns at him, and you follow his gaze.

"Alastor," you sign with a psah, "he's just practicing."

"Rather annoyingly, my dear. I don't know how you do it."

"With patience."

Patience, Angel doesn't know that sign. When you whip your head back and give a playful shrug, you lean in. "He's going to get pissy if I talk any longer. You're doing a good job, Angel. Don't doubt yourself."

You grab his hand, holding his pointy fingers and maneuvering his fingers to form a thumbs-up. If he doesn't understand half of your signs, at least he can understand that. And then, with a wink, you turn back to Alastor, who lets out a hum in disapproval at the whole ordeal.

The flicker of the lights went unnoticed as Angel marched over to Husk, a big smile on his face. He had left a manly collection of bottles surrounding the area, which Husk had politely taken care of.

Husk chuckles before Angel can even get close. "Yeah?"

"You won't believe it," Angel boasts. "I actually got her approval."

"Wow," it almost sounds sarcastic. "Good work."

Angel plops down on a stool, holding the edge counter to stretch out his hands, dramatically straightening his shoulders and putting pressure on the middle of his palms. "Now, whiskers, do I get a reward? I've been a good boy."

Husk grimaces as if he's smelled a foul odor. "Not excited for the day you learn how to sign that."

"She'll be ecstatic," Angel smiles at himself. "Won't even see it coming."

[pink-ninja]

Dragons rising s2 part 2 spoilers and a bit of a rant about arin

Honestly I could rant about it for a long time but to me Arin acted just so selfishly this entire half of the season, I get it, he wants to find his parents, but he's not the only one who lost someone important to them.

It made me so mad that he threw a fit and ignored Sora for half the episodes cause she "lied to him about his object spinjitzu" like no Arin, the world was at stake and nobody could afford for you to miss that throw, she didn't tell you about it because your self confidence in your skills was low and she didn't want to make it worse. And don't get me started on him thinking that Lloyd promised Arin they'd find his parents but haven't yet after he heard Lloyd promising Nya they'd go look for Jay after the tournament.

I get the ninja are arin's idols, but sometimes it seems like he forgets the ninja are way more than what the public sees, etc all the stuff they did before they got famous, how they were super young when they became ninja. And Lloyd from the very start told Arin he couldn't be their master, that he wasn't good enough to be one, he agreed to be their teacher but constantly insisted they need master Wu, obviously he couldn't give them the best training from the start because he'd never trained anyone and was just trying to use Wu's old teachings because that's how all the other ninja were taught. Lloyd never lied to Arin and gave him false promises (like Wu telling Morro he'd be the green ninja) he told Arin he has amazing potential, Lloyd never said he was some amazing teacher, he was transparent about his doubts from the start. But in my opinion Arin is still idolizing the ninja, and obviously they can't do everything at once like finding arin's parents, Lloyd mentioned from the very start they still didn't know everything about the new merged realms or how the merge happened. Plus Arin isn't the only one who lost someone, Zane is still missing pixal, wyldfyre misses Kai, Nya is clearly distraught over Jay, I'm sure they'd want nothing more than to go out looking for the people they care about, but they don't because they know they a responsibility to keep the world safe (as asked of them by a source dragon who went down to the mortal world specifically to ask them)

My other beef with Arin is after the ghost of sensei Wu appeared, he asked if sensei Wu was responsible for the merge, Wu said yes, Arin then proceeds to tell Lloyd in the middle of a pretty chaotic fight where one of the five has pretty much all the elemental powers, we can tell Lloyd is shocked by the information, but he quickly burries those thoughts because he knows he has to focus on the current situation. Even Zane tells Arin it's a lot to process, Arin should know that they have to stop the 5 and protect the source dragons but instead he chooses to hold a grudge against Lloyd for focusing on their current situation instead of something nobody can change, especially at the current moment, and then chooses to side with Ras, even after everything Ras had done to them in the past, just because Ras told him part of the truth, Arin didn't take a moment to wonder if Ras was hiding something else, because he's after the source dragons and then says he only trusts Ras now. Like I get it Arin wants to find his parents, but Lloyd never forced Arin to become a ninja, Arin started calling Lloyd his master, Arin was the one that wanted to train to be a ninja first

And maybe I'm a little biased cause Lloyd is my favorite (but I also love jaya so if Nya could pause her search for Jay because she knows she's needed elsewhere) Arin should be able to understand that the ninja's first priority is to keep the world safe, one of lloyd's biggest priorities since a bunch of things about the merge are tied to his grandfather and the source dragons (plus he's the conduit) and that even if they wanted to the ninja can't just drop everything and search the entire merged realms for arin's parents.

Like I want nothing more than to give Arin a well needed lecture about how he is the one that wanted to join the ninja in the first place and honestly he could've easily told Lloyd "hey I'm leaving on a journey to go find my parents because unlike you, finding my parents is my top priority, not saving the world"

I know I've got a long rant but ever since I finished the last episode of season 2 it's been on my mind, and of course this is just a personal opinion

[richeeduvie]

Some business adversary sending Baby flowers to piss Roman off because that will have him overthinking nonstop? Yummy

I like jealous and possessive Roman please 🙏

They would be an asshole. But, an asshole who have given us a completely jealous and unstable Roman Roy at the soul possibility that someone likes you.

Even then, the card attached to the bundle of lilies is vague, like it could be a thanks, a business-coded praise. But Roman's just focusing on how they aren't. Basic fucking roses. No, whoever this fucko is trying settle in your hole by denying the standard. Fucking-just pick roses!

"Come on, man. It's going to make the Roy Boy piss himself."

"He's going to find out it's you and you'll get a shitstain on your reputation with Waystar...and Co."

"I'm going with vague so I don't get my dick pulled by HR if the air of mystery escapes me. Not that it's effective with me, even though Roman Roy seeing 'your ass is addictive and I want to eat you out, also good work on that presentation I came to' would uh...put him on the news."

"Stick with 'thank you for everything you do.' Yeah?"

"I just said I would, fuck-"

You're confused as to why Roman would send you lilies. He knows your favorites are lotuses. Who it could be? Who knows.

"Who are you fucking?"

You sigh with a slight smile along your lips. You wish you could be thankful for the flowers, but now you'll have to deal with a harsh, bleeding Roman who won't accept any answer, any explanation or comfort until he realizes he needs it like he needs to breathe.

But you won't toot your own horn that much.

"You? I think, unless you have a twin. Shiv doesn't count-"

"Who have you been giving your ruined pussy to? You're a fucking whore, is batting eyelashes a talent for you or? Whatever it takes to get to the top."

"I was already on top last night."

Roman closes his eyes with a grip to a chair.

"Who did you flirt with recently? Business-bound slut. How have I not noticed your vagina has turned itself to a blackhole?"

He won't accept any comfort now, so you won't give it to him. It'll speed things up.

"Your cock has either grown forty inches or those custom dildos are doing the job. I don't know."

You take a sniff to the decorated lilies, pretending to not mind the way Roman tries to palm himself, but doesn't. He just looks hurt. And aroused.

And your senses in smell and sight break at the sound of the bouquet hitting the floor. There's a small crack.

"Roman, lovingly, what the fuck?"

He's casually slapped the flower vase to the floor, looking casual in the mouth, but harsh and needy in the eyes are brows.

You sigh, you'll speed it up for both of your sakes. It's not good for him to feel like this. Especially over something that means nothing.

You rub Roman's shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

Even in silence, Roman somehow gets more quiet. He's not looking at you, but his eyes are soft when he does.

"Who the fuck are these from?"

You kiss his temple.

"I don't know. Genuinely. I don't know who they're from. I haven't flirted with anyone and in fact, I don't think I've conversed with anyone I don't regular converse with in the past two weeks. It's probably an adversary fucking with you. If it was say...Tom or a an associate, I think they'd put their name on it."

"...Why would this be the thing to fuck with me?"

You look to where he doesn't look, to the flowers thrown about.

"I don't know if the reason is that obvious."

"It's not to me. But whoever sent those is going to get dirt and dick shoved down their throat."

You play with his hair. Lightly and lovingly. Selfishly.

"I'm betting on it."