#this one was soothing to write

[lizardkingeliot]

me: i'm fine

the tender voice of lestat de lioncourt, separated from the love of his life for decades with no idea where he is or how to find him, turning on a reel in my head since 3 o'clock this morning: mon cher are you ill what's happened to you mon cher are you ill what's happened to you mon cher are you

[omegalomania]

we do not know and might not ever know the full story behind mania and the circumstances under which it was produced but we know enough by now to understand that there was a lot of strife and frustration involved in the way it came about. the band has been clear on this much. the divisive reception upon release didn't help any. and we know the last time that happened with folie, it led to that record essentially being forgotten and aggressively sidelined for years afterward. the roughness of its reception was explicitly one of the things that patrick especially cited as difficult for him to look back on, and one of the reasons it took so long for him to embrace those songs again.

it took mania five years what took folie a full hiatus and double that time.

this too is healing.

[delusional-mishaps]

since i've made a post about cross waking up his lover with kisses and snuggles i couldn't stop thinking about epic...

his s/o isn't allowed to sleep in the same room as him, simply because he's afraid he'll hurt them. he kicks and punches and moves around a lot, and sometimes wakes up to bone attacks scattered about.

he doesn't want them to be injured, so they have to sleep in a different room. but it isn't unusual for him to creep into their room after a nightmare, quietly crawling into their bed to snuggle with them.

sometimes they wake up. when they do, they kiss him and whisper soothing words to him, holding conversation to both calm him, ground him, and keep him awake. they know he doesn't like to sleep.

but when they don't, he gets to snuggle against them, watching as they sleep so peacefully. and he's so glad they can sleep so soundly, that they get to have pleasant dreams. they deserve it, they're beautiful and amazing and he still can't believe they're dating a loser like him...

he loves them. he loves that they can get a good night's sleep, even if he can't. and the sleepy smile on their face when they wake up, and he's the first thing they see... he falls in love all over again every time.

[skyward-floored]

Ohhhh hoo hoo so @/writing_prompt_s posted this prompt: “You were the only child that didn't have powers in a family of metahumans. Today you got kidnapped by a supervillain… and none of your family came to the rescue.”

Imagining Four… pre powers… having nightmares…

Bc of course his family would never, but intrusive thoughts and a scary young mind…..

My muse grabbed me and I wrote something for this in a few hours and it’s not the exact same as the prompt but it’s pretty darn close so! enjoy.

Tw nightmare, also I teared up writing this so be warned it hits kinda hard but it’s hurt/comfort so dw. Sorry Four.

——————————————————————————————————

Four didn’t know what was chasing after him, but he was too terrified to look.

Something grabbed at his back and Four frantically shook it off, wishing not for the first time that he had longer legs. He bolted down the street, no traffic around to stop him, or even people to ask for help, and finally recognized his house in the distance.

Four charged, relief sweeping over him at the sight of his family out in the yard.

They’ll help me, they’ll stop it, they’ll save me—

Something shot out and grabbed him right as he reached the mailbox, and Four cried out, falling to the ground as his family looked over at him in surprise.

“Help!” Four cried, but his siblings merely glanced at each other, then went back to what they were doing. “Wh— no wait! Wait help!”

His brothers began to walk away towards the house, not appearing to care a bit that their younger brother was in trouble. Four watched in disbelief as they strode away, hurt striking him even harder then the pain from falling on the ground.

“T-Twi?” Four whimpered.

Twilight didn’t even give him a backward glance as they all filed in, Wind closing the door behind them.

More hands grabbed at Four, beginning to pull him backwards, and he looked frantically around for help, his gaze landing on his mother standing nearby.

“Mama! Don’t let them take me!” Four cried out, but she merely shook her head, Time walking up to stand beside her.

“Sorry Link. You’re just... not useful,” Malon sighed, giving him a disappointed look.

“If only you were born with powers,” his father said with a shake of his head. “Maybe you’d be worth saving.”

The arms tugged Four further away from his family and he clawed against them, his eyes stinging as panic and horror shook through him.

“Wait!” he shrieked, but Malon merely turned away, Time following after her. “Please don’t— I can be useful! I promise I can, I— don’t let them take me!”

Time glanced back at him as Malon paused, his bad eye glowing slightly as they watched Four struggle.

“No you can’t,” he said simply, voice emotionless. “You’re not special, Link. And this family has no need for useless children.”

And he and Malon turned to head inside.

“No, no wait!” Four screamed, more arms clawing at him, pulling him back into the darkness. “Daddy, Mama please, please—”

A hand tried to cover his mouth, but Four thrashed away from it, and he managed to let out one last scream for his parents before he was pulled into the darkness.

“I’m not useless!”

“Four, Four wake up!”

Four’s eyes shot open, and he didn’t even realize he was screaming until he it suddenly cut off into a sob, his face already damp with tears.

Something touched his arm, and Four stiffened, blinking the tears out of his eyes just enough to see the blurry figure of his father next to his bed, eyes wide with concern.

Another sob burst out of him, and Four closed his eyes, shaking with the want to throw himself into his father’s arms, but unable to forget how he’d looked at him in his dream.

This family has no need for useless children.

Four heaved in a whimpering breath, and before he could figure out what to do next, his father had moved forward and pulled him into his arms, holding him tight.

“Link, shh, it’s okay,” Time whispered, Four shaking with remaining terror from his dream. “You were having a nightmare, it’s all right.”

Four sobbed, his father running a hand over his head, and didn’t speak for several moments.

“I-it, it felt real,” he finally hiccuped, barely able to speak through the lump in his throat and terror constricting his chest, “you, you a-and M-Mama said I’m—”

His voice broke, and Time shushed him again, still trying to calm him down.

“You s-said ‘cause I don’t have p-powers, I’m useless,” Four sobbed, and he heard Time inhale.

“Oh Four, no, you’re not useless,” he breathed, tucking him securely under his chin. “Me and your mother would never say that.”

“But I am,” Four cried, burying his face in his father’s shirt. “I can’t do a-anything, I can’t run like Wild, o-or turn into things like L-Legend or Twi, or e-even—”

“Link Smith Forester, you are not useless,” Time said firmly, holding him tight. “Having or not having powers doesn’t have any bearing on that. You’re not useless now, and you never will be. Powers or not.”

Four felt more tears drip down his face.

“You d-didn’t try to save me,” Four whimpered, his words interspersed with sniffling. “In th-the dream, you didn’t bother.”

“We’ll always bother, Four,” his father whispered back. “If you’re ever in trouble we’ll come save you, I promise. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Sure?” Four whispered.

“I’m sure. I promise.”

Time slightly eased his grip, leaning back to grab something, and Four wiped his eyes, feeling a little better, but still miserable. His dream still lurked at the forefront of his mind, the faces of his family uncaring and indifferent, the words they spoke holding nothing but disapointment and annoyance at having to deal with him. Time leaned forward again as Four let out another sniffle, and handed him the stuffed bird he usually slept with, tucking him back into his arms.

Four squeezed it tight to his chest, and Time began to lightly rock him, humming something under his breath that Four could barely make out.

“Don’t leave,” Four whispered when Time shifted how he was sitting, and his father nodded, wrapping him more securely in his blankets.

“I’m staying right here,” he whispered back, and went back to humming the soft melody.

Four relaxed a bit, still sniffling and shaking, but much less terrified, his dream finally fading to the background of his mind. Time’s hand ran through his hair, the soft rumbling of the melody in his chest comforting under Four’s head, and he closed his eyes.

The last thing he remembered before drifting off was his father holding him tight.

[female-woman-wiffman-lass]

Though in think tank:

It's just the two of us (three actually, its a tricycle now)

harringroveson, metalsandwhich

just the two of them wanting the same guy and finding each other

while said guy is trying to be filling. they're having the feels and steve is horny. he's fine though. I'll decide if I can keep this going. they will fuck nasty. in like, the next parts.

Billy Hargrove and Eddie Munson are hooking up. They've got a good thing going on.

They're into each other, they have stuff in common, be it music, the fashion, their preferences. They're fast and quick. Furious and sharp, all teeth when they're together. Get a thrill and kind of comfort with how consistent and similar they could be. They bounce off and work each other to heights. It feels like it's only the two of them, like steel sharpening steel. In this small hick town.

Billy's always felt a lot, even more now he's stuck here. Always ran hot now he's stuck in a chilly, dreary town, used to feel like he could breathe slow and easy out there but not when he's stuck here. And with Eddie. Well, Eddie always wanted more, knows he's made for more. He's flagging half-heartedly in a small town, and now Billy has to tuck himself in. They both always feel bigger on the inside. No one is like them. Not in the way they know.

No one else feels jagged or rough. Neither Eddie nor Billy know anyone who can stop the itch, the aches in their jaw, the tightness.

Enter Steve Harrington. Just, not really.

Now, Steve seemed exactly nothing like either of them. Yes, he's masculine. A man. But he's not.. like them. Not dark or sharp, probably not what either of them would experience, probably doesn't feel like a whirlwind in his body, doesn't scratch. But it doesn't stop either of them from ogling. Shooting the shit with each other, letting out comments and thoughts on guys the've seen. And even if Harrington was open, or experimenting, or anything that would lead preppy jocks astray, he probably wouldn't be any good. Wouldn't be fun, no matter how pretty. No matter how soft.

Billy and Eddie's standards on the anyone in Hawkins, any man they might think of in the sense they'd think of each other. None for now, just them. Clocked each other so fast and collided with each other like a car crash. But both can agree, yeah. Steve's hot.

Billy's been knowing about it, having been hanging out with Steve. Knowing who he is, mostly on the court. Gets a kind of satisfaction being able to push this boy around.

And Eddie, who's there with his comments as they talk, will also have assumptions. He's known the guy longer. (If he ever really knew him. What more do you need when everyone else knows some.)

"Bill, he's just the usual, man." He takes a drag out of his cigarette, leaning on the side of his van. "Harrington. He's just a dude. I mean we're in Hawkins. Pretty boys like him got to be repressed. One way or another."

He scoffs, turning his head to him, eyebrows raised and hands waving vaguely in front of him, "have you seen him with Tommy? Before you came around those two were—" he puts up a tight fist and shakes it, like it would mean something. "Y'know? Tommy boy's been trailing after him since eighth grade."

Billy let's out a sharp laugh, stealing Eddie's cigarette, "calling me a homewrecker, Munson?"

"Is it homewrecking when you 'wreck' both parties? You ensnare Tommy away from the King and then you come round to have a chat with Harrington in the showers?" He let's Billy have the cigarette, crossing his arms as he leans in closer, "which, what was that about?"

(Eddie's been in this town, longer than the fresh meat Billy was supposed to be. Has seen the King parading around, stuck in his own little world. Head up in the clouds and not bothering to look down and check if his feet were even touching the ground. Til '83 that is.

It was weird. After Nancy Wheeler, sometime in November with all of them being gone for a while after two people go missing —one was Byers' little brother he remembers, he wasn't sure who the other one was, a girl?—only to come back with Wheeler on Jonathan Byers side of all places. Sweet and looking at each other like they've found someone who understands. Found someone who knows life outside. As if they knew there'd be more out there.

And Steve. Steve looked settled. Looked normal and still moving even when he looked at either of them, the couple. Like he knows he's small in this stupid town but doesn't feel tight in his own skin. That even though he hasn't found anyone like that, and even lost something he's still fine. That he's seen more and knows better even when he stood still. He's found out about the same things Byers and Wheeler had. Went through the motions. Was just waiting for a pin drop to be able to live. It fascinated, Eddie. He envied it. He scoffs in his mind, what would Steve Harrington know?

Will he ever get to know? The boy and the why?)

Billy rolls his eyes, taking one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out, dropping it on the concrete for hi to stomp, "fucking nothing, Edward."

Not nothing. He heard Eddie and his 'normal dude' rant. But he can't fool Billy. He knows the guy saw the same thing in Harrington he did. He was different and radiant in this stupid town while also fitting in perfectly. He was fucking lame and didn't know a single thing. But. He also knew some things. Makes it seem like the things he knows were life altering

Harrington was an enigma. A person with thoughts and feelings and in some kind of state. He was your average fucking prep. Image obsessed, vain, and so impossibly normal. And a flea who only knows the jar can't jump over the cap. But Steve. It's like he doesn't care. He doesn't know why he only knows this side of The King's rebrand. How he only knows one side to the story. How he knows Tommy and his weird obsession with Steve and how he left, and turned fucking bitch. Acted like he was now bottom of the barrel. But the King (although Billy has a feeling he isn't one anymore) is fine. Acted like dropping his nuclear friend group and demographic was nothing. Which in the grand scheme of things, maybe it wasn't. But it's supposed to be something, to boys like Steve Harrington. He doesn't know why he cares.

"Ouuh, fucking nothing, Edward, blah blah. Also, don't call me that." He huffs. "You're not the only one thirsting, William. Everyone wants, envies, covets at a piece of Steve Harrington. But again, he's just a dude. Hell, I had the hots for him too. Besides," he knocks shoulders with Hargrove, finger going up to flick at his piercing then to loop around a blonde curl.

"Ya got me right now."

Billy looks at him with considering gaze, before smirking. He straightens up off the van, "you wish, freak." He goes round to the back of the van, opening it up, before crawling in.

Eddie grins, scampering off after him. He pushes the both of them obssesed with Steve Harrington bit away from his mind. He's hanging with Billy.

Steve frowns a bit as he sees both men hop into the back of Munson's van. He was just passing by the parking lot. He sighs, scratching his head. He needs to go to another fucking bar. His nightmares are acting up again. Who knew the eerie light of the pool and his own house lights would make him twitch? What a life. He's okay though, pretty sure.

He smiles as he hops in the car. A night in Indy will fix him up. Surely. It always does. (And although Nancy –and Jonathan suprisingly– were worried, he assures them both as sweetly as he could that it was definitely not alcoholism. It's either more or less better than they expected. But he's glad his new friends slash two wheels he third wheels slash co-monster fighters were worried.)

As he drives off, he takes a glance at the rear view mirror, before shaking his head. Why would they hook up out in the open, in that back of the guy's van in a parking lot? Sure they could be hotboxing or some shit and smoking the weed in that dweeb Munson's lunchbox but Steve doubts that. With how hot the both of then are and how intensely they were looking at each other they were for sure fucking. He thought at least Hargrove would know better.

"Shame, shame," he shrugs, even though no one can see him, his expression set in 'it is what it is.' He wonders what he should wear and what he should order. He licks his lips and hums happily. He gets to feel alive for the weekend.

[stevie-petey]

Hey m! I know you're writing a bonus chapter right now (which I'm so excited for!!!) but I had a blurb idea of you're still doing em. When the Byers move and after all the goodbyes are said. Jonathan's pov driving away from bug and all these emotions and memories coming back. Maybe a little insight on some of the conflicted feelings about bug because we know there's a little something brewing there. Or maybe not and I'm just delusional and in love with Jonathan who knows.

anon i am also in love with jonathan and ur not at all delusional <333 everything is intentional !!

enjoy !

"'come again soon'," will reads aloud the hawkins sign, the goodbye it bids to its visitors. except will had never been a visitor, he had grown up in this town his entire life. will shakes his head, he cant believe theyre really leaving. "think we ever will come back here?"

jonathan eyes dont leave the road. he refuses to look at the sign they pass. he doesnt look back in his mirror to watch it fade into the distance. he has to look forward. look ahead. not back.

"sure, yeah." he responds to his brother. like will, jonathan also cant believe theyre really leaving. this is where they grew up, and the horrors they faced cant erase that. "i mean, hawkins is our home, ya know?"

home. jonathan knows that the word is your favorite within the english language. for a long time, he didnt understand how it could be. it was just a house. just four walls and a roof.

then, one day, jonathan understood.

will nods, he doesnt say anything else. instead, he turns to watch the landscape fly past his window. the radio in the car has one of jonathans tapes playing softly. neither boy speaks. the memories each of them posses settle in the car. they get lost in their own thoughts.

jonathan thinks about nancy. their kiss goodbye still lingers on his lips. with every mile he drives, he can feel the distance between them grow and the tension within his chest tighten. jonathan loves her with such a ferocity that terrifies him. hes weak for nancy. she guides him, steadies him, and he doesnt know what hes going to do without her.

no one has ever understood how nancy and jonathan fell for one another. not even you, despite how well you know them both.

if hes being honest, jonathan doesnt quite understand how it happened, either. all he knows is that one day nancy walked into his life and everything sharpened. his senses were heightened.

loving nancy wheeler was like walking into a thunder storm knowing the lightning will kiss your skin instead of singeing it.

to love nancy wheeler was to be invincible. she makes jonathan braver, more cunning, she pushes him to be better. to be bolder. she would never let him drown in his own silence.

but this love is also rough, it is hard with edges that sometimes puncture jonathans skin. everything to nancy is a challenge. its how she views the world; its how she views everything around her.

suddenly the tape pauses, changes to the next song, and the soft beginning notes of these days by the cure plays.

jonathan smiles.

he discovered the song when he had been laying on his bedroom floor with you next to him. his dad had left behind old tapes. you showed up on the byers doorstep as you always did, and that day had been one of jonathans quiet days. they happened sometimes, following the divorce.

you never asked why, or for jonathan to speak when he didnt want to. never had you ever pushed him. instead you laid next to jonathan on the floor and listened to music together. your hair tickled his face, your hand skimmed his, and jonathan breathed in the scent of his best friend.

the song floated through the room. you seemed to like it, jonathan remembers you closing your eyes and humming along to it. from the very beginning of your relationship, jonathan knew that music was something you didnt want to talk about. it was something that was only yours, and he never pushed you. the acceptance went both ways.

as you were humming, jonathan turned his head to face you. his breath had caught in his chest, he felt as if he had been knocked down. the afternoon suns rays painted your face, illuminating you. the yellow gold of the light made you look like a marble statue jonathan had learned about in class last year. angelic, soft, a work of art.

jonathan knew he loved you the day you called his name on weathertop hill. the dandelions had framed your face, caught in your hair, and the yellow ones danced around your ankles. your smile had been the same as it is now, a year later and still just as delicate.

loving you was soft, easy. for jonathan, loving you was something he didnt know how to not do. sometimes it felt like he was born to love you, to understand the complexities behind your eyes and the hurt you masked. just as you do for him.

it strikes jonathan then, how differently he loves you and nancy.

for you, love is safe, warm, familiar.

for nancy, love is complex, gritty, all encompassing.

and now jonathan will be thousands of miles apart from the two of you.

nancy has always loved a challenge. youve always loved familiarity.

jonathan wonders how this will end.

[allthatmay]

If sabolaw was ever in your wheelhouse/interest to write my life would be yours /hj

I saw this ask and then immediately went and wrote something off the top of my head. It's not edited or anything but I thought you might enjoy seeing what it's like so far, rather than waiting for whenever I finish it?

The moment Law meets with Sabo, he knows there’s a wound within him, festering. Oh, Sabo might cover it up and pretend it’s not there, but Law’s a doctor; he knows all about wounds. Knows, keenly, the very nature of Sabo’s.

“What are you staring at?” Sabo asks. He wears a smile with an edge like a letter opener—versatile in purpose if only one’s imaginative enough. “Got a thing for burns?”

Law has witnessed many burns on both the dead and the alive. He only has to think of fire to smell its rot in the world around him, to feel the thickness of its fumes in his lungs—no thicker than the grief it agitates. But the burn scars on Sabo’s face—and presumably down his arm and ribs—are wounds that have long since healed.

No, Sabo has a deeper injury than that.

“I was just wondering how quickly I could take you down,” is what Law replies. “You’re left handed, aren’t you?”

Sabo laughs. He’s leaning back against the door, his legs crossed at the ankle, his coat falling elegantly around him. “Go ahead and try it, Trafalgar.”

The ship sways beneath them, but neither of them budge an inch. It’s a small ship they’re on, perfect for sneaking about under the cover of fog. Law had a ship of his own—even smaller than this, nothing but a skiff full of patched holes—but he was forced to leave it behind when matters got complicated. After all, what could be more complicated than a mysterious man in a blue suit escaping with the very information Law sought to steal?

After a long while of silently daring each other to try something, Law says, “Look, you don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here.” Kikoku is held close to his chest. “I only want the information I’m owed.”

“And you’ll get it, Trafalgar. Just show a little restraint, hm?”

Law’s jaw clenches; irritation bangs against his skull. He runs a finger down the length of Kikoku’s glossy sheath, catching Sabo’s eye as he reaches the hilt.

“I think I’ve been showing a lot of restraint.”

“Hardly, though I admit you’re more bloodthirsty than I would’ve thought. Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor?”

The question rings hollow. Law doesn’t remember the last time he healed someone. It was probably back with Bepo on the Polar Tang, but it’s been months since he’s seen any of his crew. He doesn't feel deserving of the title.

“I’m a surgeon, not a doctor. I don’t know any doctors with death on their hands.”

He’s of course referring to his tattoos, but Sabo’s head tips to one side as he replies, “What doctor doesn’t have death on their hands?”

Law’s eyes narrow. He hates being deliberately misunderstood, especially by a man as smug as Sabo—a man he knows so very little about.

“Tell me,” he starts again, rising from his chair. “Is Sabo even your real name?”

At this, Sabo chokes on laughter. His gloved hands press against his face like he’s holding himself together. “Fuck, and I thought I was paranoid.”

“It’s a revolutionary’s job to be paranoid, isn’t it?”

Now Sabo’s laughter cuts short. His hands lower, revealing eyes like glaciers, cold and pinpoint in their consideration. “Oh? Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you’re certainly not a pirate.”

“I could be a pirate. I wanted to be.”

“I don’t give a shit what you wanted to be.”

Only, that’s not quite true, is it? Sabo’s wound bleeds when he talks about his past, and Law can’t help but fall into introspection, all too aware of that kind of pain. He feels it constantly, a dull ache in his own chest, healed for now but not for long; something always manages to tear the scab away.

[shootingsun]

AU where everything stays the same but Near comes to Wammy's House as a baby (like, 8/9 months old) and Roger hates kids so he decides the best thing to do is hand the baby off to A and B because "they're geniuses they'll know what to do with it"

Shenanigans ensue

[torturingpeople]

Something Lost in the Zee

The King-In-Coral regards him with a brief incline of the head, zeeweed tipping over his forehead in a crude imitation of sickly green hair. Something curls within the suffocating jacket he wears, as he leans forward to peer at the Counsellor.

"I... er, present to you, um... this." Nervously, the Soothing Counsellor rummages in the travel-bag at his hip, and draws out with caution a spiny, almost zee urchin-like piece of coral, trying to avoid pricking himself with the thin needles protruding from its core.

Taking the gift from his hands with an ultimate gentleness, the King-In-Coral gazes upon it like a sweet creature, tilting his head to take it in from all angles. It splits down the middle as he presses his thumbs in, much like the careful motion one uses to peel an orange, and he opens it with the same giddiness young boys open presents with, on Christmas Day. Coral shards fall away like wrapping-paper, but the King-In-Coral frowns at what is inside. He does not seem disappointed, in any fashion, merely... surprised. The limbs within his coat do not jolt with excitement; he is entirely still.

"I remember," he starts.

The Soothing Counsellor's eyebrows twitch, as does his heart with anxiety. He wishes to enquire what, but the King-In-Coral does not withhold that from him.

"When this fell," he holds the locket out by its thin golden chain, "it was you who dropped it into the Zee, was it not?"

Again, there is a flurry of emotion that passes the Counsellor's face, like rippling thunder in a storm. "It couldn't— possibly be— you must be— mistaken—" his voice comes out in a melancholic staccato, and he disregards all social norms, pushing past attendant Drownies to reach the King-In-Coral.

Once the locket is lowered into his hands, he undoes the little latch closing it (just the way he remembers) and looks upon the weathering and scratches (painfully familiar) and he is met with the face of Julie (dearest Julie, his darling Julie) and that little boy, eyes brimming with innocence, with the hallmark buck front teeth and crooked canines of youth, his little Percy.

The Soothing Counsellor's mouth opens and closes and opens and closes and he looks very at-home in that little cove, among the beings of the Zee, fitting in perfectly well with the fish that gulp down water in the same manner. "How—? How did you—?" The corners of his mouth twitch downward, and his bottom lip shivers with woe. The Counsellor shakes his head, closes his eyes, lets tears fall into the sand below. "Where could you— I— I—"

"I saw it fall from a zubmarine, if I recall correctly," the King-In-Coral leans forward, and places a hand on the Counsellor's shoulder, leaving an imprint of salty dust on his deep navy-blue blazer. "I had the inclination that, perhaps, you would like to have it returned, in the condition you left it in." He retreats into his litter again. "I will admit to you that I had the little thing monitored — you were rather steadfast in seeking out coral, and it made me wonder if it was this," his finger falls to the locket, "that you sought."

Muted by tears, the Counsellor cannot think past looking down at the tiny thing in his hands, tiny and fragile like a hatched chick, yet as old as the hen that laid the egg. He lets one thumb wipe away some salt and dirt, to get a better look at Percy (his little Percy, that little boy, that round face, those misshapen teeth, that lopsided smile, the imperfections that made him so irrevocably perfect — Hell, he could almost hear him crying 'Papa! Papa!' through the daguerrotype), tears curling along the curve of his cheeks, forming paths down to his chin and ultimately dripping into the zee-soaked ground below.

"Thank you," whispers the Counsellor dolefully. He pushes a thumb to the locket's front and lets the latch snap shut, then tucks it into his breast pocket and turns out of the cove, heart sundered in twain, as raw as when he first left his Julie and his Percy.

[not-poignant]

Hi! I was wondering if you'd share Raphael's reasoning for laying a smooch on Astarion, if he had one beyond getting it out of the way, or just wanting to. Loving Palmarosa so far, you really nail both of their voices and I'm super invested in where it's gonna go next!

Hi hi anon,

I honestly think he was being manipulative and he felt like doing it. Raphael does enjoy introducing moments of softness and indulgence with Astarion because a) he enjoys creature comforts himself and b) he knows Astarion does too and c) it's enjoyable to him and d) he believes (rightly) that Astarion has been starved of tender moments, and so rather than smother him, he continues to 'starve' him but provides him with tastes of something he wants more of and/or is baffled by.

I always feel like with Raphael, I'm writing him intentionally as someone who always has multiple reasons to be doing what he's doing. The times when he's most frustrated is when he can't find multiple reasons for something and/or when he gets shoved off that track by like, his father. (Even then, he still won, just not in the way he wanted).

I honestly feel like that guy has an abacus in his head constantly counting up like the 5-100 motives for any single action or line or thought and at the top is the hedonistic 'because it feels good and I wanted to' lmao

[leslieseveride]

okay, but i need the girls to try and cheer lucy up by getting her drunk, only to have their plan backfire when lucy starts sobbing over and over about how much she misses and still loves tim.

[starlooove]

And it’s like for the ‘be the change’ niggas even if I learned how to write and draw right now and pumped 50 fanart and fics a day that doesn’t change the rancid fucking fandom they’d exist in. Like it’s not lost on me that every three weeks like 3 popular blogs stumble onto a convo already existing about smth that happened in the comics and it spreads like wildfire throughout the fandom not just here but on tiktok and Twitter but somehow every post about the racism Duke and cass and Damián go through is just swept under the rug and it just so happens nobody sees it. Ppl shining more light on these characters doesn’t change the core issue which is that the things that we do get is trash. Me writing 50000 Duke fics doesn’t change that the popular and acceptable version of him is a whitewashed racist caricature and that more ppl are willing to build OFF of that than they are to just read smth with him in it. Like when we say include Duke it’s bc we KNOW y’all are purposely avoiding him but I’ve never gone into a tim centric fic and wondered why Duke wasn’t there UNLESS y’all tagged him. Which is another insidious thing y’all will take up space in these character tags for reach and then get confused when we don’t fucking like you bc all you can type is Duke asking a question or being confused or a sassy one liner. Like making 20 Duke posts a day doesn’t change that the core issue is that ur racism and lack of reading is what created the characterization that’s unfortunately now popular and that the creators yall follow (who say they read but can they COMPREHEND!) will only ever focus on their faves in a way that always turns out to be detrimental and racist.

[afemmeaday]

I keep thinking about coming back home to a needy butch who is desperate to please/touch me and of course I make them wait for it, I take my time undressing and relaxing after my hectic day just to see them progressively get more and more desperate once they're practically begging for it i'll go to them and say ever so sweetly "aww baby, you need it that badly huh?" and then start to collect everything we need from our room.

When I've returned their eyes would instantly drop to what i'm holding in my hands: their favourite leather handcuffs, my strap, lube and a towel.

The rest of the night would move in stages: me taking my time running both my nails and mouth up and down their body and making sure to leave marks in all of the right places, bringing them to the edge over and over again with my mouth and fingers until they couldn't take anymore...only then would I put on my harness and softly tell them "if you see something you want, you should take it honey."

it's needlessly cruel but I'd enjoy watching them struggle to get on my lap with their hands still restrained but once they're sat on top of my thighs, i'd watch them struggle for a while until I'm the one who's desperate to take what I want and start driving my hips upwards, it wouldn't take long for them to finish and as soon as they've caught their breath I would remove the harness, move my underwear to the side and ride their face.

the head would be sloppy but the dedication and contentment visible on their face would be the final push I need to completely let go and take what I want from them.

In the aftermath I would remove the handcuffs, massage their hands and kiss their fingertips, make us both to go to the bathroom and get us snacks, water and put on our current show for us to cuddle to. <3

[crithaus]

It is always a good day to be a c1 podcast supremacist 😌

[sleepy-aletheas]

For the past month I kept listening to czech songs from old fairy tale movies I watched as a kid (my movie hyperfixation as a kid was A Time™), so naturally I now made a list of 40+ to rewatch (watch for the first time) and it's such a nice surprise to know that there are quite a few new ones in the past 10 years since I stopped watching TV.

All that to say, after watching a movie called "Princess and the Scribe", how am I meant to not write a haikaveh AU about this? How could I ever resist the opportunity that is presented on a silver platter that dropped into my lap on its own? I saw the title and was like "no way" and now I have Ideas.

The temptation to write at minimum 10 fairy tale AUs for haikaveh for each of my favorite movies is driving me insane, so...this will be a wild experience.

[oflights]

Drarry headcanons: sleeping arrangements??

yessss, love this, thank you! i don't think i've indulged in writing enough of this tbh. the curse of my addiction to getting together fics

starting positions (which never last, i promise you) are: harry as the big spoon aka the backpack (he's shorter), draco as the little spoon. they will both tout these as preferences and genuinely do intend to sleep this way.

however, as i said, this rarely lasts. first of all because draco is a bed hog. he's used to giant, expansive beds (he complained endlessly at hogwarts; they def have a big one as adults) but that preference means sprawling out in the center of the bed and taking up as much room as humanly possible.

harry, for sad reasons we all know, often sleeps curled up in a ball (which is why he likes to start out curled around draco 🥹) and usually winds up using draco as a body pillow in this scenario.

harry gets hot in his sleep, draco gets cold and likes to essentially be swaddled like a mummy, so they do eventually get two duvets for kicking off purposes.

they're both light sleepers, though draco wasn't always one. he's not as good as harry is at falling right back to sleep. he'll lie awake with harry tucked into his side, unable to go anywhere because to get all unbundled would mean dislodging harry. eventually listening to harry's breathing is what helps draco quiet his brain down and finally drift off again. 😴