#twine string

[sergle]

speaking of yarn ive been meaning to ask since ive heard of it elsewhere, is the general quality of yarn you can get going down? ive been looking into fibercraft but ive been told its getting harder and harder to find actual good thread without some sort of plastic in it, especially for a good price. so ive been wondering is this true or was it made out to be a much larger problem than it really is (in your experience)?

i've only been into crochet for a couple of years, so i'm not a Fiber Arts Veteran who can tell you the difference between shopping for supplies now vs 30 years ago! i don't really have anything to compare Current Yarns to. in my experience, the only thing i can speak on is cost, and it seems like the cost for yarn has probably been going up. animal fibers are certainly more expensive, acrylic yarns are budget-friendly but are synthetic, if that's something you're worried abt.

so i don't think that stuff is Untrue, but i also don't think it's any reason at all to avoid getting into fiber arts, and you can absolutely find yarns made from cotton / wool / bamboo fiber and stuff like that for good prices! it would probably be harder in-person, like in the aisles of a hobby lobby. but i think lion brand and lovecrafts are good sites to browse for yarn/supplies. it's really not a small-scale problem, someone like moi who's recently gotten into crochet and does it for funsies based on my whims/needs isn't going to really notice, i don't think. as an aside, if we're talking about crochet specifically, you can really crochet with anything at all- i've been making a tote bag out of plastic grocery bags, lmao. reduce reuse recycle or whatever. people will also use strips of fabric instead of yarn, and that's good for stuff like rugs / bags / baskets, chunkier projects. (though ig you could probably make some clothing if you cut the strips of fabric thin enough.) so as far as accessibility to the craft, there is that!

[anissapierce]

First time ever w a cubicle job ..

Had to showcase the limited edition @polararts valentine i got at c2e2 bc pride flags are too boring a way to let everyone known im gay

[teathattast]

you are my one, you set my world on fire

i know there's Heaven, but we must be higher

i'm gonna love you til my heart retires

forever will last

[freakinator]

finally plotted out the general timeline of trodb / ofar / ald

[twinegardening]

String Theory by W Pzinski

Some things in life you can choose, and some things, you're just stuck with... String Theory is an interactive short story about family and finding the courage to love. You play as Jay, a college student trying to survive Thanksgiving with his Uncle Jimmy while dealing with stress about finals and his new same-sex relationship. Learn about Jay's past as you help him decide what to do with his future.

[ithinkofnealcassady]

made salt dough crafts for the first time today!! v fun little gingerbread men and such

[phantom-does-a-thing]

ashe makes her own string jewelry btw if you even care.

[merriclo]

jeez i forgot how much i loved making earrings and jewelry

[sugarlesswriting]

Could you imagine what it would have been like if instead of The Boardwalk I put these losers in a job one of those themed road side attractions.

[uhohdad]

(18+) König x Reader - Jealous of Your Sex Toys

WARNING: Implied Toxic Relationship Dynamic

You’re a grown woman. You are allowed to have sex toys - it’s expected even. And yet, you feel guilty. Caught doing something you shouldn’t have been. Body locked up and eyes wide as you stare down at the brightly-colored silicone sex toys resting in the flat of König’s massive palm.

“You don’t need these. I’m enough for you, ja?”

It’s a simple question - a yes or no question - but you both know there was enough strings attached you could spool it into a ball of abrasive twine.

You weigh your options.

‘Yes’ - No more sex toys for you. A life of relying purely on your fingers and him, clit never knowing the buzz of a vibrator again. Giving into his will and letting him control you to a degree that you know isn’t healthy.

‘No’ -

Well, you can’t say no.

Aside from how soul crushing you understand the weight of that word would be coming from you - it’s far from the truth. He is enough for you. More than enough - too big, even. Too insatiable. Too much of an ego to not leave you whimpering and covered in the evidence of finish after finish until you were begging him to stop.

Your hesitance is somehow worse than either of your impossible options. You should have just blurted the first answer that came to mind.

His brow quirks as his gaze continues to bore into you with sly, half-lidded eyes.

“No?” He asks, with a quirk of his brow and a thrilling glint of mischief in his eye.

You still can’t bring yourself to confirm or deny.

He nods in understanding, his giant hands wrapping around your sex toys, so little in his palms.

“That’s okay, mein Nervenkitzel Sucher,” He purrs, “I can share.”

Your shoulders brace instinctively, insides coiling as tight as that ball of abrasive twine, those attached strings getting more and more tangled with every silken word that rolls from his tongue. He says it’s okay - but it sure doesn’t feel like he means it. Choking you with those tricky strings.

The fistful of your sex toys - your misdeeds, your dirty, shameful little secrets - falls to his side. He approaches with precise steps until he’s between your knees, looming over you.

“I’ll show you,” He says with a dangerous crinkle in his eyes, a sickeningly sweet smile surely hidden underneath that mask.

You unintentionally shrink in on yourself in the shadow of his hulking, commanding figure. A calculated move. Not-so-subtly reminding you of just how small and defenseless you are in his presence. His voice drops, and those brows furrow, that smile surely faded behind the black fabric obscuring his face as he stares down at you intensely.

Your mouth has gone dry, your attempt at words - an apology, a flirt, a joke, anything - leaves you as nothing but a dried out squeak lodged deep in the back of your throat.

“I’ll show you how I share.”

-

“Kmph-Kmph!”

“Sh, sh. Isn’t this what you wanted, Blümchen? To keep both?”

You let out a truly pathetic whine, throwing your head back on the mattress. How many times have you cum?

You lost count, lost your very rationality, lost to him - the gift of bittersweet pleasure twisted into something unbearable.

“Greedy, greedy girl.”

Plugged, stuffed, and spread open. Your vibrator buzzes ruthlessly on your abused, swollen, throbbing clit at a torturous speed. Restrained by your own handcuffs, secured tightly to the headboard and keeping you from putting up the fight that would be useless anyway. There’s surely a metaphor hidden somewhere within this detail - but your thoughts are so clouded with arousal there’s no way you’d be find it.

Too much, too much, König, too much!

And while you know he knows exactly what you’re pleading, your mouth will never form the words - stifled by the drool-covered gag nestled between your lips.

His pumps in and out of you at a punishing pace, thick cock soaked with your arousal and disciplined hips snapping against the back of your thighs, ignoring the tears of pure overstimulation streaking down your temples.

He studies you with narrowed, unreadable eyes, watching you writhe. His stare lingers on your chest, arching and twisting beneath him as you fight the cruel pleasure between your legs. His stare is eerily cold for a man whose cock is being pleasured by a warm, tight cunt. You’re not even sure if he’s enjoying it, or if this is purely a lesson he must teach you in his eyes.

You know he’s trying to prove a point - to show you that you only need one or the other. Can’t you see? Both is just too much for a little girl like yourself to handle.

So choose wisely, little one.

♡ KÖNIG DRABBLE MASTERLIST ♡

[patriciarustart]

How to Make a Kite String Garland

Quick and easy indoor celebration decorations.

You will need:

Two balls of Raffia Striped Bakers Twine (string) Scissors Ruler

For this decoration I have cut a 1 meter length of bakers twine.

Make a small loop at one end by tying a firm knot.

Cut a 30cm length of raffia and tie a raffia bow near loop on string. Neaten bow and snip bow ends to a tidy length. Tie a raffia bow at approx. 10cm intervals along string. Make sure you keep bow knot tight. Raffia is great because it holds the shape of the bow and tends not to slip down the string. Keep adding bows to end of string. (approx.: 7)

I have used two different colour raffias for my string but you can use as many colours as you like.

And it's done!

Hang vertically down the wall and make as many as you like to decorate your room.

*Please remember: Do not place near naked flame or open fire.

(Money no problem? Add a small, lightweight jingle bell or pre-made pompom to the bottom.)

WARNING: This is not a child’s toy. Keep away from babies and small children.

[hairmetal666]

They start kissing on stage as a joke.

The night before the first time, they're at an afterparty, pounding shots, and Eddie is reading aloud a piece that just came out in Rolling Stone. "'One of the most noteworthy parts of Munson and Harrington's unlikely pairing is their chemistry on stage. It's like these two men--one on his way to being the latest metal god, the other an indie rock wunderkind--are two parts of one musical whole. Their singing, their playing, even their bodies twine and flow with assuredness; where one goes, the other follows without question. They share a single brain-cell and that cell is music'."

Steve giggles, pours some more Grey Goose into the glass. "If they say that now, could you imagine what would happen if we, like, kissed on stage or something."

"What the fuck, Harrington?" Eddie splutters, having just thrown a drink back.

"I don't know, other bands do it!"

Eddie snorts. "I'm cutting you off." He reaches for the bottle and the suggestion is forgotten for wrestling over the liquor.

Steve barely remembers it in the morning. Doesn't think about it at all as he gets ready to go out on stage.

They're playing one of the instrumental breakdowns when it happens. They're leaning into each other, Eddie smiling over his shoulder at him, their eyes locked, bodies moving together. "You wanna?" Eddie mouths at him.

Steve nods before the question actually registers and by then Eddie's warm, soft mouth is against his and he just-- completely forgets what he's doing. His hands still on the guitar strings, and he melts a little, going completely boneless when Eddie grips the back of his head, pulls him deeper into the kiss. t's over almost as quickly as it started, Eddie pulling away and swirling to the mic to start the next verse.

The kiss sinks into Steve's bones, and that's before it becomes a regular feature of their performances. After that night, they're never at the same time during the show, all initiated by Eddie, all over before he can catch his breath; each one chaste and surrounded by people but somehow more intimate than any make out.

He and Eddie, they're friends, bandmates, collaborators. They've known each other since they first started out, forging an immediate connection with they stumbled upon each other hiding out in the garden at some industry bigwig's party. And as much as he loved his friend, never once in that time had Steve considered wanting Eddie.

But now, now he falls asleep with the ghost of Eddie on his lips, goes into each show with a thrum of anticipation, catches himself thinking how beautiful his friend is when he's all rumpled and disheveled from a night in the tour bus bunks.

They've always been easy with physical affection, but once the kissing starts they're constantly in each other's space, idly playing with hair, laying across laps, heads on shoulders, twisting together on the tour bus couch. Steve is ruined with every touch, every moment; he can't get enough.

The first time Eddie uses tongue destroys every last piece of Steve's composure. They've added a new song to the setlist, a remixed version of Eddie's hit "Prince Charming". It's hard, heavy, sexy, one of Steve's favorites. And in the middle of it, right in the middle, Eddie shoves him against a low platform, kisses him like he's trying to own him, tongues twining eager and wet and full of sinful promise. It's like that every show after, Eddie kissing him deep and thorough, like he's trying to lick up every drop of Steve.

He is, unquestionably, fucked. Unquestionably falling. Can't properly fathom how he'd gotten himself here, desperate for Eddie's kiss, as performative as it may be.

They're packing up equipment after a show. Eddie's hair is piled in a messy bun and Steve is trying not to blatantly stare at the curve of his neck, the stray curls against his pale skin. Eddie's gesturing at something, says, "Can you grab those cords, swee--Steve?" He hands them over without thought, notices that Eddie's face is shining red. He's called away to deal with packing the guitars, forgets all about it, but at their next show, Eddie doesn't kiss him.

They don't talk about it.

Eddie doesn't try to kiss him again.

A week after Eddie stops the kiss, they have a night off between shows. He needs to get out of his head, goes out with Robin. He gets back fairly early, but all the lights are off in the bus. It makes him panic in a way it shouldn't; they've always done their own things. Still, he rushes on board, flips on the lights, his absurd heart beating too hard.

Eddie is curled up on the couch, face pressed to the pillows and covered with his hands. The panic kicks up a notch.

"Eddie?" He steps closer, slowly reaching out to grip Eddie's shoulder.

He jerks upright, earbuds slipping free, phone sliding down his hip. "Steve?"

His face is wet, tears actively slipping free from his eyes as Steve watches.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" His hands flutter around Eddie's arms and face, searching for bruises or wounds.

"I'm fine, Harrington," he chokes out. "Though you were out with Robin?"

"Yeah, I was, but Chrissy called. You know how useless she gets. But that doesn't--you--you're crying. What's wrong?"

Eddie's smile is a wobbly little thing, refusing to stick on his face. "Oh, you know, the usual. Fell for the wrong guy."

Steve forces down the gut churning hurt at hearing that Eddie's in love with someone, intent on comforting his friend. He tries to slip his arm around Eddie's shoulders, but Eddie shrugs him off. It jostles Eddie's phone again, slipping it toward Steve and activating the screen. He has a split second where he's looking at the cover of his own first album, before Eddie's snatching it out of reach, scrambling up from the couch.

"I'm fine." He swipes his sleeve over his face. "It's nothing."

And Steve is putting it all together, the being in love and listening to Steve's music, the kissing and how it ended.--

"Eddie." He sounds all wrong, choked and garbled.

Eddie doesn't turn around, is stuffing his feet into his boots. "I'm--I gotta go clear my head."

He walks towards the door and Steve just--"I've been obsessed with you since the first kiss," he says. Eddie stops, hand curled against the door. "We've been friends all this time and I didn't--I never realized. And then we kissed and--it's all I've been able to think about."

Eddie turns then, facing him, expression unreadable."Steve, what are you--"

"I love you. I'm in love with you." It comes out fast, all jumbled, but he can't stand Eddie leaving, not now.

"You--?" Eddie blinks, bites his lip. "That's not possible."

Steve smiles, can't help it. "It is, though. Turns out, I can't get enough."

Their eyes lock; neither speaks. Steve's heart pounds so hard it might spring free of his chest. Eddie moves first, crosses the small distance between them to pull Steve into his arms.

It's not a kiss, but Steve buries his face against Eddie's neck, breathing him in, feeling the echo to the pound of his own heart. "How long?" Steve asks.

Eddie's soft laugh vibrates through him. "Since I saw you walking in that garden and thought, 'jesus christ, Prince Charming is real'."

Steve pulls away to stare at Eddie in disbelief. "But that's--your--the song?"

"They're kinda all about you, Stevie. But that one most of all." Eddie whispers. His eyes glisten.

"Fuck, Eddie." He doesn't mean to whine, but he's not in control of his voice anymore. "I'm sorry I didn't--" He shakes his head. "I'm all yours, Ed. Whatever you want."

Eddie's thumb catches against Steve's bottom lips, eyes transfixed on his mouth. "Everything, sweetheart. I want it all."

[batboysanonymous]

Bird in a Cage (Extended Version)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Grief turned Y/N into a ghost of herself, drowning in the unbearable silence of a bond that should have shattered—unaware that her mate still breathed, just beyond her reach.

Continue reading below ⬇

───────────────────────────────

The City of Starlight was quieter without him.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed, but the kind that suffocated.

Velaris had always been a sanctuary—a beacon of warmth carved from darkness. The place Azriel had loved most in the world, the place where they had built a life together, where his laughter—so rare, so precious—had once melted into the hum of the city.

Now, it was a tomb.

Y/N barely recognized herself anymore.

The mirror reflected a ghost.

Her skin, once kissed by the sun, had paled into something colorless, something brittle. Her lips—Azriel had always traced them with his fingers, with his mouth, worshipped them like they were made of stardust—were chapped, cracked from the relentless winter air she no longer cared to shield herself from.

But her eyes—her eyes were the worst.

They had once been filled with fire. They had burned when she was angry, glowed when she laughed, softened when Azriel looked at her like she was his entire world.

Now, they were empty.

Hollowed.

Dulled by grief.

The bond—it was the cruelest thing of all.

It should have broken.

The moment he died, it should have shattered inside her like glass, the way everyone said it would.

But it hadn’t.

Instead, it had gone quiet.

Not severed. Not gone. Just… silent.

She should have felt it snap, should have felt something inside her tear apart at the moment his heart stopped beating. But she hadn’t.

And she hated that she hadn’t.

Because it left her with questions.

With doubt.

With a tiny, traitorous whisper in the back of her mind that refused to believe he was truly gone.

A whisper that tormented her in the darkest hours of the night.

When she woke, gasping, chest heaving, reaching out for something—someone—who wasn’t there.

When she swore she could feel the ghost of his presence lingering in the room, the faintest whisper of his scent curling through the air.

When her soul still ached, as if something tethered it to a mate that no longer existed.

But that was just grief, wasn’t it?

The way it twisted things. The way it made you believe in impossibilities.

Her mate.

Her husband.

Her best friend.

Gone.

She curled further into the window seat, a thick blanket draped over her shoulders, though it did nothing to warm her. She didn’t feel warmth anymore.

Beyond the glass, Velaris glittered under the night sky, so full of life.

The Sidra River shimmered beneath the glow of the city’s lights. Laughter echoed through the streets, the faint melody of a string quartet drifting from a café near the water. Couples strolled hand in hand, shadows twining together beneath the lanterns.

It was all the same.

As if the world had not ended.

As if Azriel had not died.

As if everything had not been ripped apart at the seams.

It was unbearable.

───────────────────────────────

“Y/N.”

The voice was soft. Careful.

Rhysand.

She didn’t turn to look at him.

She knew how he saw her.

Knew what he was thinking.

That she was slipping away.

That she had already slipped too far.

“I brought you dinner.”

She swallowed.

Her gaze flickered to the plate he placed on the small table beside her.

Her favorite meal.

She had no appetite.

She hadn’t for weeks.

“Eat,” Rhys pressed, lowering himself into the armchair across from her.

She didn’t.

His sigh was barely more than a breath.

“Feyre is worried about you,” he said carefully. “We all are.”

Her jaw tightened.

Her jaw tightened, the tendons in her neck pulled taut as if they might snap under the weight of the silence between them.

Rhysand didn’t look away.

“Y/N…” His voice was quiet. Careful.

Like he was afraid she might break.

She clenched her fists beneath the blanket, nails digging into her palms so hard she half-expected to draw blood. Maybe she wanted to. Maybe she wanted to feel something that wasn’t this hollow, gnawing ache in her chest.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, her voice flat, lifeless.

Another beat of silence. A pause thick with things unsaid.

Then, carefully—too carefully—

“The bond hasn’t broken.”

The words landed like a knife between her ribs.

Her breath hitched.

She went utterly still.

For a moment, the sounds of Velaris—the distant hum of laughter, the faint notes of music drifting from a tavern, the rustling of the wind against the glass—faded into nothing.

She hadn’t told him that.

Hadn’t told anyone.

Because it was impossible.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The bond should have shattered the second Azriel took his last breath. Should have ripped itself from her, leaving only a gaping, unbearable emptiness in its wake. That was what happened when one mate lost the other. That was what she had expected—the pain, the tearing, the finality of it.

But there had been no breaking.

No shattering.

Only silence.

A cruel, hollow silence that left her questioning everything.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted after a long moment, her voice hoarse, frayed at the edges. “I should have—felt it. When he—”

The word stuck in her throat like poison.

She couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t force it past the raw, aching knot in her chest.

Rhys didn’t press her.

Didn’t finish the sentence for her.

But he didn’t look surprised, either.

The realization sent a chill down her spine.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto his for the first time in days.

Violet met Y/E/C.

Something flickered there.

Something off.

Something withholding.

A flicker of hesitation. A fleeting flash of guilt.

“… What?” she rasped.

Rhysand shook his head. Too quickly. “Nothing.”

It was a lie.

She could see it in the way his throat bobbed, in the way his fingers twitched before stilling, in the way his power coiled subtly around him as if bracing for something.

Rhysand was many things.

A High Lord. A brother. A friend.

But above all, he was a master of deception.

She had seen him weave lies with silken ease, had watched him manipulate and maneuver people like a game of chess—always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what pieces to move and when.

And now, he was lying to her.

She should have pressed him. Should have torn the truth from his lips, demanded to know why.

But she didn’t.

Because if he was lying—if he was hiding something—she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Because the truth, whatever it was, could be worse than the lie she had been living in.

So she let it go.

She had no more energy to fight.

And that night, when she closed her eyes, the dream came again.

Azriel.

Standing just beyond the veil of shadows, his hazel eyes locked onto hers.

He never spoke.

Never moved.

Just watched.

And she—she always ran toward him.

Always reached for him.

But the moment her fingers brushed his—

He disappeared.

Vanishing into smoke.

The loss of him—again—ripped through her like a blade.

She woke with a start, gasping, her body shaking, drenched in sweat.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, her breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

And the bond—

It was there.

Faint. Muted.

Like something was blocking it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm.

No.

No, she was imagining it.

This was what grief did.

It twisted things.

Warped reality.

Made you believe in impossibilities.

Azriel was dead.

The bond hadn’t broken.

And she would never know why.

───────────────────────────────

Cassian slammed his fists against Rhysand’s desk so hard the wood cracked.

“You have to tell her.”

Rhys barely flinched. He remained seated, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. The picture of calm. But Cassian knew better.

There was a storm brewing beneath that composed mask.

“I will tell her when the time is right,” Rhys said evenly.

Cassian barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “The time was weeks ago. Do you even see her, Rhys? Do you see what she’s become?”

Rhys’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

So Cassian pressed forward, his wings flaring, barely able to keep his rage in check. “She’s withering. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She stares out that fucking window like she’s waiting for death to come collect her.” His voice dropped, turned guttural, desperate. “She is not surviving this. And you are letting it happen.”

Rhys’s violet eyes flashed.

“I am protecting her.”

Cassian slammed his hands down again. “From what? From knowing her mate is alive? From knowing the truth?”

Rhys stood, slow and measured, his power pressing against the room, dark and furious. “From false hope.”

Cassian scoffed. “False—” He let out a sharp breath, dragging his hands through his hair. “She feels the bond, Rhys. She knows something isn’t right. You think you’re protecting her, but all you’re doing is destroying her.”

Rhys’s fingers curled into fists.

“She deserves the truth,” Mor said quietly from the doorway.

Cassian turned, startled to see her standing there, her golden eyes lined with pain.

Mor never took his side over Rhys’s.

And yet—

“She’s drowning,” Mor continued, stepping forward, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “And you’re letting her.”

Something flickered across Rhys’s face—guilt, maybe. Regret.

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose.

Then—

“I will tell her.”

Cassian didn’t release the breath he was holding. Not yet.

“When?” he demanded.

Rhys hesitated.

Cassian’s blood boiled. “Not when it’s convenient for you, Rhys. Now.”

Rhys opened his mouth—

And then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the River House.

The three of them turned.

Y/N stood at the threshold, her face pale, her eyes dull but watchful.

Cassian’s stomach dropped.

How much had she heard?

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

“You’re hiding something,” she said.

Not a question.

Rhys went still.

Cassian swallowed hard, his throat thick.

“Y/N—”

She turned her gaze on Rhys, cutting off whatever weak excuse Cassian knew was about to leave his mouth.

“Why do I still feel the bond?” she whispered.

Rhys hesitated.

And that was his mistake.

Y/N sucked in a breath, her lips parting slightly.

Cassian saw it happen—the exact moment she knew.

“… No.”

Rhys took a step toward her. “It’s not what you think—”

“He’s alive?”

Her voice broke on the last word.

The walls closed in.

Cassian felt his own knees nearly buckle at the sheer devastation in her voice.

Y/N stumbled back a step, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

And then—

She turned and ran.

Cassian moved to follow, but Rhys stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Let her go,” Rhys murmured, his voice tight.

Cassian shoved his hand away. “Are you fucking serious?”

Rhys didn’t respond.

Cassian didn’t care.

Because Y/N had just learned the most important truth of her life—

And she had learned it alone.

And none of them knew if she would ever forgive them for it.

───────────────────────────────

By the time Cassian stormed back into the study, the walls trembled with the weight of Rhysand’s magic. A silent rage cloaked the room, dark and suffocating, shadows stretching unnaturally as if his power itself recoiled from what had just happened.

Mor stood by the fireplace, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on the floor. Guilt weighed heavy in her golden gaze.

“You don’t get to walk away from this,” Cassian growled, slamming the door behind him.

Rhys didn’t move from where he stood near his desk, his jaw tight, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“She deserved the truth,” Mor said softly, her voice raw.

“She deserved better than this,” Cassian snapped.

Rhys’s power pulsed, the chandeliers rattling above them. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, shaking with restrained fury.

“Then why?” Cassian demanded. “Why did you let her suffer? Why did you break her?”

Rhys turned to them then, violet eyes dark with something unreadable. Something haunted.

“Because I had no choice.”

Cassian’s wings flared, his body thrumming with unspent rage. “Bullshit.”

Rhys exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “If she had known—if she had felt the bond the way she was supposed to—she would have gone after him.”

Cassian stilled. “What?”

Mor frowned. “But the bond was—”

“Blocked,” Rhys finished. “Because I had to block it.”

The air shifted, the weight of those words settling like a stone in Cassian’s chest.

“You blocked their bond?” Mor whispered, disbelief painting every syllable.

Rhys lifted his chin, unapologetic. “I had to. Azriel is on a mission that cannot be compromised.”

A sick feeling curled in Cassian’s gut. “What mission?”

Rhys hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then—

“We found out that Koschei has allies—ones we didn’t account for,” Rhys said, his voice tight. “They captured Azriel. They tortured him. Nearly broke him.” His throat bobbed. “But he got out. And when he did, he realized something.”

Cassian and Mor exchanged a wary glance.

“What?” Cassian asked.

Rhys’s eyes gleamed with something dark. Something dangerous.

“That he could end them.”

A slow, cold dread crept up Cassian’s spine.

Rhys went on. “He knew he couldn’t come back. Knew that if he did, they would find him, find us. So he let us believe he was dead. We barely got to him in time, barely found out before it was too late. He’s been playing a long game, infiltrating their ranks, feeding us information from within.”

Mor’s breath hitched. “For how long?”

“Since the night he went missing,” Rhys murmured. “Since the night he died to us.”

Cassian swallowed hard. “And the bond?”

Rhys’s gaze darkened. “It had to be silenced. If she had felt him, if he had felt her, she would have known he was alive. And she would have gone after him. And if she had—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “They would have killed them both.”

Mor’s hands trembled where she held herself.

Cassian clenched his jaw, but there was no denying the truth of Rhys’s words.

If Y/N had known—if she had even suspected—she would have torn apart the world to find Azriel.

And she would have died trying.

“So why now?” Cassian rasped. “Why tell her now?”

Rhys’s throat bobbed.

“Because he’s coming home,” he whispered.

A beat of silence.

Then—

Cassian swore under his breath.

Mor closed her eyes.

Rhys turned toward the window, gazing out at the city below.

“He’s not the same,” Rhys admitted, so quietly it was nearly lost in the hush of the room. “I don’t know who he’ll be when he returns.” A pause. “I don’t know if she’ll even recognize him.”

Cassian ran a hand over his face. “And you didn’t think she deserved to prepare for that?”

Rhys’s eyes gleamed as he looked at them.

“No,” he said. “Because she deserves to see him. To feel the bond the way she was meant to. Not as a whisper, not as an absence—but as a promise.”

Cassian’s throat tightened.

Because if Azriel was coming home—

It meant the game was ending.

And none of them knew what pieces would be left standing.

───────────────────────────────

The world had ended once before.

The day Azriel died.

Or at least—the day she thought he had.

The grief had come like a tidal wave, unrelenting and merciless. It had drowned her, pulled her under until she forgot what it felt like to breathe. She had mourned him, had shattered beneath the weight of a love ripped away too soon, had tried to understand why the bond—the thing that should have severed the moment his heart stopped beating—had remained.

She had screamed at it. Had begged it to break, to free her from the unbearable agony of existing without him.

But it hadn’t.

And she had hated herself for what that meant.

For the sliver of hope that had curled in her chest despite the impossibility of it.

But she had silenced it. Forced herself to accept that it was simply another cruelty of fate, a mistake, a malfunction of whatever magic tied them together.

Azriel was gone.

And she—

She had become nothing.

Now, standing on the landing, her hands shaking violently as the night stretched before her, she wasn’t sure how to exist in a world where that was no longer true.

Where he was alive.

Her heart was a wild, frantic thing in her chest, slamming against her ribs as if trying to escape. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the city behind her, the voices inside the River House, the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind.

She could feel him.

Not a faint whisper, not a distant echo of something she had convinced herself was grief—him.

Close.

Real.

And then—

The steady, haunting sound of wings.

Her breath caught.

Her body froze.

The world seemed to still.

A shadow swept across the sky, darkening the stars, and she felt it the moment he arrived. Felt it in her bones, in the sharp pull of the bond that slammed into her with the force of a tidal wave, so overwhelming it sent her staggering back.

She choked on a breath, her vision blurring, her chest aching with the sudden, uncontrollable flood of emotion.

It had never been like this.

Even before, even when the bond had first clicked into place, it had never been this—wild.

This raw. This desperate.

Like it had been waiting.

Like it had been starving.

Like it had known what she hadn’t.

Azriel landed.

The impact sent a gust of wind swirling around her, whipping strands of hair across her face, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because he was there.

Not a dream.

Not a ghost.

Not a cruel trick of her mind, taunting her with something she could never have again.

Her mate.

Her mate was alive.

He was thinner.

The sharp angles of his face were more pronounced, his golden-brown skin tinged with exhaustion. His leathers clung to his frame, battle-worn and stiff, and his hazel eyes—

Gods, his eyes.

They locked onto hers, widening as if he, too, could barely believe what he was seeing.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his hands clenching at his sides as his body visibly shook.

Her throat closed.

She couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Because if she did, she might wake up.

She might wake up again to a cold, empty bed, to a bond that still existed but didn’t feel.

She might wake up and realize that this was just another dream—another nightmare.

And she couldn’t survive that.

Not again.

A broken sound tore from her throat, her knees buckling, and that was all it took.

Azriel moved.

One step. Then another. And then—

She was in his arms.

A sob ripped from her lips as she collapsed into him, her fingers clutching at his leathers, at his shoulders, his back—anywhere she could hold, anywhere that would prove that this wasn’t a lie.

Azriel exhaled sharply against her hair, his arms locking around her so tight it was almost painful, as if he thought she might slip away if he didn’t hold her close enough.

The bond snapped.

A jolt of pure, unfiltered connection crashed through her, so powerful that she gasped, her body trembling violently as the walls that had dulled it for weeks shattered in an instant.

It was like breathing again after drowning.

Like sunlight after an eternity in the dark.

She felt everything.

His heartbeat—wild, erratic, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

The way his chest heaved, the way his hands fisted in the back of her sweater like she might disappear.

The way his entire body shook against hers, like he, too, was barely holding himself together.

His scent wrapped around her, heady and overwhelming—home.

She let out another strangled sob, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing him in, needing to memorize the way he felt, the way he smelled, the way their bond sang so loudly it was nearly unbearable.

“I thought I lost you,” she choked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Azriel inhaled sharply.

His fingers traced over her back, shaking as he pulled away just enough to cup her face, to tilt her chin up until their eyes met.

He looked wrecked.

His throat bobbed. His hazel eyes were damp.

And his voice—

His voice was hoarse when he whispered, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Something inside her shattered.

Her hands flew to his face, tracing the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the rougher skin where a new scar cut across his temple.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, his breath catching, his grip tightening on her waist.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He swallowed.

“I know.”

Her lip trembled. “I grieved you.”

His hands trembled as they slid into her hair, as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he rasped, pain cracking through his voice.

She sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

───────────────────────────────

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Taglist: onebadassunicorn, k-godling, masbt1218, suggesteddoubletake, vanserrasimp, meritxellao

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[rambling-at-midnight]

When the Truth Comes Out

Request: Reader asks, "So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" I hope I did your prompt justice!

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: It’s been three and a half years since Jason asked you out, and he knows you’re the one. He knows every part of you, the good and bad, and loves it all. The problem is that you don’t know everything about him… and his secrets may ruin everything.

Word count: 3.5k

Jason’s never been one to window shop, but lately he’s been noticing the glint of jewelry.

You give him a weird look when he stumbles in the middle of the department store. It’s because a ring display caught him off guard like a punch to the gut, but he can’t explain that, so Jason waves off your concerned questioning.

You give him a weird look before turning back to the toy aisle. The two of you spent the morning bickering over what present to give Damian for Christmasukkah. You want to give him a keyboard to learn piano, but Jason’s sure that Damian would be happier receiving an art kit. He knows violin, which is a strings instrument, not whatever the piano is. Besides, the kid’s a brat. He’d want a full-size grand piano that originally belonged to Mozart or some shit and costs a hundred thousand dollars, which isn’t exactly pocket cash for the two of you.

And, sure, Jason’s got one of Bruce’s credit cards in his wallet—Bruce offered to give him one in Jason’s name, but it was the principle of using the stolen card, so Jason turned him down—but he’d be damned before he spoiled the kid any more than he already is.

He keeps his eyes firmly on you after that. It’s where they’re supposed to be, anyway.

You end up getting the keyboard after surreptitiously checking your bank account against your projected budget several times. It’s funny. After three years, you still think you can hide stuff like that from Jason. Probably because he pretends not to notice. He makes a mental note to stop by your landlord’s and see if the Red Hood can make any suggestions about lowering rent for your building.

As the two of you walk out of the store, a cold gust of wind tries to steal your breath away. You step closer to Jason, cold fingers twining with his, and he easily drapes an arm over your shoulders to keep you close. “Was that the last one?”

“I think so,” you reply, checking your list again. “The keyboard for Damian, massage gun for Dick, matching pajamas for Cass and Steph, Pokemon expansion pack for Duke, and the fuzzy socks for Tim.”

The socks are decorated with the words ‘I BREACHED CONTAINMENT’ in black stitching. Jason saw them in a tourist trap he saved from a D-list rogue and remembered how Tim looked like the bog monster after falling into the sewers the day before. They’ve been sitting in his closet since the end of August.

“I have too many siblings,” Jason sighs.

“Have you figured out what you’re giving Bruce?”

Jason bites his lip.

You say, “Ah. Well, you still have a couple days.”

Yeah. Jason has two. He’d been supposed to look out for anything to catch his eye in the store, but all he noticed was the stupid ring display.

He opens the car door for you, then shoves the keyboard in its box into the backseat and starts the engine. Jason drives home one-handed. The other holds yours loosely over the console. You’re checking your bank account again on your phone, frowning slightly, thumb brushing up and down Jason’s palm. He keeps an eye on you as he drives, playing idly by squeezing your fingers one by one until you have to try to hide a smile by looking out the window. 

He doesn’t let go of your third finger. Something nags at the back of his mind, like—

Jason realizes that he’s trying to find a ring, and his heart stops. The car jumps forward when he slams on the gas, and he drops your hand to put both of his on the wheel as he swerves around a minivan. You let out a startled yelp, hands flying out for something to grab onto. The stupid keyboard slides off the back seat and into the footwell.

Two cars lay on their horns when he nearly sideswipes them. Jason responds with an emphatic middle finger and cuts across three lanes to get away. The poor car doesn’t respond as well to his driving as his motorcycle does, and the engine whines as he leaves the other cars in the dust until he eases off.

As soon as the car reaches a relatively normal speed, you say, “Jay! What just happened?”

“Sorry,” is all he can say, keeping both arms stiff on the wheel. “Sorry, honey.”

“You okay?”

“‘M good. You good?”

“I’m okay, I was just…” You keep looking at him, and Jason’s skin prickles. Do you know? Can you tell?

Jason creaks like old wood, but he pulls back his right arm and puts his hand on the console, palm up. After a moment, you put your left overtop it. He can feel your pulse racing through the thin skin of your wrist.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

The day before Christmas, Jason still doesn’t know what to give Bruce. He’d hoped that baking would fix the block, but as he abuses the poor sopapilla dough, he’s no further to any answers.

You’re at the counter, offering moral support but not physical help. Jason’s a bit of a control freak in the kitchen when he’s anxious.

He’s not anxious. He’s not! It doesn’t matter if he gives Bruce something for Chrismukkah. Bruce doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. ‘Not trying to kill him’ is probably a good enough present.

Or the sopapillas. Sure, everyone’s bringing a dish, but no one said it couldn’t also be Jason’s present. But if he goes that route, then the pastries have to be perfect, and the last batch didn’t fluff up the way they did when Catherine made them.

“Jay,” you say after another five minutes of Jason punching dough that is already thoroughly kneaded.

“Yes, love?”

“I think the oil might be ready.”

Judging by the hiss and pops behind him, it is, and has been for several minutes.

Jason tries his best to follow his mother’s actions through his memory, but this batch doesn’t turn out right, either.

“Here,” he says wearily, placing the overflowing plate in front of you. “Let ‘em cool off.”

You wait as long as you can, fingers drumming on the counter as you watch tiny curls of steam drift up from the pile of pastries. Finally, you give in. “Oh my gosh,” you say around a mouthful that was a little too hot, judging by your wince. “Jay, these are amazing.”

“It’s not right, though,” he argues.

“Jay, I didn’t even think it was possible, but these are better than your last batch.”

He shakes his head stubbornly.

“Well, we’ll keep working on it,” you decide. “But really, if you bring these tomorrow, no one will complain. If they do…” You hold up a fist and shake it, mustering up (what you think is) a ferocious scowl.

Jason’s lips twitch. “What if Damian complains? Are you prepared to hit a child?”

“I can’t believe you would even ask me that,” you say. “I live in Gotham. I’ve been waiting for that moment my entire life.”

Despite himself, Jason laughs. He picks up one of the pastries from the dish and bites into it. They could have used more honey. Maybe that was the problem. But you’re right. These are good, and if they’re not, so what? It’s not like Bruce expects much from him anyway.

Jason’s chest squeezes.

Bruce should just be grateful that Jason is there at all.

Fuck.

It’s getting too hard to deny. Despite all his best efforts, Jason has to admit… maybe he does love his family.

It’s the first holiday season where he hasn’t been incandescent with rage toward one of them or another, and he’d underestimated just how nervous he would be. Despite everything that happened between them, he wants tomorrow to go well. The first night of Hanukkah is the same day as Christmas this year, which hasn’t happened for about twenty years. It’ll be Damian’s third Chrismukkah and the first where everyone is in attendance—Jason wasn’t on speaking terms with the family his first year, and Bruce was in the time stream and Tim was across the world last year.

“Hey, Jay.”

“Hmm.”

You swallow without making eye contact, and if he was paying even a little bit more attention, he would have known to prepare himself for what you said next.

“When are you gonna ask me to marry you?”

Jason is a selfish asshole. It’s a miracle that you haven’t figured that out yet after three years of dating him. He half-expects to come back to the apartment to find his stuff in bags. That’s the main reason he’s still out in the cold.

He’s in the middle of another drag when a teasing voice says from behind, “Ooh, must have been a rough day.”

Jason’s hand twitches for his gun, but he recognizes the voice. So he only rolls his eyes and says around the cigarette, “What do you want?”

“Your partner asked me to check up on you. Apparently you looked pretty freaked when you took off.”

Fuck. Jason groans. “How worried did they seem?”

“Ummm….”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you kind of messed up.” Spoiler sits next to him, dangles her legs over the side of the roof, and lets them swing idly. “Or they messed up. I thought you quit smoking?”

He exhales a thick plume of smoke. “I did,” Jason says. Dying from smoke inhalation was bad once, but a habit is a habit.

“If it makes you feel any better, they seemed more concerned about you. Not, like, mad or anything.”

Well, that’s something.

“So what happened?”

Jason grunts. Maybe if he stares into the horizon long enough, Spoiler will give up. That was the technique Batman always used when Robin asked the tough questions like, ‘Why am I going home early so you can interrogate Catwoman on your own?’

It only worked sometimes.

Unfortunately, Spoiler seems immune.

Jason grunts and drops the butt of his cigarette. He itches for another, but you’ll already wrinkle up your nose at the smell of one. And, shit, what are you even going to think about him high-tailing it out after that question, leaving for hours, and coming back stinking of smoke?

“I’m a fucking idiot. And an asshole.”

Spoiler huffs. “Everyone already knows that, dumbass. They certainly do.”

“Thanks,” Jason says drily.

“Anytime!” she chirps.

Her heels beat against the side of the building.

She’s not leaving anytime soon, so Jason sighs and gives in. “They asked when I was planning on proposing.”

Spoiler gasps and jumps to her feet. “Oh my God!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yep.”

“So you’re engaged?”

“What? No.”

“What?”

“They asked when I would propose. That wasn’t a proposal… I don’t think so. I mean, there wasn’t a ring,” Jason says helplessly.

Spoiler socks him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Damn, but the girl can pack a punch. He rubs at the sore spot, scowling.

“You stupid idiot!”

“I know.”

“And you just ran away?”

Jason cringes and admits to his lap, “Yes.”

Spoiler hits him in the exact same spot on his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, stop that!”

“I’m going to kill you, Jason Peter Todd.”

“You could certainly try, Stephanie… Brown,” he shoots back.

“You don’t even know my middle name?”

“I don’t care about you.”

She lifts her fist again, but Jason twists out of the way before she can hit him a third time in the same shoulder. It’ll be bruised tomorrow.

“You don’t get it,” he says, balancing on the edge of the roof and feeling exceptionally unstable, even though he’s walked across ledges like this since he was twelve.

“What don’t I get? That you have an awesome partner waiting for you at home? One that wants to get married? One that—”

“One that has no idea who I am,” Jason hisses. He brandishes his helmet at the girl. “We’ve been together for three years. They have no idea that I’m the Red Hood. It made sense, at first; I can’t go around telling everyone I kiss what my identity is—”

“Right,” she scoffs sarcastically, “like you’re some kind of serial kisser, Todd. Half the city would know your identity if you did that.”

“Shut up,” Jason half-says, half-groans, and by some miracle, she does. “At first, obviously I couldn’t tell them. Then I wanted to keep waiting. I wanted to know that they were, you know, the one and everything.”

Spoiler fake-gags. Jason ignores her.

“And after that it was just too late. I waited too long. I can’t marry them unless they know about the mask, but who would agree to marry someone that’s been lying to them for three years? The entire time they’ve known me?”

“Huh,” says Spoiler.

‘Huh’ indeed.

“So I ran,” Jason says. “I don’t even know if I said anything. The next thing I knew, I was in the street with a pack of cigs and a lighter in my pocket. I came up here to smoke a couple before going back and ending things.”

“You—wait, ‘ending things?’” Spoiler’s head whips around, the white lenses of her domino widening. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t lie to them,” says Jason. “When I go back, I’ll tell them the truth. And they’ll break up with me for lying for years. I was just trying to put it off.”

The worst thing was, he wasn’t even trying to lie for most of it. You took his excuses easily, believed him about a boxing gym membership to explain away the bruises, and never uttered a complaint about the odd hours he worked. Every time he was late to a date or canceled, you understood. Every time he forgot something important, odds were that you’d forgotten, too, without him to remind you.

All things considered, Jason might have found the single least curious person in all of Gotham, if you hadn’t figured it out after three years. But he’d gotten so comfortable that he’d forgotten that it was a secret, really. It had all rushed back in when he heard your words like a smack to the face, and he’d panicked.

“You don’t know that,” Spoiler says softly.

“Could you forgive someone for something like this?”

She stays silent, and that’s answer enough.

Jason huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack of cigarettes and lighter, and considers them. Then he sighs and drops both on the ground. “Might as well get this over with.”

The cold Gotham air whips away the reek of smoke by the time he’s back at your apartment. Jason looks at the door like a condemned man looks at the gallows. He could sneak in through the window like he usually does, but he selfishly wants you to open the door for him. Show that he’s welcome now, even though he won’t be for long.

Seconds drag on like torturous minutes until he hears the familiar click of the lock. The door inches open with a screech.

Jason’s mouth goes dry at the sight of your wide eyes. “Hey, darling.”

Wordlessly, you open the door further and step aside to let him in.

Funny how a place he’s practically lived in can feel so unfamiliar. Jason shifts between feet as you re-lock your door.

The moment you turn around, he blurts out, “I’m sorry.”

You say the same thing.

“What?” Jason asks.

“You don’t need to apologize,” you say.

“No, I was an ass,” he insists. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“I didn’t mean to push you. I just saw you looking at rings, and we’ve talked about it, but still, marriage is a big step, so I wanted to be prepared,” you ramble. “I mean, we said that we could get married, but we never discussed when, or when the proposal would be—”

“Honey!”

You fall silent.

“Just wait,” Jason begs. He can’t stand any more of your endless understanding. You’ve only ever understood him, no matter what, and he’s going to miss it so much. He’s going to miss you so much. “Wait one second.” He retreats to the bedroom and returns a moment later with something clutched behind his back. Your eyes dart to the awkward way he’s contorted his arm.

Your face goes blank when he pulls out the spare helmet he keeps below your bed. He’d only used a domino when out with Spoiler, but that wouldn’t do for the grand reveal.

“I’m the Red Hood,” he says in a rush, then braces for your judgment.

You don’t react except to say, “Jason.”

He doesn’t understand. You’re not scared of the killer in your apartment. You’re not furious at the man that’s lied to you for three years. Obviously you don’t understand what he’s saying. “Honey, I’m the Red Hood. The vigilante.”

“Jay—”

You’re still just standing with no reaction. Jason holds the mask up so you’re making eye contact with it.

You push it out of the way and cradle his face with both your hands. “Jason Peter Todd, look at me,” you command.

Jason holds your gaze. It’s the last time he’ll ever be so close to you, and he never wants to forget what your presence feels like.

“Jay, I’ve known basically the whole time.”

What.

Jason blinks.

“What?”

“I already knew.”

“Honey, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I’m the—”

“Red Hood, yes, I know.” You muster up a tremulous smile. “And Bruce is Batman. Dick is Nightwing. Steph is Spoiler, Damian is Robin, Tim is—”

“Oh my God, you knew? How did you know?”

“Jason. My love. My darling. My honey bunchkin.” You give him a mildly scolding look. “I’m not an idiot.”

Jason’s ears heat. “And you’re not… mad?”

“That you’re the Red Hood?” You cock your head. “Of course not. I worry about you, of course. But you have to do it. I know that. Or am I mad that you tried to keep it a secret for three years?” You press your lips together to hide a growing smile. “No. I’m not mad about that either. You can’t exactly go around telling your secret identity to everyone you kiss. It’s just something I had to figure out on my own.”

“You knew,” Jason marvels. “You knew this whole time.”

“Most of the whole time,” you say. “But yes.”

“Oh my God.” Jason’s moving before he can stop himself, and he wraps you up in his arms and spins you around. “I thought you would hate me,” he confesses, still clutching you like his life depends on it. “When I finally told you.”

A soft hand runs through his hair. “Is that why you ran?” you ask softly.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, honey, I just—”

“I get it,” you interrupt.

“You were scared.”

A thought occurs to Jason with such clarity he nearly drops you. “Wait, so you were going to marry me even after you knew about the mask?”

“Of course,” you say. “I love you, Jay. Mask and all.”

“I don’t have a ring.”

“I don’t need one. Don’t you get it? I only need you.”

“I only need you, too.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Jason agrees, and he probably looks like a fool with his wide grin, but you can’t stop smiling either. He dips his head, and you rise up to press your lips to his, even though with both your grins you end up clicking teeth.

“Good,” you repeat.

“Good,” Jason says, just for good measure, and this time he makes sure the kiss is better. Lightning shoots up his spine and he pulls back to ask, “Wait, are we engaged now?”

“Um… yes?”

“That’s awesome.”

Your smile is so wide that your eyes nearly close. Jason’s pretty sure he looks the same as he sweeps you up and spins you around. You fit perfectly into his arms. He’s never going to let you go.

“My fiance��,” he says fondly. “I’m never going to get tired of saying that.”

“I’m marrying you,” you marvel, sweeping your thumb over his mouth. “I have the prettiest husband-to-be in the whole world.”

“I love you,” Jason confesses. “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

Seconds before your mouths meet for another kiss, Jason’s phone buzzes. On the off-chance it’s an important alert, he pulls it out, but it’s just Spoiler asking for an update.

Jason stows the device. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I know how to make the sopapillas the right way.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

It turns out that Jason’s right.

Making them with your help turns out to be what was missing the whole time.

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[revelboo]

So......

With the new bots being added wat kinks do you think they have?

Also you turned me into a Megs fan. I came for the Soundwave and have been hit with the Megatron hots. And the whirl.

Waking up to more fics is great!! But don't forget to look after yourself

More Scenarios

Various Transformers x Reader

18+ content 🌶️

Knockout

• “Just to make sure you keep your grubby little paws to yourself,” he growls as you wriggle against the soft material he’s bound your wrists with. Huffing at him as his servos lift your hips with casual strength and you feel his spike slide against you. “Can’t smudge the paint.” Back arching as that spike slowly stretches you, you moan. “Do you know how wrong this is? How illicit?” Gripping your hips, he thrusts against you, optics narrowing as his attention dips to where your bodies are joined. Knowing he loves it. Loves that this is taboo and scandalous as much as he loves to complain. Toes curling, you whimper.

• “It’s obscene,” you moan, that breathy sound stringing him tight. Part of him hates how addicted to the feel of your body he is. To watching his spike shiny with your need sliding into your wet heat, the way your grip him. Hips snapping against yours, just to hear that wet sound. To make you whimper and squirm, so responsive to him. So vocal.

Shockwave and Soundwave

• Tension thrumming through Shockwave as his head tips to watch you squirm against Soundwave, head thrown back against the communication’s officer as you come apart. Hears the other mech murmur against you, shuddering slightly as he releases, servos tracing the delicate line of your throat with one hand, the other sliding from your hip to your lower belly. Watching Soundwave’s hands slide to grip your hips and help you out of his lap. Your warm smile faltering some when you come to him.

• Nerves thrumming as Shockwave’s head tilts to study you, there’s always the uncomfortable feeling that you’re an experiment to him, not a person. Soundwave you trust to an extent, he seems to care about you despite how distant he can be sometimes, but Shockwave? This one makes you shiver and not in a good way. When he just stares, you give up and drop to your knees between his spread thighs. Comforted by the fact that Soundwave is right there watching as you grip his spike and slide your mouth along Shockwave’s length and he makes that low, rumbling snarl, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to touch you, just trembles. Because this has become normal. Him watching, but rarely touching.

• That warm mouth of yours slides against his spike, tongue stroking over the head. Antenna flicking back, he watches Soundwave kneel behind you. Unable to move as you make a hitching sound of pleasure when Soundwave mounts you again. Mouth working his spike he cautiously reaches out a hand, processor stuttering when that disjointed feeling of wrongness slams through him, seeing the cannon at the end of his arm when he’d been sure it should be a hand. Shaking as your eyes flick up at him in worry, he runs the smooth metal muzzle of the cannon over your cheek. It should be a hand, shouldn’t it? He’s not sure. Antenna flicking as Soundwave rumbles at you, hips rocking as he breeds you, Shockwave focuses on that. That low, crooning purr and the feel of your mouth on his spike. Letting those sensations ground him in the present.

Rodimus

• Curled against your back, he slides a palm down your arm and twines his servos with your fingers. Hears the sleepy sound you make when he tugs your hand down your body and spears a servo inside you, rocking your knuckles against yourself. Feels you squirm against his hold. “Not even wake, yet,” you protest, voice hitching adorably as he rocks his hips against your butt, teasing his spike against you.

• Leg sliding in the blankets as he releases your hand to grip your thigh with his wet servos and then he’s driving inside you with a growl. Rolling you to pin on your belly as his spike slides deep, thrusting urgently. Rushing for that finish line with no patience at all. Laying your cheek on your outstretched arm, you look back at him, his optics so bright as he ruts against you, growling in a broken mix of English and Cybertronian. “With my sparklings…. Frag, so tight… mine…” Sparklings. He’s said that before while inside you. More than once and you never remember to ask what that means, but as he ruts against you, nothing else is important aside from the feel of that thick spike driving deep over and over.

Whirl

• Leg kicking out slightly as he bends you over the edge of the surface he’d lifted you onto, you shiver as one of his pincers slides against you, hooking around one of your thighs and spreading you open for him. Feel his spike slide against your inner thigh as he tries to line up with you, refusing to let you just roll onto your back and help him. “So wet,” he growls, the outer curve of his pincer sliding against you. “Be loud.” Because you’re in Ultra Magnus’s office. How many times has he fucked you across the poor guy’s desk? You’re almost positive he wants Magnus to walk in on the two of you going at it.

• “Fuck me already.” Impatient and needy, your tone has an angry edge that makes him shudder with delight. Shifting behind you until the head of his spike finds you, he drives deep, thrusting urgently. Figuring out how to mount you with his unique anatomy had been fun. His tit guns as you refer to them in the way in most positions. This way, though? He can rut against you, pincers grabbing onto the edge of the surface he has you on, giving him extra leverage. With the added thrill of possibly getting caught fragging you on Magnus’s precious, oversized datapad of rules.

Tarn

• Big servos scraping against the berth under him, a rough snarl escapes him as his hips buck against you. Big frame draped over your back, you’re tempted to risk his temper to try and remove the stupid blindfold. Especially when you feel his lips brush against you, sliding up behind your ear. Wanting to see his face, but knowing he’s weird about it. Denta grazing your ear lobe, he shifts behind you, his warmth leaving your back before placing a palm between your shoulder blades to push you down.

• So obedient as you lower your upper body, hips up and his hands slide to grip your hips as he moves against you, spike stroking deep. You feel so much tighter this way, gripping his spike as he stares down at you. Sees your blindfolded head turn to lay on your arm, lips parting. Making those little, ragged sounds that string him tight. Movements growing rougher when you push back against him, crying out. Fisting his spike as he keeps bucking, drawing it out as his servos tighten on you. Snarling as he releases inside you, palm surfing up your skin while you tremble under him. “Don’t,” he growls in warning when you try to touch the blindfold. Feels you tense under him, but you don’t argue, turning your face away. Can feel the disquiet in his spark as he slowly rocks himself against you, reluctant to leave the wet heat of you. Why does it matter so much to you? No one sees his face, he tries his best not to see it himself. Venting softly, he braces a hand near your head and curls his frame over you.

Constructicons

• Crying out, head tossed back against Mixmaster, your thighs tremble. Six sets of hands gripping you, keeping you suspended between them as, which one is it now? Scrapper ruts against you. There’s a mouth sliding warm against your hip, a glossa sliding over your belly. Another mouth finds yours as you arch and buck in their grip. Hearing them murmur to you as Scrapper’s spike strokes deep, toes curling as he drives you to that peak again, your brain too muddled to be sure, but you think they’ve started a second round. That Scrapper had already fucked you. “I-I can’t, please.”

• “We’ve got you,” Mixmaster says. Laughing softly as you writhe against them with a breathy cry, arching like you’re trying to escape, and he rumbles at you, hands curled around you under your arms as you toss your head back against him, soft hair sliding against his plating. “Take good care of you,” Bonecrusher growls, his hands under your hip as he bends forward over you. “Such a good little mate,” Hook adds as you buck in their hold, crying out as you milk Scrapper’s spike.

Drift

• “Slow down,” he growls, shuddering and hips lifting slightly as you bounce on his spike. “Not going anywhere.” Worry about you overexerting yourself mingling with his fear of losing control. Of slipping again, rolling you under him and taking you hard and fast. Hates how rough he’d been with you, even though you’d insisted you liked it. Servos stroking your hips as he watches you ride him, those lovely eyes meeting his optics.

• “Not made of glass,” you gasp, rolling your hips as you chase that high. Feeling his palms stroking over you, touch so gentle. Because you’re still not well, but you’re not an invalid either. You want this, want him. And he’s holding back. Always keeping himself in control, but when he slips? When he takes you with that urgent, edge? Fucking you like he might die if he’s not inside you, that had been electric. Made you feel alive in a way you desperately need.

These nerds…

[shadowcitrine]

If you do That Again--

DarlyxReader 912 words

Warnings: Some language.

Timeline: Not important, season 1-ish

Summary: Daryl is tired of listening to you blowing hair out of your face.

Darly stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw tightening as he glared over his shoulder. “Do tha’ one more time…” His tone is low and threatening, clearly irritated, but there wasn't a reason for it. 

Passing on his left you asked, “What crawled up your ass and died, Dixon?” 

Daryl chewed on the words brewing behind his teeth and marched forward. Why he was pissed off this time was a mystery. Up until now every single one of his demands to be out here with him had been followed to the letter. You'd kept quiet, stayed right on his heels and avoided every single stick you two had come across for at least the last half mile, which for you was a considerable win.

If you'd known he was going to be such an ass you wouldn't have asked to come. With the way he's been acting all day it would have been better to be bored sitting back at camp than deal with the king of grumpy walking buddies. What was worse is his foul mood was starting to rub off on you. Blowing a puff of air upwards you followed the lock of hair flying out of your field of view.

Daryl stopped again this time spinning on his heel. Eyes hard and narrowed, jaw jutting forward he seemed to be sizing you up. The last thing you wanted on this hell hike was to argue but you could see it brewing, unsaid words threatening to burst forward.

“What now?!” You snapped. Quick soured jerks of his head made you feel uneasy, doubly so when his hand went to rest on his knife hilt. The group had warned you about his temper but you'd overlooked that because he was kind of cute when he frowned. 

“All damn day!” He sneered. When you furled your eyebrows in confusion he puffed out his cheeks puffing little breaths between pursed lips. “Fuckin’ sick a’ it!”

“Oh! I'm sorry that the apocalypse didn't come with a thirty pack of elastic hair ties! I can't help the fact that I need to see!”

Daryl shook his head again, fist clenching around the hilt of the blade as he began pulling it out. “Come ‘ere.” He was going to butcher your hair, hack it off just because he was having a shitty day!

“No!” taking a step back away from him you gaped. “I'm gonna let you cut off all my hair!” 

“Ain't cuttin’ your damn hair! Come ‘ere!” he hooked a finger at you. “Gonna stop this shit ‘fore you drive me outta my damn mind.” Daryl is many things but a liar isn't one of then. Taking a cautious step forward ge tucked the blade between his teeth and pulled some string from his pocket. “Tur’ roun’.” 

A tiny gasp left your lips a smile tugging at the corners. “Are you going to do my hair?”

He took the blade from his lips, not an ounce of joy to be read. “Turn ‘round ‘fore I change my mind and saw it off your thick head.” He shoved the string at you. “Hold tha’.” When you didn't move right away he tucked the blade back between his teeth and grabbed your shoulder to spin you around.

He was actually going to do this. No longer facing him you didn't try to tamp down the nerves making goose flesh spreading down your arms. Expecting rough movements for a quick ponytail you were confused when he started sectioning your hair gently freeing tangles from it as he went. 

“Ow!” a sharp pinch at your scalp made you wince.

“Sto’.” The fat syllable sounded wrong in his mouth but you obeyed. He was deft but through fingertips massaging away the sharp pulls of tangles. You hair pulled tight at the back of your head, his actions pulling it backwards causing a strain to keep it upright for a moment. He reached over your shoulder, fingers snapping when you didn't hand him the red piece of dyed twine right away.

Handing it to him you asked, “What did you do to it? Can I see?”

He reached around and used two fingers to guide your face forward again. “Gonna fuck it up if you keep movin’.” Knuckles brushed your upper back, accidental but welcomed and you closed your eyes pretending not to hear the sound of something small snapping. “There! No more listenin’ to you huffin’ and puffin’ all damn day.” He moved away.

“How does it look?” you reached behind touching it, feeling your way down. He'd braided it. There was no stopping the grin that broke out as you pulled the tail over your shoulder to inspect his work. He'd tied off the end tightly finishing the red string with a tiny little bow. “Daryl!” 

“Ain't perfect but it'll hold. Keep it outta your-”

“It's so cute!” Suddenly seeing your inspection wasn't as important as the trees around him. You stepped around him bending to try and catch his eyes. “You even did a bow!” you held the end out for him to see.

“Stop!” the tops of cheeks were pink and while you could pretend it was from the heat you knew that wasn't it.

He started marching away and you ran ahead to try to make him look. “You made it all girly!” you teased. His cheeks were getting redder by the second.

“Stop!”

“Daryl Dixon braided my hair!” you sang out.

“Shut up woman!”