#what I wouldn't do for these two to be happy

[oneallysa]

God, thanks for this meta. But I seem to have not been able to articulate my words properly, for English is not my main language either. Let me explain why these hurt:

I do agree Greg doesn't doubt Sherlock. But for a brief moment, we see Sherlock believe for a moment that he doubted him.

"And the King began to wonder."

Isn't it also an ooft that the only time we see Sherlock really gets pissed off for the first time is when Moriarty is talking about the King doubting Sir-Boasts-a-Lot? Like Moriarty's pissed Sherlock before, but he's only really angry at that scene. Cos he knows Moriarty is gonna use their connection to push for an arrest.

Thinking back, even if Moriarty told Sherlock Lestrade doubted and Moriarty was wrong, wouldn't that hit Sherlock's heart in the butt? Don't you think that might have been the reason Sherlock's red-eyed and almost strangled his cab driver without even knowing his driver is Moriarty himself.

Yes, he's frustrated and angry, but as we know now, he and Mycroft have been planning this for a long time. They know this game can happen. They even prepared for Lazarus.

So what else would make Sherlock pissed off like that?

The other moment in the episode is when Moriarty starts acting like Richard with John, too. When John was busy looking at the newspapers, that's when "Moriarty" comes back, and that's when we see Sherlock get really pissed off.

Because he understands Moriarty is trying to plant doubt in John, too.

But when he sees Greg again, I think he immediately notices from how Greg runs up 221B that Greg doesn't doubt him one bit. That's why he said something like "Give my love to Donovan." as someone Moriarty corrupted. I think that gave him a bit of relief, with the addition of John just accepting a gun to his head without fear.

And with Sherlock's call with John. It's not an act. He was crying because he's reassured that John believes him even when he himself is saying he's a fraud. Yes, John never doubted him for a moment, but Sherlock is oh-so human and doesn't believe himself worthy of anyone's friendship.

Also, to add, when I said Lestrade blamed himself when Sherlock jumped. I didn't mean it that he blames himself for causing him to jump. I mean that he still blamed himself as all friends do when their friend is driven to suicd. Don't you think Lestrade would think: I should have been faster? I should have done something better for the Moriarty case?

I think that's why he's busy clearing his name. I think by the time the two years came, the reason he's kinda moved on... I think you're right. That he was the key to Sherlock's name being cleared. And I think that gave him a bit of solace to move on.

Then the bastard showed up after he moved on. Of course, you'll be like: you bastard, i grieved and moved on for nothing, come here i missed you so much im happy i did that not just in your memory, but for you coming back too, thank god ive been listening to anderson's crazy conspiracy theories so ive been a little hopeful that this might happen thank god thank god thank god

It's painful, not because it's sad. It's painful because it's so beautiful, it hurts.

Heart-Breaking Scenes

You—you mean I’m your… best… friend?

Sherlock & Others’ Words

[madebycloud]

STAY

rumi x reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary．workaholism is practically her middle name. rumi works to the bone day in, day out, always putting her work before everything else… and that includes you. (requested by @remmia) warnings/themes．light angst and fluff, argument, happy ending words．2.0k

Rumi was supposed to come home at 9pm, according to her.

11:14pm. She's two hours late.

You tried calling her, but it just rang endlessly. No answer. Texting her was no use either, as she rarely replied to your texts these days.

She's busy.

She's just busy.

Too busy for you, at least.

Too busy to spend time with you. Too busy to pay attention to you. Too busy for the person she's supposed to come home to every day. 

It wouldn't bother you so much if it hadn't happened so often... late nights, lack of responses, missed calls, canceled dates. Sometimes it feels like Rumi puts her job before anything else. The fans, the fame, the work, the music. Everything, except you.

You've been patient. You've been understanding. You've tried to support her in every way. You've tried to be the best partner you could possibly be. 

It's not like you're asking for much, is it? just a text to say she's running late or a call to say she missed your call. Anything would be better than the silence you're constantly met with. 

Rumi promised. She promised she'd make time for you. 

And yet...here you are. Sitting alone in the apartment, waiting for a girl who's always too busy to give you any of her time.

And waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Eventually, you hear a click as the door opens slowly, spilling light from the hallway to flood into the space.

“Oh... babe, you're still up.”

You scoff in response, not meeting her gaze. “I am. been waiting for you to come home.”

Rumi closes the door behind her, taking off her coat and shoes. She then turns towards you, sighing. “Babe... please, let's not get into this right now...” she says, stepping cautiously into the apartment. “I'm tired, okay? It was a long day—”

“A long day, huh?” you interrupt, standing up from the couch.

It's always the same excuse. 'Too tired.' 'Work was busy.' 'We'll talk tomorrow… I'm sleepy...' Yet, here she is again, showing up late and expecting you to simply accept it without complaint.

Rumi walks over to you, reaching out to take your hand in hers, but you bat it away. She frowns. “You know how it is. The company's got a lot of big projects coming up… I had a lot of things to take care of today.”

You look at her incredulously. “And how many times have you said that exact same thing in the past month— in the past three months?”

“I… I just… I can't always control my work schedule, you know? Babe—”

You cut her off again, pointing a finger at her. “You know you can control when you answer my calls. You can control when you send me a freaking text back—”

“I was busy, okay? I tried my best to respond whenever I could, but work—”

“Work, work, work! That's all you ever care about these fucking days. You never have time for me. I'm not asking for much, just a call or a text or ANYTHING!”

“Why are you so angry about this?!” she snaps back, throwing her hand to the side. “You know how important my job is to me. It takes a lot of my time, and I'm trying my BEST to juggle everything— the company, the comebacks, the fans, and you! I'm trying to do it all, and it's not easy—”

“Not easy?” You laugh bitterly. “Is it difficult for you to send a ten second text to your partner? To give them a quick call just so they know you actually remember they exist? What's so hard about giving a few minutes of your time every once—” You swallow. The knot in your throat tightens. “When was the last time we even went on a date, Rumi? when was the last time you even told me you loved me? Is that how you prove you're 'trying?'”

“Then what do you want me to do?!” Rumi's voice suddenly rises over yours.

You step back instinctively, eyes brimming with tears. “I just want some of your attention, Rumi. Is that really too much to ask for...? Just show me that you CARE about this relationship— that you CARE about ME. I just want—” You pause, inhaling deeply, wiping away a tear that rolls down your cheek with a trembling hand. “...I just want to feel loved... by you.”

Her features soften instantly. Guilt creeps into the corners of her eyes when she sees your tearstained face, noticing the vulnerability that you rarely showed.

Rumi exhales slowly, steps towards you, and pulls you into a tight hug. You rest your head against her shoulder, arms remaining limp at your sides. 

“I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry...” she whispers. “I don't mean to neglect you. I just get really caught up in my work. There are music shows, performances, fans, and a million things happening at once... it's not easy, babe.”

You don't hug her back. Her words don't comfort you; her touch doesn't ease your worries. She's just saying what she thinks you want to hear, what she has to so you'd forgive her.

“If it's not easy for you, Rumi... if you find it that hard to make time for me. Then maybe... maybe we should just... end this... whatever this is.”

It's not that you actually want to leave Rumi...but you can't keep living like this. Constantly ignored, constantly feeling unloved. You deserve better than this—to live in a shadow, to feel so little but to give so much. 

“No. No, wait, no— babe, please... please don't say that.” Rumi pulls back to look you in the eye, grasping your face between her hands. “You're just upset... you don't mean that.”

“I am upset, Rumi. I'm tired. I'm hurt. I'm so fed up. I just feel like you've forgotten that I even exist. I can't keep going like this, Rumi... and I don't think you want to either.”

The words seem to stab straight into Rumi's heart. Her hold on your face trembles. “You're not thinking straight right now...I'm tired, you're tired, and it's late. Can we just go to bed, please? we can talk about it tomorrow, I promise.”

She's right about one thing: you are tired. Not just from the late hour or the emotional strain of the argument. It's the weariness of putting up with this situation for so long, hoping that things would somehow change.

So you don't protest as she leads you towards the bedroom, gently pushes you onto the bed, and don't resist as she climbs on top of you, laying on your body, not wanting to be apart from you. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm so stupid, so selfish. I'll be better. I'll—” Her voice falters. “I love you. I love you so much... I'm so sorry.”

You lift your arms as if to push Rumi off, but your gesture changes midway, folding around her quivering frame, cradling her against your chest. The warm wetness seeps from her eyes onto your skin.

There you stay. Rumi sobs into your neck, hands tightly clenching fistfuls of your clothes. She'll probably be back to ignoring you when the sun rises. 

But for now, for just these few stolen moments while she clings onto you with all her might...

...you want to believe her and hope that come morning, things will feel different.

───────────

Morning arrives. Your mind slowly pulls awake, but your eyes stay closed. Hands instinctively reaching out to your side in search of a familiar warmth. Except... the only thing your hand manages to find is a cold, empty space.

Wait. Cold? Empty?

Your eyes snap open, the sleep clearing from your vision in an instant.

There's no Rumi. No warm body, no messy hair on the pillow, no comforting weight pinning you down in place. The covers beside you are ruffled but already cold.

Sitting up, your eyes drift to the small clock on the bedside. 9:15am.

You throw the covers off yourself, standing up. The hardwood floor is cool under your soles as you leave the room. 

The apartment is silent. No sounds of water running or the hum of a hairdryer.

No sign of Rumi.

What were you expecting? for her to actually keep her promise? ...How pathetic, desperate, stupid, and gullible you are. 

Just when you're about to wallow in your own self-loathing, the sound of the front door opening suddenly catches your ears.

There, in the doorway, stands Rumi, dressed in sweatpants, cropped hoodie, holding a plastic bag filled with groceries. “Morning..,” She then shuts the door and walks towards the kitchen, setting the groceries on the counter. “I went to the supermarket early to avoid the rush. Got us some things we needed, a few extra snacks I thought you might like—”

“I thought you'd be at the studio right now.”

Rumi pauses, stalling as she begins unpacking the groceries. She doesn't turn around when she says, “I took a break...for a month.”

You blink in disbelief.

She continues as you approach the kitchen. “I told Bobby that I needed some time off, and the company agreed. I won't be going into the studio for a while or having any schedules. So we can spend some time together.” 

“What about the girls?”

“Mira and Zoey are also taking time off to take care of their own things. It's just you and me. No work, no studio, no interruptions to deal with. Just us. For an entire month.”

Did you hear her right? Rumi, who's always working, always busy, always has no time to answer her phone, took a whole month off? For...you?

“Where do you want to go? I was looking online earlier, and I think going to Jeju would be nice. We could get a small rental car there and just drive wherever, or if you'd rather stay in Seoul, we could—”

You don't realize you've closed the distance between you until you're standing right behind her, arms encircling her waist, resting your chin on her shoulder. 

You've missed this. Holding her, feeling her, being with her like this. It's like...you can breathe again. 

Rumi stiffens at the sudden contact, hands freezing around the milk she just grabbed, then lowers it back into the bag before slowly melting into your embrace, leaning back as her hands cover yours on her stomach, thumb tracing over your knuckles. 

Neither of you speaks for a while, simply content to stay in the other's arms after such a long time.

A month off. 

No distractions. No late nights. No schedules. 

Just the two of you. 

To try. To fix things. To fall in love again. To make up for lost time. To simply exist in each other's presence. 

“I'm sorry.” Rumi tilts her head to rub her cheek softly against yours. “I know I wasn't the best girlfriend to you...and— and I messed up. A lot. I've hurt you. A lot. I can't promise I won't screw up or be able to fix the mistakes I've made, but...I promise I'll try. For us.” 

You don't reply. Can't reply. Not when your heart is stuck in your throat and the words are choking you from within.

So instead you hug her tighter. Hold her closer. Hoping that this time it'll be enough. That after all the hurt, heartache, tears, pain, things will finally work out as long as you both try.

It's then that your stomach decides to make its presence known, rumbling loudly. Rumi laughs, her own stomach following suit, gurgling as if on cue, earning another laugh from both of you.

Your laughter dies back into a chuckle, Rumi turning in your hold to look at you with a small smile. “Do you want an omurice?”

You nod, mirroring her smile. You haven't had her omurice in so long.

She then presses a quick kiss to your cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Rumi.”

Both of you end up making omurice for breakfast, and despite the fact that the eggs get slightly overcooked and you make a bit of a mess while rolling the omelette, your heart is lighter than it's been in months.

[flowergirl1243]

now that we don't talk - [part two]

SUMMARY: It's hard watching someone you used to know turn into the very thing they swore they wouldn't become.

PAIRING: lando norris x childhoodbestfriend!reader

part one part two

It happens quietly.

No grand moment. No confetti. No dramatic rainstorm or romantic airport chase.

Just a Tuesday in London. You’re crossing the street, coffee in one hand, the other tucked into your coat pocket to protect against the late spring chill. You’re running late, headphones in, playlist on shuffle.

And then, like some cruel twist of fate, or maybe the most delicate kind of mercy, his voice breaks through the noise.

“Hey.”

You stop walking.

Because you’d recognize it anywhere. You’d go your whole life without hearing it and still know it in a crowd.

Lando.

You pull out your headphones, blinking. And there he is, standing by a brick café wall, looking older, softer. A little less polished than you remember, but somehow more him.

“Hey,” you say, voice cautious. Careful. Like it might break again.

His eyes scan your face, searching for something. A memory, maybe. A trace of who you were. Of who you used to be to each other.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, a ghost of a smile forming.

You shrug, heart pounding in your chest. “Didn’t think you remembered how to find me.”

He winces. “I deserve that.”

You nod. You’re not angry anymore. Not really. Just...haunted.

He steps closer, hands in his pockets. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your laugh is small and a little breathless. “Now?”

“No,” he says. “For months. For a year. Since the day I left your apartment and hated myself the whole way home.”

You study him, searching for the boy you used to know. The one you said goodbye to with a whisper and a picture frame pressed to your chest.

“You said goodbye,” you remind him. “And you meant it.”

“I thought I did,” he admits. “But I was wrong.”

Your heart aches. Because it’s unfair, and it’s also everything you wanted to hear.

“You still drink peppermint tea in the spring?” he asks, nodding toward the cup in your hand.

You blink. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

A beat.

Then, softly: “I’ve changed. In ways that matter. And I’ve missed you in ways I didn’t know I could.”

You look down at the pavement. “What are you doing here, Lando?”

“Something,” he says, voice shaky but honest. “I don’t know what, exactly. But something. Maybe trying. Maybe hoping.”

You exhale, your heart splintered but open.

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You look good. You look...happy.”

“I’m getting there.”

“Good.” His voice cracks slightly. “You deserve that.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that used to stretch painfully between you. Now, it feels different. Not empty. Just waiting.

Then he says it.

The thing he used to bury in silence. The thing you used to wish for, without ever saying a word:

“I want something. Somehow. Someday. With you.”

It knocks the wind out of you. A quiet confession dressed in hope.

“I don’t need it to be what it was,” he continues. “I just...I need you to know I’m not running anymore. I’m not afraid of the work. I’m not afraid of us.”

You stare at him, coffee forgotten in your hands.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whisper.

“I’ll wait,” he says. “As long as it takes. I’ll wait for your heart to say yes. Even if it never does.”

That’s the thing about Lando. He never learned how to love in halves. Only in all.

And it shows in the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only song he remembers how to sing.

You step closer.

Only an inch. But it’s enough.

“I don’t want yesterday,” you tell him. “But I might want...something new. Something different.”

“Something better,” he offers.

You nod.

You both know this isn’t a fairytale. It’s not the movies. It’s just real life, messy and unfinished and still possible.

But something starts here.

On a random Tuesday.

In the middle of a city that doesn’t care.

With two people who finally, finally do.

Lando doesn’t text the next day.

Or the one after that.

Instead, three days later, there’s a knock at your door. You’re not home when it comes, it’s left in your letterbox, no return address, no indication of who it’s from. But you know.

Inside is an envelope. Cheap paper. Slightly torn at the corner like someone fidgeted with it before finally letting it go.

No note.

Just a single, folded photo, printed on glossy paper, the edges slightly curled like it’s been carried around for too long. You recognise it immediately: you and Lando at sixteen, grinning with cheeks sunburnt and hair damp from sweat, standing at the edge of the karting track where he’d won his first title. Your arm slung lazily over his shoulder. His fingers flashing a peace sign. Both of you frozen in time, unaware of everything that would come after.

On the back, scribbled in messy pen:

you made me brave before i knew how to be. – l

You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing the paper like touching it might bring that moment back. Like it might let you believe you were still those kids, untouched, unruined by time and distance and whatever it was that made things fall apart.

Eventually, you pin it to your fridge with a magnet shaped like a donut. A stupid little thing he once won for you at an arcade in Monaco. It squeaks when you press it.

You don’t text him.

You don’t cry, either. Not yet.

You just...let it sit. Let the quiet stretch between you like a pause, not a full stop. Something waiting, rather than ending.

Some nights, you walk past the photo and feel it like a bruise, sharp and purple and tender. Other nights, it glows like a memory you’re not quite ready to call sweet. You think about messaging him. You type half a sentence, then delete it. Over and over again.

Instead, you leave it there. The photo. The silence. The ache.

And you wait. To see if it starts to feel more like nostalgia. Or forgiveness.

Or maybe, if you’re brave enough, both.

He sends you a playlist.

No caption. No message. Just a link, dropped quietly into your texts at 2:14 a.m. The kind of hour where nothing good ever really happens, except maybe this. Maybe.

You see it the next morning, blinking against the brightness of your phone screen while the kettle boils in the kitchen behind you.

No “hey.” No “listen to this.” Just the link. Like it speaks for itself.

The title is:

for all the versions of us i still believe in.

Your breath catches.

Your thumb hovers over it for a moment, unsure. But your curiosity — or maybe your longing — wins.

The first song is “Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane. It plays soft and slow, like a memory curling around your ankles. It’s the kind of song that feels like lying on a couch with someone you love, doing absolutely nothing, and still knowing it means everything.

The second is “Like Real People Do”. And that one? That one’s a gut punch, the kind of devotion that scares you. The kind you’re not sure either of you ever fully understood back then. Maybe not even now.

You listen to it at the kitchen table with your eyes closed, fingers loosely wrapped around a mug that’s gone cold by the time the third track starts. You don’t check what’s next. You just let it wash over you. Each lyric like a thread stitching something old and frayed back together, carefully, messily, tenderly.

And even though it hurts, God, it hurts, you don’t skip a single track.

Because somewhere in the static and chords and lyrics he didn’t write but chose, you can hear him. His voice, if not his words. His heart, if not his apology.

You don’t text him. Not yet.

But you keep the playlist.

And for now, that feels like something.

He calls.

The screen lights up with his name, familiar, jarring, like it doesn't belong there anymore but never really stopped belonging. You watch it ring until it fades. No vibrations. No ringer. Just his name, there and then gone.

You let it go to voicemail.

You don’t check the message. Not yet. You’re not ready to hear his voice, not when you’re still figuring out what hearing it would mean.

The next day, a text.

No pressure. Just wanted to say hi. Hope today’s soft on you.

You read it in the middle of the afternoon, standing in line for coffee, the sun catching your face through the shop window. Five words in, your chest goes tight. He still knows how to be gentle when he wants to be. Still knows you well enough to phrase it like that, soft.

You stare at the message for five minutes. Maybe more. The barista says your name and it jolts you back into the moment.

Later, you reply, simple:

It was okay. Hope yours was too.

No emoji. No punctuation beyond what’s necessary. Just enough to say I see you. I’m still here.

The conversation ends there.

No follow-up. No double text. Just quiet.

But somehow, it doesn’t feel like the end. Not this time.

It feels like a door, cracked open. Like maybe, if you’re both patient enough, one of you will step through.

He’s in London again.

You know because he tells you, not with expectation, not with hope curled between the words, just...gently. Like an update you didn’t ask for but he still wanted to give.

In town to see my parents. Thought of that little bookstore you used to drag me into. Hope it’s still open.

You reread the message twice before replying.

It is. They moved the poetry section upstairs though.

Short. Simple. Safe. But honest.

He doesn’t ask to see you. You don’t offer. There's something unspoken between the lines, a mutual understanding that whatever this is, it needs to move slow. Needs time.

You don’t meet.

But later that night, your phone buzzes again. It’s a photo.

Dim lighting. Wooden shelves. His hand in the frame holding an old book, a first edition of the one you loved back in uni, the spine worn and the pages yellowed like it’s been waiting just as long as you have. There’s a pencil underline beneath your favourite quote.

This reminded me of you.

Your breath catches. The ache that follows is sharp but warm, like pressing on a bruise that’s finally starting to heal. You don’t reply, not right away. You just stare.

You remember that quote. You remember the way you used to recite it when you were tipsy, lying next to him with your hair tangled in his hoodie and your fingers tracing patterns over his ribs, seventeen and naïve.

You remember being young and sure of things.

And somehow, even with everything that’s happened, you let yourself smile. Not the sad kind, not the one that falls apart before it fully forms, but the real one. Small. Honest. Hopeful.

Because maybe this isn’t a return.

Maybe it’s a beginning, not of what you had, but of what you could still have.

You get coffee.

No buildup. No promises. Just a shared moment, agreed upon without needing to explain it. A soft middle ground, not quite a reunion, not quite closure. Just...something in between.

He asks if you want to meet somewhere familiar. You say no.

“Somewhere new,” you tell him. “Somewhere clean. Unweighted.”

So you choose a little café tucked between two art galleries, the kind of place that smells like lavender and espresso, where the walls are painted sage and the tables are mismatched on purpose. It's neutral. Safe.

You order matcha. He gets an iced espresso, no sugar. Still the same. Always the same.

The conversation is quiet. Measured. Light, but careful, like stepping barefoot across glass. Neither of you wanting to press too hard in case something cracks.

He doesn’t bring up the past. Not at first.

He asks about work. Your latest project. That one restaurant you posted about last week, the one with the burnt orange plates and olive oil cake. You’re surprised he noticed. More surprised he remembered.

You catch him watching you as you speak. Not in the way he used to, not with heat or want, but with something softer. Like he’s cataloging you, piece by piece. Like he’s trying to memorise the way your hands move when you talk, the cadence of your laugh, the new rhythm of you.

When the check comes, he doesn’t make a move to pay. Doesn’t reach for it in that performative, familiar way.

He just looks at you and says, “I’d like to do this again, if you’re up for it.”

Not if you want to. Not if you’re ready. If you’re up for it. Like he knows this is still tentative. Still delicate.

You nod. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push.

Just smiles, soft, relieved, and nods back, like maybe is already more than he hoped for. Like maybe is a door. And he’s willing to wait by it.

You send the first message.

That song you sent me, 'Love Looks Pretty on You', it’s been in my head all week. Kind of annoying tbh.

Minutes pass. Then his reply comes through.

A laughing emoji. A heart.

Then:

Let me know if you ever want to hear it live.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

You don’t answer right away.

Because maybe this time, you want to see where the music takes you both.

He asks if he can take you to dinner.

You say yes. But only as friends.

He agrees immediately. No protest. No hesitation. No sideways glance. Like he’s been waiting for this chance, but not rushing it. Not pushing it. Just willing to be where you are.

When he arrives, he’s exactly on time.

Clean hoodie, the soft kind you like, neither too casual nor trying too hard. That silver ring you used to tease him about gleams quietly on his finger. And in his hand, your favourite flowers. Not flashy. Just wildflowers, simple and soft.

“We’re friends,” he says, grinning when he catches your raised brow. “But I still remember what you like.”

You eat Italian in a cozy corner booth of a place neither of you had been before but feels warm and familiar somehow. He lets you steal food off his plate without complaint, even laughs when you get a little greedy for the last bite of his tiramisu.

You don’t talk about the in-between, the silence, the distance, the unsaid apologies and messy heartbreak. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Tonight isn’t for that.

Tonight is for the sound of your laughter, loud and real, echoing in the quiet hum of the restaurant. Honest, without layers or walls.

After dinner, he walks you home. The streets are soft with the glow of streetlights, and the air smells faintly of rain.

He doesn’t try to kiss you. Doesn’t reach or linger.

He just tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers warm and gentle, and says softly, “Goodnight.”

And for the first time in a long time, your heart doesn’t feel defensive.

It just feels…quietly, wonderfully open.

You let him in.

Not all at once. Just a little.

The way the door creaks open just enough for a sliver of light to spill into the dark corners.

You tell him about your new fears, the ones you haven’t told anyone else. The way August makes the city roar so loud you can’t hear yourself think. The essay you keep starting but can’t finish, like the words are stuck behind a locked door.

He listens.

Really listens.

No distractions. No trying to fix. Just listening.

Then, softly:

“You’re allowed to not be finished yet,” he says. “People think healing means speed. It doesn’t. It just means motion.”

You blink, surprised. “That from a therapist?”

He shrugs, a small, self-deprecating smile. “Three sessions a month. I’m not totally useless anymore.”

Your lips twitch. It’s the kind of teasing you haven’t let yourself do in a year—light, familiar, warm.

“I don’t think you were ever useless,” you say. “Just a little lost.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But the look in his eyes says it all.

Thank you.

He holds your hand.

Not with fanfare. Not with urgency. Just a quiet, simple reaching out.

You’re walking by the river in the early evening, the sky streaked with pink and gold, the water shimmering softly beside you. The city hums around you, but here, by the water’s edge, it feels like time slows down just enough to catch its breath.

A cool breeze stirs the air, lifting loose strands of your hair and brushing against your skin. Your fingers accidentally brush against his. It’s a soft, accidental touch at first, barely noticeable.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he slowly opens his palm, a gentle invitation hanging in the space between you.

You hesitate for a heartbeat. Then, almost without thinking, your fingers slide into his.

It feels like coming home. Like muscle memory you didn’t realize you still had.

His hand is warm, steady, grounding.

You walk like that for a few moments, fingers entwined, the easy silence between you more comforting than any words could be.

When you reach your door, the quiet settles heavy around you.

He lets go first, his hand slipping from yours like a whispered goodbye, but his eyes stay on you, searching.

“I’ll see you soon?” he asks softly.

You look up at him, the warmth in your chest blossoming like sunlight through leaves.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah. Soon.”

He smiles back, not the flashy grin you remember from before, but something quieter. Something real.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

You’re back in London, stepping off the train with a heart that’s both familiar and strange, carrying the weight of all the time that’s passed. The city feels different somehow, softer, quieter, like it’s been waiting for this moment too.

He’s there waiting for you at the station, leaning against his car with a grin that makes your chest flutter. In one hand, your favourite tea, warm and just how you like it. In the other, his phone hooked up to the stereo, a playlist already cued up, the first song drifting out through the open windows.

“Thought I’d kidnap you for the afternoon,” he says, eyes bright but a little nervous.

You smile, feeling that old spark flicker inside you. “Okay.”

He drives you through familiar streets until you reach the old go-kart track. The gates are locked now, but the building still stands, weathered and faded by years of neglect. You remember sneaking in after hours, laughing too loud, hearts pounding with reckless joy.

You walk the perimeter in silence, memories swirling around you like dust caught in golden sunlight. The air smells of rubber and rain and something impossibly like hope.

Then, breaking the quiet, his voice comes low and steady.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches. You freeze, looking up at him in the soft afternoon light.

He rushes on, words tumbling out.

“I’m not expecting anything,” he says quickly, “I just needed you to know. That I’m not here for fragments. I want the real thing. But only if you do.”

You stare at him, this boy-turned-man who’s spent a year patiently stitching trust back together, thread by fragile thread.

And for the first time, the thought of saying yes doesn’t scare you.

So you step forward, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath your palm.

“I think I might be in love with you too,” you whisper. “I never wasn’t.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, the tension breaking free in a soft, relieved laugh. His eyes search yours for a flicker of doubt, but there’s none there. Just an open invitation.

He leans in, the world narrowing to the small space between you, the soft brush of his breath, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the earthy air around you.

His lips meet yours gently at first, tentative like they’re relearning the shape of you. It’s slow, delicate, as if he’s afraid to break what’s been so carefully rebuilt.

Your breath catches, and your fingers tighten on his chest, grounding yourself to the moment, to him.

The kiss deepens, becoming more certain, more urgent, but still tender. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, as if memorising every line, every nuance.

You melt into him, the years of distance, silence, and ache dissolving with each heartbeat pressed close.

It’s a kiss that speaks of promises and forgiveness, of things lost and found again.

When you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the quiet.

His voice is barely a whisper.

“Home.”

And in that single word, everything falls into place.

Yay, happy ending, everyone rejoice! As always, thank you for your support and I am always open to requests!!

[madamedevien]

Absolute nonsense thought, but I've always thought that Sylus would love having a polyglot lover like himself (you mean the two of you can gossip together in French, Arabic or Korean, or even a mix of all three, without other people listening in? What a delight!).

But I'm just struck with the thought of being a little tipsy and serenading Mephisto with "Ich habe einen kleinen Papagai" ("I have a little parrot") when Sylus should be out. The whole song is basically about the singer's annoying but beloved parrot, but I'm thinking particularly the refrain: "Mein kleiner, süßer, frecher Papagei / Der flog auch einmal hin zur Polizei / Der Polizist, der schrieb ein Protokoll / Das fand der Papagei dann gar nicht toll!" "My little, sweet, cheeky parrot / He even flew to the police once / The policeman wrote a report / The parrot didn't like that at all!"

Only for Sylus to drawl out something like, "Our 'kleiner, süßer, frecher Papagai' wouldn't be happy because he knows I'd completely rewire him for doing something like that and getting caught."

I don't know about you, but that would just cause my brain to go blue screen of death on me because 1) Sylus speaks German?! 2) He just caught me singing a dumb kid's song to Mephi - why couldn't I have tried to seduce him in French or Italian instead?! (Let's be honest though, he'd probably be more smitten watching his lover being cute and bonding with Mephi than being seduced - not that he doesn't like that just as much, but it's different).

Which of course would probably only make him do that stupid rich man laugh that we all love 🤷🏻

[keraiiszn]

𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝

Pairing: Stack x Reader Genre: Heavy angst | Emotional fallout

i lied, one more angst wouldn't hurt anyone right!? p.s this was rushed so if there's any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

He swears he loves you.

And the worst part is…You believe him.

Not because he brings you flowers. Not because he says sweet things. But because when he holds your face in his rough, trembling hands, there's a war behind his eyes. One he's losing every damn day.

The kind of war that leaves casualties in its wake. The kind that makes you wonder if you're collateral damage or the prize he's fighting for. Heavy angst settles in your chest like smoke in an old church, thick and suffocating, prayers turned to ash in your mouth.

But love don't stop the bleeding. And it don't keep him faithful either.

This is the South at its darkest—beautiful destruction wrapped in sweet tea and broken promises, Spanish moss hanging like nooses from the trees of your heart.

You find out on a Tuesday.

Nothing dramatic—just a text on his phone from a number you didn't recognize.

"Last night was crazy. I miss you already ❤️"

The cheating happened somewhere else, in some other bed, but the evidence burns your retinas like you watched it happen. Like you were there, invisible, witnessing your own murder.

You don't even touch it. Don't scream. Don't throw the phone. You just blink.

One minute. Two.

Then you set it right back on the counter like it burned your hand.

Because you already knew. Your heart knew before your head did. It's been whispering warnings in your chest for weeks now—the way he'd turn his phone face down during dinner, the way he'd shower as soon as he got home, the way he'd look at you like he was apologizing for something he hadn't confessed yet.

And that's the part that hurts the most. Not the betrayal. But the fact that you saw it coming and still let it break you.

The emotional manipulation started so subtle you didn't even notice. Like poison in sweet wine.

He comes in later, looking tired.

"You good?" Stack asks, flicking his lighter open and shut. "You been quiet all night."

You hum. "Just tired."

He nods like he believes it. Or maybe he just wants to. Maybe believing your lie is easier than facing his own.

The first time he cheated, he cried. Big, guilt-choked sobs in the parking lot behind your apartment. On his knees. Swearing on dead friends, broken childhoods, and blood-stained promises that it didn't mean anything.

He weaponized his trauma like a shield, using his broken past to excuse his present sins. Made you feel guilty for being hurt. Made you the villain in his sob story.

You forgave him.

Because loving Stack felt like survival. Like holding on to a dream you knew was rotting in your hands, but couldn't let go of just yet.

You stayed. Like a believer. Like a fool.

Because somewhere deep down, you thought you could love the devil into being a man.

The second time, he didn't cry. He just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking at you like you were the one who'd done something wrong.

"It's not what you think," he said.

But it was exactly what you thought. And worse.

The third time, he didn't even try to explain. Just nodded when you asked, like he was relieved to finally stop pretending.

By the fourth time, you stopped asking.

You learned to live with the taste of betrayal in your mouth. Learned to smile when he kissed you, knowing those same lips had been on someone else. Learned to say "I love you too" when the words felt like swallowing glass.

You became a ghost in your own life. Going through the motions of a relationship that was bleeding out slowly, one lie at a time. Depression crept in like fog rolling off the bayou, until you couldn't remember what happiness felt like. Everything grey. Everything hollow.

Your friends stopped asking how you were. They'd see you coming and their eyes would do that thing—that soft, pitying look that said we told you so without saying it.

Your sister called less.

Your mother stopped inviting Stack to Sunday dinner.

Everyone was waiting for you to wake up. To leave. To choose yourself.

Everyone except you.

The dam breaks on a Saturday.

He walks into the bedroom, and you're sitting on the edge of the bed. Phone in your lap. The same text still up.

You don't even look at him.

"Who is she?"

He freezes. "Y/N, listen—"

"Don't lie to me."

His voice gets quiet. "She don't mean nothin'. I swear to God."

"You keep swearing to God, Stack," you say, voice dead flat. "What happens when He stops listening?"

"I didn't sleep with her." His eyes beg. "Not this time."

"Not this time?" you echo, and your heart caves in.

The room goes still.

"I didn't think you'd leave," he whispers.

You stare at him. This man you've loved for three years. This man you've bled for. This man who's been killing you slowly, one betrayal at a time.

"You thought I'd stay forever?" Your voice cracks. "Even if you killed me slow?"

He doesn't answer. He just watches you, like he's watching the last light in the world go out.

And maybe he is.

Because you turn. Grab your keys. And walk away.

The emotional fallout begins immediately.

You don't yell. You don't scream.

You just leave like something in you finally died.

And that silence cuts deeper than any goodbye ever could.

In the hallway, you stop. Hand on the doorknob.

For a second, you almost turn around. Almost run back to him. Almost choose the familiar pain over the unknown emptiness.

But then you remember the girl you used to be. Before Stack. Before the lies. Before you learned to make yourself smaller to fit around his sharp edges.

You remember laughing without checking to see if it was too loud. Remember sleeping without wondering where he was. Remember believing that love was supposed to feel like coming home, not like holding your breath.

So you open the door. And you walk into the rest of your life.

It's been 61 days.

That's what the pill bottle says on the masking tape strip stuck across the lid:

Day 61. Stay clean, you dumb motherfucker.— E

His brother Elijah wrote that. Stack reads it every morning.

His addiction recovery is the only thing keeping him breathing, but it don't help much.

Because sobriety don't hold you at night. And regret don't warm a bed.

He don't go out much now. Don't cheat. Don't drink.

But the damage is already done.

The house is too quiet.

Your laugh echoes in the walls like it's haunting him.

There's still one plate in the sink. The last one you washed. He ain't touched it.

He can't.

Because touching it would mean admitting you're really gone. And Stack ain't ready for that kind of truth yet.

The coffee maker still has your setting programmed in. Two sugars, splash of cream. He makes it that way every morning out of habit, then pours it down the drain because it tastes like everything he lost.

Your books are still on the nightstand. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo with a bookmark stuck on page 247. You'll never finish it now. And somehow that breaks him more than anything else.

Elijah comes by once, knocking loud, voice low.

"You breathing in there?"

Stack don't answer.

But he's breathing. Barely.

The whole apartment smells like smoke, dust, and heartbreak.

Letters are everywhere. Letters he wrote to you but never sent.

Some of them are just your name. Over and over again. Like a prayer he's scared won't get answered.

Y/N. Y/N. Y/N.

Like if he writes it enough times, you'll materialize. Like if he bleeds enough ink, it'll bring you back. The guilt is eating him alive from the inside out, gnawing at his bones like a cancer.

He sees you once.

At a gas station on Riverside. You didn't see him, but God… you looked good. Lighter. Peaceful. Like you finally crawled out of the hell he made you live in.

You were laughing with some lady at the counter, sipping on a smoothie. Wearing your favourite blue hoodie.

His hoodie.

It was faint. Worn out. But he knew.

He stood behind a vending machine and shook. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't believe that life kept going without him.

That you were out there, existing. Healing. Moving forward.

Without him.

He got in the car and threw up in a bag.

Drove home and sat in the shower until the water ran cold, fully clothed, letting it wash over him like baptism he didn't deserve.

When he finally got out, he called your number. Just to hear your voice. Just to punish himself.

You changed your number. Of course you did.

He dialled it one night just to hear the rejection tone. Just to punish himself. It rang once. Then a woman's voice said: "This number is no longer in service."

Stack stared at the phone like it just told him God died.

Because maybe He did. Maybe God died the night you walked away, and Stack's been living in purgatory ever since.

Day 84.

He throws out your toothbrush. Finally.

Folds up your hoodie and puts it in the drawer. The same one he sleeps next to every night.

He deletes the videos. The voicemails. The pictures.

But your laugh still lives in the walls.

And when he dreams, you still wear the dress you had on the night you told him you loved him for the first time. Red, with tiny flowers. You said you felt pretty in it.

You were beautiful in it.

You were beautiful in everything.

Day 99.

He runs into your friend Sarah at the grocery store. She sees him first, tries to duck down the cereal aisle, but he catches her eye.

"How is she?" he asks.

Sarah looks at him like he's something she stepped in. "She's good, Stack. Really good."

"She seeing someone?"

"That's none of your business."

But the way she says it tells him everything. Yes. You are. And you're happy.

He buys a bottle of whiskey that night. Sits with it on the kitchen counter for four hours. Doesn't open it.

But he thinks about it. God, he thinks about it. About drinking until he can't remember your name. About pills. About bridges. About the train tracks that run behind his apartment building. About how easy it would be to just... stop.

The suicidal thoughts come like old friends now. Familiar. Comforting in their darkness.

He doesn't do it. But he thinks about it.

Elijah comes again.

This time, he sits next to him.

"You still writing them letters?" he asks.

Stack nods.

"You ever gonna send one?"

Stack shakes his head.

"What would you even say?"

Stack swallows hard. Voice broken. "Ain't nothing left to say."

But he writes one more. Just one.

Y/N,

I know you ain't never gonna read this.

I deserve that.

I fucked up somethin' pure. And I don't get to fix it. That's my cross.

You gave me everything. Even when I gave you pain. You stayed when I didn't even recognize my own reflection.

I loved you wrong. But I did love you. I swear to God.

I hope whoever got you now knows what he holdin'. I hope you laugh louder. Sleep deeper. And never have to ask if you're enough again.

You always were. You were everything. And I was too broken to see it.

I never was enough. Never deserved you. But I loved you. God help me, I loved you.

I think about that night at the pier. When you said you could see yourself loving me forever. I should've told you then that forever don't exist for people like me. Should've saved you the heartbreak.

But I was selfish. Wanted to keep you as long as I could. Even if it killed us both.

I'm sorry I made you smaller. Sorry I made you doubt yourself. Sorry I took your beautiful heart and broke it over and over until you finally stopped offering me the pieces.

Be safe. Be soft. Be everything you couldn't be with me.

And if you ever think about forgiving me, don't. I don't deserve it. And you don't need to carry that weight.

Some people don't get happy endings. I'm one of them.

But you do. You deserve everything good this world has to offer.

I hope you get it.

– Elias.

He folds it up. Tucks it inside the blue hoodie. And locks it away.

He never mails it. Never reads it again.

But he sleeps next to it every night like a man who keeps his ghost close.

Because that's all he has now.

A ghost. A memory. And a name he won't ever stop whispering in the dark. The grief will outlive him, will follow him to whatever comes after this hollow existence.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

@queenofklonnie22, @plan3tch1ld, @lizbehave, @vintigepimpzinio, @tnychellee, @nanamiismine

[beast3end]

Hey if it's not too much to ask may I please request a part 2 of the Happy birthday, My dear Fic? Like the aftermath of what happened to the reader when the Virtues corrupted and after the corruption after all the souljam was split in two by the witches

With love, your best friend

Summary: You were with them when they were first baked. You were with them when more and more cookies followed them. You've seen their beginning, and naturally you'll see their end. Right? Characters: platonic!shadow milk & reader; platonic!burning spice & reader; platonic!mystic flour & reader; platonic!eternal sugar & reader. WC: 3k CW: gn!reader; there may be mistakes in the text because English is not my native language; Virtue calls you by an affectionate nickname ("My angel" - eternal sugar; "Dear/Sweet" - shadow milk) (mystic flour does not call you by an affectionate nickname, because she treats you respectfully and politely) (Burning Spice's only affectionate nickname is "Splinter"); a small mention of the missing limbs in the Flour part. A/N: Not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! (I made a bet with my friends that nobody wouldn't ask me for the second part. I lost, haha!)

Shadow Milk:

You're sure it's your fault.

It was so absurd. Who would have thought that Shadow Milk would be attacked? It only lasted a second, but it felt like an eternity to you. The head, now severed from the body, rolled across the floor as panic and turmoil began in the room. The screams merged into a solid white noise, but you clearly heard the words of the attacker: "Liar! You are the worst liar in the world!" Fortunately, cookie does not have time to escape in the confusion, and the guards detain them.

You can only thank Witches that Virtues are immortal. It would take anyone else's life, but Shadow Milk is fine. It's difficult to control his body, you stumble and even fall, but you get to the head of the Fount of Knowledge. Crossing his legs on the floor, you take his head in his hands.

"Shadow, how are you feeling?" "I… don't know. I don't understand. Did I do something wrong? Why did they call me a liar…?" "That's okay, Shadow. I'm at a loss too. Sometimes cookies… They may misunderstand what we teach them. Or cling to the teaching that we taught them before, until there are changes and a new discovery. But such a reaction is abnormal." "So I'm not a liar?" "Shadow, you're a Virtue of Knowledge. Knowledge is not a lie, but it is not the absolute truth either. Not black and not white. Knowledge is always teetering somewhere on the edge. We should accept this situation as an unpleasant experience and be more careful. I don't think anyone else would think of attacking you, but you should be more attentive to others, okay?"

Perhaps if you had chosen other words at that moment, everything would have been different. Perhaps instead of talking about your nature and giving advice, you should have supported Shadow Milk. Hug his head while you had the chance and cheer him up. Don't leave him thinking.

These changes occurred slowly and smoothly. You didn't even notice what was happening, not really interested in the outside world and the rest of the cookies outside the learning framework. But one day something made you come out of your shell.

"What in the name of Witches did you just say?" "Is something wrong, dear?" "You lied to them. The Garden of sweet Delights is located in a completely different direction. There's… there's a swamp! They're going to die!" "Did I lie? Oh, darling, your words hurt me so much! It's just a little social experiment." "Ex-xperiment?" "Right~! Don't worry, one of my students, Black Sapphire, will be waiting for them at the border, remember that one? He will stop them from acting rashly." "If you say so…"

But time passes. You catch yourself thinking that this experiment is still spinning somewhere in the back of your mind. There was something wrong with him, but you couldn't figure out what it was. Until the news reaches both of you: cookies have been found in the swamp. Not a single survivor.

Something snaps in you. This realization is so stupid that you feel like you're cracking. And what was the essence of the experiment? You didn't ask yourself that question, trusting Shadow Milk. Emotions overwhelm you so much that it even affects Shadow Milk—the tears flowing from the heterochrome eyes were yours, not his.

From that moment on, he stopped hiding his inclinations. Manipulation, lies… one day he started a rumor in some kingdom and a civil war broke out there. Instead of exploring the world and teaching cookies to explore this very world, the one you loved most in the world caused disasters.

"Come on, Sweet!" Shadow Milk reaches out to you, but you remain silent. Only timid tears sometimes blur his view of the splendor of the carnage caused by his words. "Open your eyes to the truth: for too long we have been led by fools who did not want to listen! They're just getting what they wanted so badly!"

Truth. Lie. Knowledge that balances on the edge of these two concepts. Your precious, best Virtue has been corruption, and so have you. You can no longer bring knowledge into this world with him...

"Don't you dare!" Cornered, shaking with rage, Shadow Milk covered your body with his palm, squeezing it so hard that if you were an ordinary jewel, you would have broken long ago. "I won't let you take my soul jam!"

But there's nowhere to run. Forks block the escape routes, and the Witch of Life, your creator, stretches out her palms to you.

You feel like you're cracking. Now, not figuratively, but literally. It hurts like hell. But it's so peaceful in the hands of a Witch...

If the situation were different, you would have laughed. You should congratulate Shadow Milk: You've changed your mind! As he wanted, you will no longer remain neutral.

You're two halves of the same whole, right? You complement him, and he complements you.

And if it has become a Deceit, then you will become the Truth.

Eternal Sugar:

You were doubtless blind to many of the changes in Sugar of Happiness.

It doesn't seem so bad: instead of waiting for the new residents of the Garden of Sweet Delights to arrive, she goes to look for them herself. The lyre in her hands sounds sweet and soothing, luring tired cookies. They fall asleep right at her feet. You ring softly when her hands gently touch these poor cookie, gently and tenderly.

"The happiness for cookies is such a fragile thing," Sugar of Happiness sings thoughtfully one day, contemplating the night view of the Garden. "They so easily throw it away for the sake of some trivial things, exposing themselves to pain and suffering, right, my angel?"

You're not really sure what to say to that. Mortal cookies fascinated you: no matter what happened, no matter what pain they endured, there were always those among them who stubbornly got up and went to their goal. It didn't matter that it was a goal — it could be something great, or it could be insignificant.

But you still say, "Yes, Sugar of Happiness". Because it was she, Bringer of Happiness, who was the one who had to instill this happiness into other people's hearts by any means. Your mission is not to let the spark go out in her heart.

The inhabitants of the Garden of Sweet Delights are slowly becoming different. Sometimes you're surprised to see how the one who cared the most about flowers sleeps in the sunlight. Another who could knead dough from morning to night to bake sweets and distribute the rest of the cookies did the bare minimum to eat everything himself.

There were smiles on their faces, weak and lazy, as if woven from dreams and lyre melodies. You think they look weird, like they're drunk, but it's okay, right? Sugar of Happiness is trying so hard to persuade everyone else to the same lifestyle. Perhaps, you think, this is one of the forms of happiness.

Therefore, those who try to escape from the Garden are strange. Poor, unhappy, lost cookies, Sugar of Happiness hugs one of them as if they were just fragile porcelain. The wings enclose their wounded body in a snow-white cocoon.

It doesn't matter that they return to the Garden in such a state because of the Sugar of Happiness. All their cracks can be repaired: sweet honey will fill their chips and in the light of the bright sun these cookies will shine again like the most beautiful of treasures. It's just a little lesson that it's dangerous outside!

Isn't that right?

Sugar of Happiness will never do anything that would be truly terrible towards others. There are still fresh moments in your memory when the Virtues parted and only you remained with her. A young, inexperienced cookie who was looking for her own ways to make others happy.

…maybe you're a little biased. But you can't be blamed for that. Each of the soul jams is biased, whether they want to admit it or not.

But at some point it became simply impossible to close my eyes. The garden became… quiet. Serene. The notes stopped. The grass, which had been heavily crushed under someone else's feet in the rhythm of the dance, recovered. The loud laughter turned into a blissful giggle in the wind.

Isn't that wrong?

But you don't say anything.

"Happiness is such a fragile thing, isn't it, my angel?" Yes, you think it's always much easier to break than to create.

You're a lousy Happiness.

"For what?!" shouts Sugar of Happiness, clinging to the forks. Tears flow from her eyes, blurring the view of the Witch of Light, and her body trembles slightly. "I'm not like them! I didn't do anything wrong! I did everything for the mission that you assigned me!.. Why?! The cookies are happy!"

You couldn't even save her heart.

Now you realize that you have not been able to cope with your role as a guiding light. Sugar of Happiness got lost on a path that you couldn't light up for her. Instead, you hid in the curls of her hair, shimmered between her fingers, giving her the right to decide everything alone.

It's all your fault. That's why you decide to sing. For the last time. This is your little apology.

"What are you trying to do… no! Don't you dare! Don't take my angel!"

And your attempt to say goodbye.

You sing until Sugar of Happiness voice disappears into the noise; until her heart, thrashing in fear and agony, stops.

Even at the very end, you couldn't give her any comfort.

Happiness is such a fragile thing. And you're so clumsy for that. You just hope that next time… You can protect the next heart better. Perhaps not as happiness, but as passion, something that mortals have taught you. Something that the old you couldn't exist without.

It's a pity that you realized this so late.

Mystic Flour:

You couldn't tell her anything. Not after that.

You knew that time passes differently for mortals. They are born, grow up and die — it's such a fast process. One has only to distract oneself, as the youngest of the temple servants become easily crumbled old men. You knew that when Mystic Flour decided to retire into a cocoon, there probably wouldn't be a single familiar face around.

That's why you're not at all surprised by the crowd of unfamiliar cookies. What you're surprised about is this rude way of interrupting Mystic Flour's privacy. The sight of the temple servants, crumbled into crumbs, pierced with pitchforks, and some even missing body parts, makes you feel sick.

Madness. The new generation, who have never seen Mystic Flour, must have gone crazy!

"It's… not a treasure, is it?" an uncertain whisper sounds between the residents.

Your Mystic Flour is the best of treasures! Unfortunately, you're smart enough to know that's not what they mean. Maybe gold and jewelry. You know, there are things that modest and ascetic temples are famous for.

Mystic Flour is silent. You can see her slender fingers digging into the chocolate tile of the floor, scratching the surface. Her hands are shaking a little. Was your soft, kind, timid Mystic Flour… scared?

"Her looks like an ordinary cookie" "But why was her in a cocoon?" "Oh, I know, I know! Grandma told me that this temple used to be run by a cookie who could grant wishes!" "It's even better than a treasure, the harvest this season was so poor."

Absolute disrespect!

"Mystic Flour, we should… Mystic Flour?" You speak first, but then you realize you've been isolated. You do not hear the thoughts of your Virtue, nor do you catch the echoes of her feelings. You reach out to her, but you run into a barrier separating you from her.

At the same time, Mystic Flour does what you least expect it to do — it turns the inhabitants into flour. It's a fast, painful process in which cookies start coughing up flour. Panic is rising. You can clearly hear someone shouting, "She's a demon!"

This day breaks something inside the Mystic Flour.

She doesn't get in touch with you either the next day or the following days. What an irony: You, who contacted her only when necessary, could only watch in silence now.

Because Mystic Flour will never answer you again.

The White Plague is destroying one kingdom after another. Unlike that day, it's a little… more merciful. Cookies turn to flour more slowly, more painlessly… But you can see their tired, scared faces when Mystic Flour is next to them in their last seconds of life.

You think Mystic Flour is still the same kind, soft cookie it used to be. It's just hidden somewhere deep inside, crushed by debris. But there's nothing you can do. You don't decide anything here.

When the Witch of Life traps them all, you only look at the Mystic Flour. She holds you in her palms, runs her fingers over the frames. But she still won't let you get close. Is she saying goodbye to you?

"I was never able to protect you. I'm sorry."

Perhaps the volition is too high and heavy an ideal. You've already seen how cookies break trying to withstand it. And if so… You should take a step back. To become something more mundane, something more attainable. Perhaps the Resolution won't push so hard?

It's a pity that for the sake of this realization you had to watch the self-destruction of someone you loved so much.

Burning Spice:

You've been trying to fight him almost from the beginning.

When he breaks the table in anger, you don't pay much attention to it. When he irritatingly shrugs off words of gratitude and gifts cookies, which he protected once again, you don't pay attention. When he doesn't respond to your teasing, you still don't pay attention to it.

But at one point it becomes simply impossible to ignore what is happening.

It was a routine training session. Sparring sessions. Burning Spice is so strong that it is impossible to fight one-on-one with him, so more than ten Wild Spices come out against him. You always follow the process closely — through Burning Spice, you give advice to his young soldiers. But today… something was wrong today.

The once peaceful surface of Burning Spice's emotions began to distort due to the ripples. The longer he sparred, the more and more excited he became. He had never been careful with his subordinates, but this was even worse.

The moment he raises the parashu over his head, a wall of earth is erected in front of the defenseless soldier of Wild Spices. Burning Spice just doesn't have time to react and the blade of the weapon gets stuck right in the barrier.

"May the witch put you in the oven again! What were you trying to do just now?!" you shout so loudly that Burning Spice winces from a headache. He snorts: "Just trying to teach them a lesson." "You almost killed them, you idiot!" "So what?"

Such an indifferent, casual answer shocks you. If you were a cookie, you'd be gasping for air with your eyes wide open. But you're not a cookie, so your shock turns to rage in an instant. She burns in Burning Spice's chest more fiercely than the fire in the furnace of the Witch of Life. Rubbing the place where you rest, he feels interest flare up in him, unnoticed by you.

Things get even worse after that day.

He single—handedly destroys an entire kingdom- what was once a small village that sheltered Burning Spice when the Virtues scattered all over the Beast-Yeast. The kingdom that he protected and nurtured with his own hands. The kingdom near which his very first temple was built. The cookies of this kingdom are so weak and fragile, so defenseless. After all, the wall behind which they had been hiding for generation after generation began to crumble inward.

It would hardly have pleased him.… But your attempts to protect others were so funny! You can't even fight against him—you have no arms, no legs, you have nothing but the bits of strength that you both inherited from the witches. Burning Spice thinks it's a fair deal — he uses only his body and weapons, while you, deprived of them, use the powers of witches against him.

"One hundred and seven," he thinks, turning the unfortunate resident into a crumb. "How many have you protected? I think it's sixty-seven, right?" You don't answer. The chapel nearby cracks and howls, but Burning Spice easily dodges the falling arrows and cuts one of the numbers with one blow. At the edge of my consciousness, he hear your disappointed clucking.

The old temples are emptying — no wonder, you think. Who would want to follow a mad Herald of Change? But very little time passes and little by little the temple comes to life again. Madmen, you think, sometimes seeing familiar faces in the crowd.

"I think I should say thank you," Burning Spice grins, standing in the center of a once prosperous, peaceful city. "You were once the one who tried to make me stronger in order to protect me. And now you're the one who can only flutter around trying to help others. It would be unimaginably boring without you!"

These words devastate you. You're almost ready to give up.… But you still try to resist him — even if it's useless, even if all your attempts are in vain.

Regret bubbles up somewhere inside you when you see the devastated and destroyed settlements. You want to imagine how carefree children run around here, how the market buzzes and whistles from the fervent laughter of the townspeople. How cookies live peacefully, not worrying about tomorrow, thriving in a happy routine. But all you see is fire, despair, and pain. What was once a natural cycle of change has become nauseatingly disgusting to you.

…so when a fork pierces Burning Spice, pinning him to the ground, you laugh. You're laughing so loud that Burning Spice can't even hear Sugar of Happiness and Shadow Milk's screams. Your laughter, full of despair, disorients him; you vibrate and hum in his chest so much that there are even small cracks around you. You don't hear him hissing, his fingers digging into the ground. You're laughing, even when you're shuddering in pain!

Never. You've had enough. You don't want to see death and pain anymore. Perhaps when you find yourself back in someone's arms, you will be able to see a kingdom full of abundance and a carefree world. You will save this kingdom, even if you have to stop time itself for it.

Just to spite him.

[idontknowmanijustlikereading]

Unique!AU continuation: Mira

Alright, first and foremost: Mira

Most of the skills/abilities that comes with being half-dragon are physical.

Mira has extremely enhanced senses, but her sense of smell is especially strong. Strong enough to be able to sniff out magic. She can also see in the dark, and her eyes get that animal shine to them sometimes.

While she is faster than a normal human, her strength and durability is what has been boosted the most. Being able to do things like lift cars above her head or get tossed through a brick wall and walk away mostly fine.

Has a naturally cold body temperature(a great contrast to Rumi who constantly runs hot like a furnace) and is very resistant to the cold in general, has no problems walking around in shorts in the middle of winter. Might need a windbreaker if she's in Antarctica or smth

Can hold her breath exceptionally long.

She has less non-physical abilities but she does have some.

Because of the water-dragon aspect, she has some control over water. I'm not talking Katara or Percy Jackson level shit, but she can raise a hand over her head while its raining and create an umbrella of water. Or she can create larger waves while playing around in the pool just to splash the other two extra hard etc. Also has a sixth sense for whenever it's going to rain or a storm is coming. If emotions are running extremely high, she might accidentally create her own storm, similar to how Rumi can affect the Honmoon.

Can't quite fly, but she can kind of hover/float a bit.

She heals faster submerged, which is one of the many reasons she loves the bathhouse so much. She can also feel just about everything around her when in water, a bit like a shark.

When it comes to draconic features I'm gonna start with the scales.

Her scales don't cover her entire body, they're spread out in patches here and there. Stripes of scales over her ribs, climbing out from her neck to her throat, on her forearms and thighs, the soles of her feet and on her jaw, around her eyes etc etc. They're the same shade of pink as her hair (which is naturally pink in this world btw (idk if it's natural in canon, it wouldn't surprise me)) and they feel a lot like snake skin, if you've ever felt that. Kind of warm to the touch and softer than you'd think. Despite what they feel like, they are actually extremely strong, working as great protection for the areas they cover.

She has horns (obviously). They protrude from the middle sides of her head and point backwards, curling upwards right after they go beyond the back of her head. She also has protruding spikes on her spine, both of these things make it uncomfortable for her to sleep on her back. The girls like to run their fingers down the ridges because it makes her shiver each time. She can't exactly feel her horns as much as she can simply feel the pressure on her skull if someone grabs them(think of them like fingernails)

(yes she likes her horns being grabbed, i don't make the rules.).

While I think Rumi has vampire-like fangs, both Mira's upper and lower canines are sharp, something Zoey is endlessly happy about.

In water (whether in a pool or its raining or something else) her skin kind of shimmers. (Zoey definitely makes a twilight joke, even if it's not exactly the same)

Slit pupils and forked tongue. Yeah.

Claws. Not like demon claws which are extensions of the fingers, Mira's grow from her nailbeds but curl like cat claws. Very strong.

Can't purr, but she can definitely growl.

That's it. Kay bye, Zoey will come later

[the-music-maniac]

I really enjoy how the pairs in bingliushen are on the same wavelengths about certain things that the third may not understand. I'm not explaining it well, but like, moments where one of them is doing/feeling something and the other two kinda exchange a fond, knowing look, cause they're thinking the same thing about their mutual partner, y'know?

Like BingQiu is probably on the same wavelength about trying to figure out what Liu Qingge needs. A tag team effort into easing their partner into their newly budding relationship, and having fun flirting with him all the while as a team. LBH aiming his puppy dog eyes at LQG during the dinner they invited him to, SQQ holding LQG's hand, LQG is red as a tomato, refusing to look at either of them. LBH and SQQ meeting each other's eyes over the table, smug and giddy in equal measure. LBH and SQQ poking and prodding at LQG until he tells them what he wants, until he's comfortable enough to take liberties and settle at their side. LBH and SQQ, experienced and keen on guiding LQG through intimacy, showing him how good he can feel for all his firsts.

LiuShen is probably on the same wavelength over their fond exasperation about how shameless and clingy Luo Binghe can be. I mean they both have pretty thin faces, and LBH just...doesn't. So they take turns feeding LBH affection throughout the day until he's practically glowing with happiness. Kisses on his cheek, combing through his hair, pats on the head, hugs and cuddling. And they have an understanding about LBH's deep seated abandonment issues. Working as a team to defend LBH anytime someone tries to imply he's dangerous. SQQ's frigid speech is always cutting - LQG is behind him, looking like he's two seconds away from drawing his sword. LBH watches them do this for him in the background, touched beyond measure. And of course, taking turns keeping LBH and his insane stamina satisfied too. Taking him apart when LBH needs it, when his fear becomes too loud to quiet with just words.

BingLiu is on the same wavelength about their devotion towards SQQ and the five years of violence and pain that they shared. They both have a capacity for darkness, especially when it comes to defending SQQ, that SQQ himself doesn't always understand. They think the world of him, and he doesn't get it. LBH and LQG meeting each other's eyes over SQQ's injured body, and exchanging a nod, LBH leaving to deal with the threat with complete trust, leaving SQQ in LQG's care, knowing that he would protect their partner with his life - a monumental feat for LBH. And LQG for once forfeiting the fight bc he trusts LBH to enact revenge as well as or even better than he could - another monumental feat for LQG. The former grief is easy to bear knowing someone else understands it. LBH and LQG working together to quiet SQQ's insecurities, to show in no uncertain terms that they love him however he is. And also being able to be rough with each other in a way they both find exhilarating, in a way they wouldn't with SQQ. Snarls and taunts and scratches, bruises and mean little smirks, pinning each other into the dirt to bite, the other keening with ecstasy as SQQ watches in thorough enjoyment.

Anyways. I fucking love them all - can you tell?

[aluinwe]

piano - jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 484

James and Sirius were together in the kitchen of the flat that they shared with their respective boyfriends. Despite them being practically joined at the hip, it was quite a rare occurrence for them to be left alone without either Regulus or Remus being there - Regulus claimed that it was because they needed “adult supervision” and couldn't be left unattended together, but James knew better. The real reason was that the Black brothers’ abandonment issues meant they were both incredibly clingy to their partners - neither James nor Remus particularly minded, but it did mean that quality time alone was rare between James and Sirius these days,

They were idly chatting, discussing nothing of any importance, when James took on a thoughtful expression. “You know Pads, I still can't quite believe we get to have this. You and Moony, me and Reggie. Even you and Reggie! Five years ago, you wouldn't have believed you'd be living with Reg again and that you'd be happy about it.”

“Oh, I know, If someone said I'd be back living with him I'd have assumed I'd been dragged back to Grimmauld. Never thought he'd grow the balls to leave.”

“It's so strange to think about. Just imagine, if Reggie hadn't come to me at the start of seventh year asking for piano lessons, we'd have never got together and you two wouldn't have reconciled.” James’ tone of voice became more serious. “He'd probably still be rotting in that house.”

For a moment, Sirius looked completely baffled. “What do you mean?” he questioned. “Reggie has been playing piano forever. Pretty sure he came out of the womb practicing scales.”

“No? That can't be right. I know he's amazing now but he wasnt that good when I started teaching him.” Smugly, James continues, “I taught him everything he knows.”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “That sneaky shit! I'd bet you my bank account that he had a crush on you and used the so-called piano lessons as an excuse to get close to you. Bet it was a tight fit on that bench, eh Prongs. Did he get you to correct his technique hands-on?”

James face broke into a filthy grin, and he retorted “I guess that explains why he never needed any help with his fingering” then with a wince added. “Sorry Pads, the joke was right there.”

Outraged, Sirius replied “I swear to God, Prongs, one more dirty joke about my baby brother and you'd better run!”

“I said sorry” James held up his hands and continued, “I can't believe he fancied me so much that he pretended to be bad at piano. I can't wait to tease him about it.”

“Good luck, it's your funeral. Mine too if you tell him I told you. Then Moony would have to kill Reg to avenge me and I'd hate to leave him all alone. Best keep this one to ourselves.”

[xjulixred45x]

Imagine a Yuu who comes from a world like The Handmaid's Tale.

(WARNINGS: STRONG CONTENT, ALLUTIONS TO SEXUAL ABUSE, ABUSE OF POWER, MISTREATMENT, INDOCRINATION, ETC. SPOILERS FOR THE HANDMAID'S TALE)

A Yuu who used to live in a country similar to Gilead, completely authoritarian, a dictatorship, but above all, a hell for women.

being forced to become a handmaid, undergoing the indoctrination of training camps, only to be handed over like a piece of meat to some general to have children, ceasing to be a person and becoming a means to an end, an incubator, an object.

Yuu prefers not to remember those times, the things she had to do to survive in a world that treated her like a second-class citizen (it would be especially bad if Yuu were from the generation that knows nothing before Gilead, meaning she believes that's her only option in life because she was born a "fertile woman"), seeing how the children she once had were ripped from her arms, only to call another woman, that woman from the hellish CEREMONY, "Mom."

When the black carriage hits her and transports her to TWST, you can bet Yuu was terrified of what they were going to do to her. She thought it was a test to see if she was part of some revolutionary group. She almost started crying; it was so distressing.

I think the only person who notices Yuu's handicaps from the start is Grimm, from noticing how scared Yuu is around men, how submissive and easily scared she is, how she clings to her white hat and red dress as if she's going to choke on her own oxygen, to realizing how uneducated she really is, how scared she is. Don't worry, henchman! The great Grimm will protect you!

Imagine Crowley's surprise when he realizes that Yuu can't read or write, a young woman in her twenties who never had even the slightest education. This is probably why Yuu needs extra classes with Trein specifically to learn preschool stuff. Fortunately, other staff members join in: Crewel with the chemistry/science/potions classes, Vargas helping her adjust to more social aspects, etc. For Yuu, it's so strange that so many people are so kind to her; it's overwhelming, it's suspicious, it's comforting.

Ace may be a jerk at first, but he's genuinely concerned when Yuu proves she can't really read or write, and ends up dismissing the "intellect" jokes (both because 1-Yuu doesn't understand them, so he can't laugh with her, and 2-they now leave a bad taste in his mouth). He's the first to jump to Yuu's defense if someone laughs at her for reading slowly or stumbling, surprisingly happy to help her improve her writing/sentence.

Deuce never comments on how Yuu was raised; he genuinely wants to believe these are things she didn't need in her world, but he does go into "bad boy" mode when he sees Yuu scared, because he can tell, and that fear isn't normal. They both enjoy cooking together, shopping, playing with the flamingos and hedgehogs, etc. It's healthy to see Yuu acting her age.

Ace and Deuce are the first to ask Yuu why she doesn't take off her white hat, or why she clings so tightly to her red dress. "Isn't it uncomfortable to wear it all day? It's not even hot outside!" Poor things, they thought it was just a fashion statement, not a symbol of dictatorial rule.

They're both stunned and HORRORIZED when Yuu explains the hierarchies of women in Gilead (I wouldn't say she goes into details like the "ceremony" or anything like that, but even the superficial explanation leaves you feeling like crap). As horrifying as it was, that dress was the only thing Yuu had of her world, of the identity she knew, and she was afraid to simply leave it behind (especially considering Crowley wanted to send her home).

But she doesn't even finish her sentences before these two fools (plus Grimm) jump on her, crying, telling her that she's not relegated to whatever her inhuman government has assigned her, that she won't have to do anything like that, or be a "handmaid" anymore.

Because a world that treated her as if her will didn't exist wasn't a world worth returning to.

__________________

(ESPAÑOL)

Imagina una Yuu que viene de un mundo como el cuento de la criada

(ADVERTENCIAS: CONTENIDO FUERTE, ALUCIONES A ABUSO SEXUAL, ABUSO DE PODER, MALTRATO, ADOCRINAMIENTO, ETC. SPOILERS DE EL CUENTO DE LA CRIADA)

Una Yuu que solia vivir en un país similar a Gilead, totalmente autoritario, una dictadura, pero sobretodo, un infierno para las mujeres.

ser obligada a convertirse en criada, pasar por el adoctrinamiento de los campos de enseñanza, solo para ser entregada como un trozo de carne a algún general para tener hijos, dejar de ser una persona para pasar a ser un medio para un fin, una incubadora, un objeto.

Yuu prefiere no recordar esas épocas, las cosas que tuvo que hacer con tal de sobrevivir en un mundo que la trataba como un ciudadano de segunda clase (seria especialmente malo si Yuu fuera de la generación que no conoce nada anterior a Gilead, osea, ella cree que esa es su única opción en la vida por haber nacido como una “mujer fértil”), ver como los hijos que llego a tener le fueron arrancados de los brazos, solo para llamar a otra mujer, esa mujer de la infernal CEREMONIA, mamá.

Cuando el carruaje negro la choca y la transporta a TWST, puedes apostar que Yuu estaba aterrorizada de lo que le fueran a hacer, pensaba que era una prueba para ver si formaba parte de algún grupo revolucionario, casi se pone a llorar, fue muy angustiante.

Creo que la única persona que se da cuenta de los impedimentos de Yuu desde el inicio es Grimm, ya sea dándose cuenta de lo asustada que esta Yuu cerca de los hombres, de lo sumisa y fácil de asustar que es, como se aferra a su gorro blanco y vestido rojo como si fuera a ahogarse con su propio oxigeno, hasta darse cuenta de lo poco educada que es en realidad, de lo asustada que esta. ¡no te preocupes secuaz! ¡el gran Grimm te protegerá!

Imagínate la sorpresa de Crowley al darse cuenta que Yuu no sabe leer ni escribir, una jovencita casi en sus 20 que nunca tuvo la educación mínima. Probablemente gracias a esto Yuu necesite unas clases extra con Trein justamente para aprender cosas de PRE ESCOLAR. Afortunadamente otros miembros del Staff se suman, Crewel con las clases de química/ciencia/pociones, Vargas ayudándole que se ajuste en cosas más sociales, etc. Para Yuu es tan extraño que tanta gente sea tan amable con ella, es abrumador, es sospechoso, es reconfortante.

Ace podra ser un imecil al principio, pero realmente esta preocupado cuando Yuu demuestra que realmente no sabe ni leer ni escribir, y termina dejando de lado las bromas de "intelecto" (tanto porque 1-Yuu no las entiende, por lo que no puede reirse con ella y 2-ahora le dejan un mal sabor de boca). Es el primero en saltar a la defensa de Yuu si alguien se rie de ella por leer lento o trabarse, sorprendentemente feliz de ayudarla a mejorar en su redaccion/oracion.

Deuce nunca comenta nada en como Yuu fue educada, el genuinamente quiere creer que son cosas que no necesitaba en su mundo, pero si se pone en modo "chico malo" cuando ve a Yuu nerviosa, porque puede notarlo, ese miedo no es normal. Ambos disfrutan cocinando juntos, ir de compras, jugar con los flamencos y erizos, etc. es sano ver a Yuu actuar de su edad.

Ace y Deuce son los primeros en preguntarle a Yuu porque no se quita el gorro blanco, o porque se aferra tanto a su vestido rojo “¿no te es incómodo tenerlo todo el día? ¡ni siquiera hace calor!” pobres creían que solo era una cuestión de moda, no un símbolo de gobierno dictatorial.

Ambos quedan anonadados y HORRORIZADOS cuando Yuu les explica el tema de las jerarquías de las mujeres de Gilead (no diría que entra en detalles como la “ceremonia” o cosas por el estilo, pero incluso la explicación superficial te deja hecho mierda), por más horripilante que fuera, ese vestido era lo único que Yuu tenía de su mundo, de la identidad que conocía, tenía miedo de simplemente dejarlo atrás (mas pensando que Crowley quería enviarla a casa).

Pero ni siquiera termina de formar las frases antes de que estos dos tontos (mas Grimm) le saltaran encima llorando, diciéndole que ella no está relegada lo que sea que su gobierno inhumano le designo, que ya no tendría que hacer, o ser una “criada” nunca más.

Porque un mundo que la trataba como si su voluntad no existiera, no era un mundo digno de regresar.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[wiatchswift]

one-night stand / bucky barnes one-shot

NSFW warnings: sex (CONSENTING), alcohol word count: 1275 a/n: lol this is my first proper smut thing i'm writing. love you. ALSO i haven't proofread this, i'm tired.

Sam dragged him there, said he needed to "live a little. stop being a grouch."

Bucky relented with an exaggerated sigh and a shake of his head. "fine, but don't expect me to have fun."

little did he know, the night he was in for was a lot more than fun.

Bucky sat in the booth most of the night, sipping on alcohol like it was water. he couldn't get drunk easily, but that never meant he couldn't get drunk.

Sam knew this information, took it into his own hands. he begged Thor for some of his Asgardian liquor—it worked.

that's what was served to Bucky all night, Thor's liquor. it was strong, very strong. five glasses in and Bucky was surely talking to an umbrella.

Bucky's attention shifted when he heard singing. it wasn't great singing, wasn't horrible either. turning his head as if he lost something, he stopped.

eyes landed on you. standing on the small stage at the front of the bar, doing karaoke with a friend of yours. drunk, so drunk.

he had two left feet when he walked towards the stage, stumbled on the edge.

the song finished. Bucky gave the loudest applause out of everybody, with this dazed smile that caught your eye.

you laughed. he got this glimmer in his eye that said something more.

stumbling down the stage with your friend, Bucky caught your hand.

helping you straighten up, you slouched against his side like he wasn't a stranger.

"hi," Bucky said, a drunken smile.

your eyes widen. he was handsome, gorgeous, sexy. whatever word you would use for it, he was.

"hey there..." you slurred.

Bucky hadn't flirted in 70 years, you could tell. he mumbled horrible pick-up lines that just... somehow worked on you.

since you were both drunk, you probably wouldn't remember anything the next morning.

he took care of you, the alcohol's effect on him faded away within a few hours. fast metabolism really worked wonders, sometimes.

-

leaning against his side, his jacket on your shoulders. you talked to him like you knew him since childhood, like he was your best friend.

"oh! and... i walked right into a pole that night." you babble, laughing as you explained this story to him. "i mean, you should've seen it. it was so funny."

words were slurred and mushed together. a glimmer of fondness in his eyes, one that somebody who wasn't drunk would see.

leaving Sam and your friend behind in the bar, Bucky pulled you into a taxi.

you burped, not loud, just enough to make you apologise. after, Bucky laughed. just a tiny snicker that sounded affectionate...?

driving to your apartment, after you muttered and slurred the address to him, the bumpy road felt... very obvious on your clit.

so, when you got home, you were horny. drunk made your emotions high, horny just so happened to be one of those.

Bucky got out of the car, walking over to your side in a few strides and opening your door.

your thoughts tumbled out of your lips, his hand holding yours to help you up as you slurred to him. "can we have sex?"

he paused, hand gripping yours. "sweetheart...you're drunk."

you shrug. "and? you look good at it."

"that's not the best idea."

you roll your eyes. Bucky guided you into the apartment complex, making sure he got the number on the elevator button right.

you kept going, talking how you just wanted to have sex, that you were sober enough, that you wanted it so bad.

as he fumbled with the keys and walked you into the apartment, he sighed. "fine. we'll have sex, sweetheart. happy?"

you grinned, threw your arms around his neck. "very."

shutting the door behind him, your lips crashed to his. you tasted like alcohol and bad breath, but great at kissing.

his hand fell onto your waist, pulling you a little closer.

clothes shed, the backs of your knees hit the bottom of the bed frame. falling back, Bucky hovered over you, shirtless.

he pulled back from the kiss for a second, murmuring, voice husky. "honey, we just—i'm gonna be gentle."

you whined, "really? gentle? fuck me like you hate me, Bucky."

"... and call me that again."

trembling fingers unbuckled his belt, then immediately came back to your body. "you just...let me know when to stop."

he couldn't stifle the groans, hips rocking into yours like he was just as turned on as you—he was. his erection, covered by jeans, pressed against your inner thigh.

you moaned, in his ear. he got harder.

you hands snuck down, unzipping his jeans and pulling them down to just below his ass.

it was very obvious, his bulge was... bulging.

now, it wasn't long until he was just there. cock hovering above your entrance, he had to make sure, once more.

"sweetheart. are you sure? just... tell me to stop if you need it."

you nodded, insisting. "c'mon, i've said yes one billion times."

sighing, he muttered, "alright."

and pushed in. moaning, your legs wrapped around his waist and made him go deeper.

his pace was steady, slow... at first. he kept driving these moans out of you that were really good in his ears.

Bucky grunted with every thrust, almost pulling out before pushing back in. his pace turned faster.

both of you were in this heady desire, minds full of one thing. each other.

his lips fell onto your neck, open-mouthed kisses and breathy grunts against it.

your head was thrown back onto the pillows, moaning and slurring words. "i can't take it—oh god—don't stop."

when his pace became frantic, he slid a hand between you two, thumb rubbing against your clit.

Bucky muttered against your neck, praise and random words.

"oh, you feel so good."

"those damn noises, sweetheart."

his forehead was sweating, right on your skin. this (for some reason) felt really good. you were making him sweat, making him feel good.

"taking my cock so well, aren't you, baby? so well."

two minutes and he was finishing. a lot.

he was a super soldier. he finished four times the amount you'd normally get. you could feel it dripping between your legs.

he wasn't even speaking anymore, just moaning and groaning and grunting. then you went over the edge, moaning quite loud in his ears when you hit the peak.

after, Bucky collapsed next to you. his hand came up, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. "i'm gonna clean you up," he murmured, then stood.

you were tired and drunk, smelling of sex and alcohol. Bucky came back after a few minutes, a wet cloth in hand.

he settled back between your legs, only this time, his face just between them.

the cloth came up, cold and relaxing. he cleaned up your inner thighs, around your slit and underneath.

once finished, he tossed the cloth into a basket on the other side of the room, and laid back beside you.

you were falling asleep, his hand laid flat on your stomach, a silent touch that was grounding.

-

birds sung outside of your window, waking up with sun peaking through the curtain blaring into your eyes.

then, you felt it. a hand.

turning your head to the right, you see a man. a little recollection of the night before. you knew his name and...oh god, we had sex?

Bucky woke up not long after, blinking his eyes open and gaze falling onto you.

he smirked, gently. "you regretting it?"

you pause, sigh. "was it good?"

he nodded, that smirk turning into a sleepy smile.

you murmur, "wanna do it again?"

[eyesthecolorofarson]

Next-to-last of our species Pt.2

Part 1 Part 3

Danny remembered what his house in Amity had looked like. He remembered every part of it with startling clarity.

The whole house smelt like chemicals and ectoplasm, the smell getting stronger the closer you got to the basement. Jazzs' room was far enough away that you could almost ignore the smell, especially if she kept her door closed. Dannys' room was, unfortunately, directly above the basement. Directly above the portal, so there was no escaping the smell.

Thinking about it now, the ectoplasm must have seeped into the furniture; normal couches and chairs weren't odd, bright colors, nor did they glow. It would explain the normal brown color on the bottom of the bright blue couch. Maybe thats why everything they cooked came to life as well; the ecto seeped into not just the dishes but the fridge. Maybe thats why the skillets were blue too.

Their new house was startlingly normal. No green doors or walls, no blue furniture, no chemical smell. Three normal bedrooms, two bathrooms with clear water, and a large living room in front of a kitchen and dining room. There was even a backyard, Connors favorite part of the new house.

"I want to plant everything!" He exclaimed, tugging on his arm and leading him to the back door. "What can we grow?" Danny smiled at his brother. "It depends on what grows in this climate. Also depends on the seasons. San Diego is pretty good for subtropical plants, but we might want to get some that are capable of surviving a drought." On their way to California they spotted a large garden in Kentucky, and Connor had fallen in love with gardening.

He bought books about it, went online to read about it, and was so excited to plant his own. It made Danny happy, calm. He was worried Connor would never be this bubbly, this happy. But already he was putting Cadmus behind him and looking forward.

Danny didn't have a backyard in Amity, so he didn’t have a memory to go off of. But he liked this one. Wood fence, stone path outside the door, and there was probably enough space for about a dozen plant boxes. Connor pulled him out the door and onto the grass. It hadn't been trimed in a while, almost touching his ankle, and Danny tried to memorize the cool, tickling feeling.

Connor sighed happily as the sun hit him, closing his eyes and tilting his head up, basking in the light. It was almost September, and the weather wasn't as hot as Danny had feared. He wondered if this part of California got snow. He'll have to research that; he didn’t want to get stuck without winter gear. His phone buzzed, the fourth time today. It was a text from Bruce. His dad. Well, one of them.

'Are you safe?' The message said. He'd been trying to find out where they're living. Danny wouldn't even give him a clue. 'Yes. Connor feels comfortable here. He waves to strangers because he thinks its rude if he doesn't' That was true. Connor was so happy, smiling and waving. Danny tired to do the same, but it felt weird. 'Do you feel safe?'

Danny watched Connor sit down on the grass. He tried to memorize his face; calm, relaxed, peaceful. 'I'm trying to. Unfortunately I've been shackled with your paranoia, and the thoughts of some people don't really help.' That was also true. He'd walked past a few junkies fighting, and their erratic, violent thoughts made him want to cry. He hadn’t told Connor.

'What do you plan to do to support yourself? What about your education?' His education. Oh, his dreams of being an astronaut, all down the drain, even with this new opportunity at life. 'I can pass for an adult, so I'm starting college. Connors going to high school. The knowldege they downloaded into our brains finally being useful.'

'Speaking of school, hows Damian been adjusting?' He didn’t like all this talk about them. Everything he shared could he used to find them. From talk about what they ate too what time they slept. Especially their sleep. Even casually mentioning if it was late or early could tell him what time zone they were in. Why did they stay in America again? Right, right, the Meta Protection Acts.

Bruce didn't respond, and Danny saw Connor sit up. "When can we get seeds?" He asked, and Danny smiled. "Maybe after we get the rest of the furniture? We'll need plant boxes too. And uh, more dirt, fertilizer, a new hose since this house doesn't have one built in, uuuhhhh, sprinklers? A bird feeder?" His phone buzzed. Danny ignored it, leading Connor inside.

"Decided what bed you want?" Connor shrugged. "Just something simple? Does a type of bed really matter? We shouldn't waste our mystery money on stuff we don't need." Ah yes, the 'mystery money'; more like 'money from a royal valut in the afterlife that he still had access to.' Downside of being reborn is that he was no longer a halfa, upside being he was still technically the Prince of The Infinite Realms.

Even though his body was different, Clockwork recognized his immediately and welcomed him with open arms. Still wouldn’t tell him what happened to his first world(something he totally wasn't worried about) but at least he would help him and Connor. "Well, do you want a bed with shelves under it, a loft bed that a desk can fit under, or just a simple bedframe?"

Connor hummed, jumping up on the kitchen counter, then falling backward onto the couch. "Uh, I should probably go with a simple frame..." Danny smiled. "But?" Connor grinned sheepishly. "...But a loft bed does sound cool. And it'd save space!" Danny laughed. "Well, might as well go now. Its pretty early, so we'll be able to miss the afternoon rush and it won't be crowded."

Him and Connor went upstiars, left of the front door and across from the garage, not many exit points and super visable. Dannys room was right next to the stairs, allowing him to hear anyone coming up the stairs. Connors was across from his, and to the left of the stairs was the third room. Connor went into his room, and Danny went into his.

There wasn't much. Just his suitcase, a sleeping bag, and laptop. He went into his bathroom, right of his closet, and he'd need to get locks for both doors, then stopped and stared at himself. His new body. God, this was going to take some getting used to.

Black hair, but he had some dark red streaks. It was weird at first, but after looking at some pictures of Miss Martian he realized red was just a Martians hair color. His face shape was more aristocratic; sharp jawline, straight nose, high cheekbones, thin lips. From what he saw online and the meeting room, he was the spitting image of Bruce Wayne. But his eyes—those fucking eyes.

Bright, neon red eyes bore into him. Danny flicked off the light and they glowed softly in the darkness. Red eyes. Because of course. Of course! Red eyes, just like Dan! Danny sighed and left, putting on a cleaner shirt and shoes. He knew he couldn’t avoid mirrors forever, but he really didn't want to think about Dan. Especially when he still didn't know what happened to his world, his friends, his family, Jazz.

At least they matched now. Kinda. The streaks weren't ginger like hers, and they weren't oversaturated orange like Miss Martians, but they were red. So technically he was a redhead, just like Jazz. Danny smiled at that. In a weird way, he had a piece of her. Still hated the eyes, though. He went out and waited for Conner. He came out a few seconds later, wearing a hoodie and jeans.

Their car was actually pretty good. Some jeep truck mix, with a good bed and heated seats. They could probably fit about four chairs and a table in the bed if they Tetris-ed them around. They needed to get a U-haul for everything else, probably. Danny already missed his portals. At least with their super strength they wouldn't need to hire movers.

"We should get a U-haul from that place we saw on the way he," he told Connor, getting in the drivers seat and relishing the AC. "We can pick up a table and some chairs for the dining room, and some other stuff." Connor nodded, turning on the radio. "Yeah! Do loft beds have desks built into them?" "Some do, but if you don’t like the built in ones we can get a normal loft then add a desk."

California was nice. Its the first time he's ever seen it, and there was lots of graffiti. Some gang related, others just street art. Lots of beach shops and cafes, a library, big chain grocery stores and small mom-and-pop shops. The giant furniture store was around six blocks away, but they took a detour to the U-haul.

Walk in, walk back out because he forgot sunglasses fuck he'd need to wipe these cameras, walk back in, rent a U-haul, walk back out, park the car around the side, small talk while getting the keys, comfort Connor because he was still nervous about driving, then drive to the store. He already blurred most people's memories of him, so the folk that saw him were fine. Hopefully.

They talked on the drive there, Connor asking which way to go and Danny reminding him to use the blinker. They made it there unscathed, and got parking near the front. Perfect. The store was two stories, cream with an orange stripe around the middle, and they went to the map at the front.

"This place is so big it needs a map?" Connor looked around, spotted an employee and waved. She waved back, then went back to typing on the computer at the reception desk. "Yep, it looks like all the actual furniture is on the first floor and stuff like appliances and decorations is on the second. Do you want to look at beds or desks first?"

Bruce sighed, glancing at his phone for the hundredth time. Well, it was actually the sixteenth, but it felt like the hundredth. Danny knew about Damian. He'd panicked at first, then remembered that at the time of the meeting incident, Damians file was already in the system.

This was good and bad news. Good news that Danny wasn't watching them through the manor or, god forbid, the batcave cameras. Bad news because this meant Danny had probably accessed every JL and JLD file on that computer, which had been almost all of them. As far as he knew, the only ones uncompromised were his contingency plans. Small victories.

Both his new sons were handfuls in so many different ways. Damian had been rather violent at first. Ok, incredibly violent, but spending time with Dick slowly healed him in a way Bruce couldn't. It hurt at first, but he's accepted that while he'll always be his father, he'll never be his Batman. And in many ways, Damian would never be his Robin the way he was Dicks.

After watching the footage of Danny during the meeting, he tried to connect with the others more, including him. He told Dick it was because, "I want to love the way our clone brother does". It had melted his heart. Despite not even being here, Danny was already helping the family. Damian asked constantly about his 'clone brother', and had expressed jealousy that Connor got to be with him, but admitted he would accept Connor into their family despite that.

Connor...poor Connor. After all the scientists had died—Bruce had timed fourteen seconds after Lilva flatlined—all the footage and files from Project Cadmus were uploaded to the main computer. The footage was disturbing. While Danny was challanged mentally and psychologically tortured, possibly the reason for his own psychological scare tactics, Connor was physically tortured.

The burning kryptonite was the tip of the iceberg. He was shackled with kyrptonite weights then told to run, to fight, to fly, growing violently ill and breaking his bones in an attempt to obey. They wanted to test how much kryptonite was needed to harm a Kryptonion, so they'd expose him to increasing amounts of kryptonite, then beat him. Usually with metal pipes, apparently the most readily available from the storage room, but sometimes they'd use things ranging from 2x4's to semi-automatics.

There was a meta on the reasearch team, Head of Nursing Staff Gabriella Snow. She had a healing ability, able to repair any and all kinds of skin tissue, blood vessels, bone and organ matter. She could regenerate white and red blood cells to stop certain illnesses. She could repair dismembered limbs in a matter of minutes....which she did for Danny and Connor.

She was stone faced as they cried, offering no comfort. Sometimes she would heal them multiple times during 'testing sessions', watching silently as the boys were beaten. She never spoke, never cried, never winced, never looked satisfied. Danny must have hated her. When her photo was transferred into text, it simply read 'monster'.

Danny still hadn’t texted him back yet. Maybe it was late wherever he was and he had gone to bed. Maybe it was early and he was doing chores or making food. Maybe it was the afternoon and he was doing something else. Maybe he was purposely ignoring Bruce. Maybe he was texting someone else like J'onn.

He was slightly jealous of J'onn. Mostly because Danny seemed to like him more than Bruce. J'onn had almost begged him to ask Danny to text him, and Bruce had to agreed. As weird as it was to think about, J'onn was also Dannys dad. Martians usually had large families, dozens upon dozens of kids, and J'onn was only able to have one before the plague. He assumed that Danny made him feel like he got his family back.

Now that he was thinking about it, Danny definitely liked J'onn more than him. He texted him constantly, asking about Martian culture, holidays, books, technology, anything and everything. J'onn texted back with glee. He'd sent Danny images of books and an alphabet book he'd saved that had been for his daughter, and Danny had been able to create a keyboard.

It worked similarly to kana input, and J'onn had been overjoyed to be writing in Martian again. Last he looked, they'd been texting in only Martian for about a month now. Danny was near fluent. According to J'onn Danny wasn't just fascinated by Mars; he loved every part of space. He could go on and on about star belts and suns and black holes, and once got so excited that he video called J'onn.

The video itself didn't give them much info. It was a simple dark blue room that faded into black, with stars and whole galaxies painted out with incredible detail. Danny casually informed J'onn that he had a bit of magic, and the room wasn't anywhere on Earth or its dimension, so there was no way they could use it to find their house. It was comforting to know they had a place to live.

But the video also showed them Danny, the first and only crystal clear look they had of him. Every other image or video his face was a black and white blur, sometimes during painful or emotional moments it was scratched out. Danny looked like him. Same nose, ears, face shape. Damian had said that was obvious; his genes were just as strong as his intelligence. But clearly they weren't strong enough.

Dannys hair was mostly black like his, but there were dark red highlights that turned more orange-red when they hit the light. Obviously the Martian genes coming through. His skin was darker than his, naturally tan, and his palms had an unhealthy green bruise-like tint that also seemed to be natural. But the most outwardly sign he was Martian was his bright red eyes.

It almost looked as if he was wearing contacts. The color was bright, glowed like J'onns and M'ganns, but you could see his green veins and pupils retract with the light. According to J'onn the color made Danny uncomfortable, but he'd looked more relaxed when J'onn had exclaimed that they matched.

It was the most excited and giddy J'onn had even been. According to M'gann, while humans couldn't tell, Martians eyes were different shades of red depending on the parent. Dannys eyes were the exact same shade of red J'onns were. "It's kinda creepy, actually," she'd said, studying Dannys face, "My eyes look like my moms, but not the exact same shade. Maybe because there was no second color to go off of? He is supposed to be a clone, after all."

Danny spent the entire half hour call talking about space, asking J'onn about facts, things Earth got wrong, stories of his time in space and much more. Bruce felt relieved to see Danny so happy, especially after the footage from Cadmus.

"Father!" Damian came running down the stairs, pulling Dick along by the arm. Tim was close behind, and Steph was wheeling Barbara down the ramp. "We've spotted Danny!" Bruce sat up. "San Diego, California! They're currently in a furniture store! Their license plate is—" Damian continued to speak, but Bruce couldn't hear him. He stood quickly. "I'll get the plane ready."

Damian exclaimed 'Yes!' While Dick pushed him down. "No, not yet. We don't want to scare them, B." Tim nodded. "We especially don't want to scare Danny. I don’t think we've seen even a fifth of what he's capable of." Barbara rolled forward and Bruce moved aside. She typed quickly, pulling up camera footage from a U-haul rental.

It was Danny walking in, his face blurred but the black and red clear. He quickly walked out, then came back in with sunglasses on. But while talking his head tilted down, and they could see his eyes, red as rubies. "Heres Connor, too." Barbara pulled up footage of Danny and Connor stepping out of the truck. It was definitely Connor; Clarks face but Luthors blue eyes.

"Looks like they're decorating!" Steph hummed, "How'd you think they're paying for it?" "Some sort of computer-frying card," Damian replied, going next to Barbara and pulling up a close up of the card Danny used. It was pitch black but wasn't a black card. The numbers came up fuzzy on the camera, but were legible. 22 1 21 12 20 1 3 3 5 19 19. "Theres an extra number," Dick pointed out. Barbara nodded. "Its a simple A1Z26 cipher. It means 'Vault Access'."

There were more numbers. 22 1 12 9 4 21 14 20 9 12 4 5 1 20 8, 'Valid Until Death'. 4 1 14 14 25 23 1 25 14 5 10 15 14 26 26, 'Danny Wayne J'onzz'. On the corner of the card was some sort of abstract clock; about two dozen hands, seven circles similar inside each other like a target symbol, and in each circle there were different numbers and symbols. Some looked demonic, others Bruce was certain he'd never seen before.

"If Danny has access to other dimensions, then this card is most likely from one of them. Thats probably where all the money is coming from too. Should we call the JLD?" If they did, it'd have to be Constantine. Bruce almost wanted to try figuring it out himself just to avoid talking to him. But last time he tried that....he didn't–couldn't–put any of his children at risk.

Bruce pulled out his phone. Danny still hadn’t replied. "Let's hope he's at least slightly sober..."

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Could you do a Cyno alphabet?

For our 3000 follower celebration! (CLOSED NOW)

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Curls up in your arms immediately and buries his face in your chest, kissing your neck a little before he falls asleep.

On the off chance that Cyno doesn't fall asleep though, he wants to talk just so he can hear your voice some more. It soothes him after so much excitement.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He is pretty fond of his arms, and his hair if that counts.

Of yours, I think he would really admire your legs and your thighs.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

So much cum at once, it's amazing how much cum is inside such a tiny body. Cyno is quite embarrassed about this, but he cries whenever he cums. It's rare that he doesn't at least shed a few tears.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Cyno is unhealthily into breeding. Honestly he wishes that he could go into heat and be bred by some beast with a monster cock (both in size and like, not a human cock)

Alas, he is not a hybrid like some of his friends… but if you can still find ways to indulge in his fantasy, you'll have one very happy Mahamatra on your hands 💜

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

I'd say he has a little bit of experience, but not a ton. He has enough knowledge about kinks, fetishes, nonhuman sex across many different species, and things like that, but not a ton of field experience.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. May include a visual)

I don't know if there's a name for this, but Cyno fucking loves being almost upside down while you pound him. Like, shoulders on the floor, ass pointed up, legs dangling in the air, probably propped up against the bed or something. He loves watching your cock disappear inside of his ass in this position 💜

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Oh, Cyno… the puns don't stop for anything, not even sex… how you manage to stay focused and continue railing him while he's making dick and ball puns is a miracle.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

His pubic hair is oddly straight, rather than curly. He does trim and shape it a bit, just to make it look extra nice, but he would never shave it all off or trim it super short.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

He's definitely intimate, but in a more aggressive/passionate way. Cyno presses his chest against yours, grunting in your ear all of the things he'd like for you to do to him, clawing into your skin while he begs you to go deeper, kissing you until your lips bruise as you unload into him.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Every now and then Cyno will rub one out, mainly when he's craving your touch or when his mind brings up a memory of a fun night between you two.

Cyno also grunts a lot more when he's jerking himself off, he gets super into it and sounds more animalistic.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Breeding, choking, cock stepping, a little CBT, and petplay/roleplay of the nonhuman variety.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Really anywhere is fine. Cyno isn't particular about where you have your fun.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

A hand around his waist stirs up some steamy feelings within Cyno's gut. Playing with his hair can also get him going if he was already in the mood to begin with.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Bloodplay and watersports are the main things he wouldn't be into.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He really does enjoy both, but I think he would like receiving just a tiny bit more 🤏

Getting the chance to facefuck you is heavenly~ You spoil him every time, treating him like a king as you use your hands to jerk off whatever won't fit in your mouth, putting everything into the blowjob and practically sucking him silly.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Generally prefers faster and rougher, but make sure you show him some gentle lovin' as well. Gently fucking Cyno through the tears from the previous round will always make him cum extra hard~

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Cyno has no qualms about a quick round during a lunch break, or whenever you're able to fit in a short rendezvous.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

A little bit, yes. Generally, Cyno wants to stick to what he likes, but he's not entirely against adventuring a bit and discovering new things for you to enjoy together.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

On average, he can probably go for 3 rounds, though they won't be super long. His stamina is good, and the training Cyno has to do for his job definitely helps, but it's nothing too crazy.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

The only toys Cyno would feel comfortable using are monster dildos, and a large variety at that~

Dicks with knots, ridges, complex shapes, even tentacles are all right up his alley!

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

I think Cyno would tease a bit, but he's usually so horny and needy that he doesn't want to delay the sex too much. He prefers to really dive right in and stay focused on the best bits.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Cyno's a bit loud, mostly grunting and whining while you're pistoning your cock in and out wildly. He's very skilled at dirty talking as well, and he does so throughout most of the sex.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

(Modern day specific headcanon) - Cyno listens to those smutty rps on youtube, specifically ones where the speaker is trying to tame a feisty listener, or the ones where the speaker is some type of nonhuman mating with a nonhuman listener. He also listens to ear licking/eating asmr for smutty reasons.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He's kind of a big guy, a nice 6 inches and rather veiny to boot. Definitely not cut either.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Cyno's libido is pretty damn high, but not high enough to disrupt his work or day-to-day life terribly. It's just that, once he gets turned on it's extremely hard to get out of that mindset, and he usually has to cum real quick just to move on with things.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He falls asleep pretty quickly, and he snores… a lot. Cyno will sleep quite soundly and for a while if you choose to stay cuddled up with him too.

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Fourteen 2 of 3

Deanna: Can I call you queen of the trash or is that pushing it?

Kennedy: *laughs* Could always shorten it ta queen

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Kennedy: Oh, I know I’m lucky. I mean, I’m here, ain’t I? And I made it through the first round! 

Deanna: I think that was because of who you are more than dumb luck. Still, what's the luckiest thing that's happened to you?

Kennedy: The luckiest thing that ever happened to me, hmm… Well, probably the time I got thrown off Ole Dollie! Being thrown off a horse don’t sound so lucky, but she was a big gal and easily spooked. Went ridin’ alone one day and something got her so good she reared back, threw me off, and then SHE fell! She was just fine, tough ole girl, but if I hadn’t been thrown she’d have landed right on top and crushed me, ha!

Deanna: *laughs* I'm very glad you're not dead

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Kennedy: Oh, I believe in fate for sure! But who’s to say it ain’t some Watcher knitting our fates like a senile old lady?

Deanna: *laughs* I'll have that image in my head for a while now

Kennedy: I like to think this way, because it helps me get through bad times, y’know? If it’s fate, then it means I’m going through it for a reason and will come out the other side a better Kennedy than I was before

Deanna: That's an idea I like to hold on to

Deanna: Where would you live if you could live anywhere?

Kennedy: Well, I'm likin' Tartosa! But honestly, I think I'd be happy in any of them, so long as I'm near nature and have room for a horse or two

Deanna: I would definitely have to be connected to nature

Kennedy: Not sure I could handle the big cities, but I'd give it a try if someone I loved wanted to move there.

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Kennedy: Family's important to me, too, so I'd understand. I'd never ask you to move away from your family, so long as you wouldn't mind makin' a trip or two a year to visit mine

Deanna: I could handle that, or doing the reverse

Kennedy: I'd miss 'em, but it's about time they learned how to use a webcam and face-time!

Devin: How was it

Deanna: This park is cute but not as cute as Kennedy

Devin: Did you have a good date?

Kennedy: Fresh air and a sweet gal, what could be nicer?

Results: No sentiments, Kennedy becomes the second contestant to max the friendship bar in the competition gaining her 15 bonus points. EVELYN who was first, maxing the bar last round, gets 20 bonus points.

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Mariela: Honestly? I consider myself very lucky. Considering that my mom really didn't want me, I could have ended up in a very bad situation. But instead I ended up with a dad who's always adored me and two aunties who have always been there watching out for me and guiding me as well. It may be an unconventional family, but hey... I'm an unconventional person!

Deanna: *smiles* Family doesn't have to be traditional

Mariela: I'm glad you agree

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Mariela: I'm not sure how I feel about it to be honest

Deanna: It's alright not to know

Mariela: Aunt Bess and Grace insist that the Watcher is the reason I ended up with them instead of suffering with mom, but if that's the case, then what makes me special? I remember that urn I found when looking for snowglobes. What's different about me from that person? I try to not think about it too much because it can become overwhelming

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Mariela: As much as I love the city, I have always been curious about living in Windenburg

Deanna: Really? I wouldn't have guessed

Mariela: There's a couple of neat night clubs, some cafes, and ruins! It sounds like it could be fun, and it would be nice to have a house, you know? No noisy neighbors, no weird smells, no rats... plus, I hear there's an island where some of the people live. Can you imagine?

Deanna: They must have some gorgeous scenery there

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Mariela: Honestly, same. I wouldn't want to be constantly moving either

Deanna: *surprised* I just assumed with all the energy you seem to have that you'd be always on the go

Mariela: *smiles* Wildly reserved of me isn't it? And of course we'd visit each other's families together and have them over to visit too.

Devin: How was the date for you?

Mariela: In my defense I thought asking her due date was an obvious joke because she's a lesbian

Devin: How did you find it De?

Deanna: Her humor can be a bit different from mine but it's easier as I learn more about her

Result: No sentiments

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Kristina: I think I'm really lucky. I love my family and friends, I'm living the dream in a villa in Tartosa, and I'm on a date with a beautiful woman

Deanna: *blushes* You're rather beautiful yourself

Kristina: I really feel alive, like the world is my oyster and I could achieve anything.

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Kristina: That is a great question, and I guess I do, but I think we have more control over our own fates than we realize. Like being erratic - sometimes I do or say things I don't think even a Watcher could have planned for, but that doesn't stop me from having autonomy, either

Deanna: That's great!

Kristina: I picked a park date because I love the outdoors, so your destiny was always to have a park date with me, but I had no control over the bowling challenge or the staring contest. Does that make sense? *speaks over her own shoulder* Makes perfect sense, Kristina!

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Kristina: Any world with a lot of trees would be my top choice. My father and brothers are foresters in Moonwood Mill, and I feel at home in the forest.

Deanna: *smiles* Lots of trees does sound good

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Kristina: I would say your best friend Reece mentioned when we met last round that his boyfriend is a werewolf, so Reece and Samir will always feel at home when they come to visit us in Moonwood Mill!

Deanna: It'd be nice being close to Reece but of course I'd be there to be close to you

Kristina: *blushes* Charmer

Devin: How was the date?

Kristina: I loved it, that's why I flirted so much!

Deanna: Ask what you want to know

Devin: Okay but why blow her a kiss right after she insults you?

Deanna: She's erratic, it's just who she is. I've heard worse from Emi and she flirted up a storm afterwards

Results: No sentiments

Sim Creators and Writers

@ashubii, @ravingsockmonkey, @bakersimmer

Lot Credits

Sulani Family Park - Found on the gallery by EA ID Noraakei

[lovelyhavenn]

DJ GOT US FALLIN' IN LOVE | BUCKY BARNES X READER

Summary: after a heavy week, you convinced the team to go and spend your night partying in the club. Under the flashing neon lights, something snaps in bucky as he saw someone making a move on you.

Warning: none!

Note: play "rock that body by black eyed peas" And "Dj got us fallin' in love by Usher"

It was a heavy week for all of you guys, mission after mission that all of you barely got to sleep or maybe eat on time. You think that you guys deserve at least one night to have fun, to party, to drink and dance till the night dies. You managed to convince them, they were hesistant, but they agreed.

" We might need it, to loosen up. Afterall, it's been a while." Yelena was the first to agree, so the others did too. You were happy, excited, it's been a while that you've been in a club with blasting music, you missed that feeling.

Before you became an avenger, or maybe years prior to that, when you were in college you always threw parties, attend parties and sneak out all the time. You were a wild child but the responsible kind, never did anything more reckless than drinking the end of dawn. That's all.

"Sure, just pick a good place," Ava said before phasing into her room. You looked over to the others, bucky nodded, while walker, alexei, and bob walked over to their room.

You wore this black dress, backless and hugged your body in all the right places. It was comfortable yet sexy, sultry, and breathtaking. You paired it with your heels, maroon stilettos and maroon lipstick. You sprit your perfume and finally looked in front of our mirror.

"You trying to break bucky?" Yelena asked, leaning against your door frame. She looked good, especially with her blue eyeliner.

"Break bucky? How?" You asked, arching a brow, face plastered with confusion.

"You don't see what i see, but he's got eyes on you," She chuckled. You scoffed, that sounds impossible.

"Uh huh, in my dreams, maybe." You joked. That was literally impossible. Bucky barnes, having a thing for you, his eyes on you. He's everything that you want, but you think or you believe that you're not everything that he might want. Yeah, he's kind, caring, attentive, observant when it comes to you. He learned how to braid a woman's hair for you, because apparently he noticed your hands shaking while doing it, you were struggling, that's why he learned. That doesn't mean anything, he might do that with others too.

He does everything for you, he carries your bag, makes sure you don't walk close to the road, when you're out he lets you walk in front of him so he can have a better view of you and your safety, he goes to book stores with you, and more. He takes care of you when you're sick and when you're sick you get whiney, but he didn't leave you. There's just to many, to many that you can't count the things he does for you. And he wouldn't fall for you but you did fall for him, down bad.

"Think about it, and see for yourself." She left your room, and you follwed right after. You caught up with yelena, walking side by side with her.

"See for myself, what does that mean?" You asked. When you arrived in the common room, everyone's eyes was on you and yelena. Well, you two were late. What do you expect, of course they'd stare the of you down.

Bucky's eyes lingered on you, staring at you up and down, swallowing a huge lump on his throat. The moment he saw your eyes, he smiled, his glance not leaving yours.

"Told you, need more proof?" Yelena said, walking over to ava. All of you got in the elevator, your body bumped against bucky.

"You look beautiful." He whispered, his voice sending you to insanity. That damn soft yet there's a hint of roughness.

"You don't look bad yourself, barnes," You teased. Oh he was gorgeous, mouth watering, breathtaking, like and absolute god but that's a secret you won't tell. Bucky is driving and you're in the passenger seat, walker and alexei in the back and ava, bob, and yelena in the middle.

"So this club i know is underrated, not a lot are coming here but the music and the drinks are good. Trust me, I've been... Nevermind." You cut yourself off, bucky does not know how you used to party all night when you were in college years ago.

"You've been? Mind continuing that, doll?" Bucky glanced at you before glancing back into the road.

"Uh, I've been partying there when i was in college, a long time ago. Almost every week?" You confessed. It was a whisper though, only bucky could hear, you hope.

"So, you love parties? you are the social type?" He asked. Of course he knew you were the social type, you talk to people as if you've known them for years. And you get along with everyone.

"Uh, maybe? I knew almost everyone? I get invited to parties all the time," You confessed. Bucky parked the car and when you all entered the club, it had lights flashing, music boosted and bodies dancing and drinking everywhere. It wasn't packed like other clubs, it was just enough. It smelled like alcohol, sweat, and cologne everywhere.

The moment you entered, you got pulled into the dance floor along with yelena and ava. While the guys went to the bar, ordering their drinks. The club was playing 'rock that body by black eyed peas'

"Rock that body! C'mon, rock that body!" Everyone screamed the lyrics, dancing along with it. Everyone was having a blast.

You swayed your hips through the beats of the song, yelana and ava danced along too with drinks on their hands.

You were already three shots in, heels forgotten, dancing like the floor was on fire. The club lights flashed neon pink and electric blue as you grabbed Yelena's hand, spun her around, and shouted, “THIS IS OUR SONG!”

Yelena cackled, drink almost spilled on herself. “This is trash music, but I love it!”

Yelena spun in place, it was already full of chaos while yelena was trying to pull ava to dance. "If i die tonight, i want this at my funeral!" Yelena said, in a loud voice since the music was blasting loud.

All three of you doubled over laughing, still dancing, still jumping, arms around each other in a ridiculous triangle of movement.

While you had your fun, the guys, especially bucky is looking at you from the bar. He doesn't interfere, just looking at you having the time of your life. You looked so carefree and happy, and it made him happy too just seeing you. You definitely didn't notice him staring.

Yelena raised her glass. “To bad decisions and great music.”

You clinked your glass to hers. “And even better friends.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “You’re both the worst.” But she clinked her glass too.

While the music is blasting, you twirled, arms in the air, eyes closed for just a second, letting yourself feel free. You closed your eyes, feeling the rhythm of the song, your hair bounced and flowed because of your movement, your body swaying through the beat of the music and your waist moving side by side.

Suddenly, while dancing, a guy touched your waist, maneuvering it over to his own body, riding the rhythm of the song. You stopped on your tracks and so did he, you backed away.

"Hi, wanna dance?" He asked, smiling. "I can buy you drink, pretty girl." He started offering you a drink.

"Sorry, no. I can buy my own drinks, and my friends wouldn't appreciate me talking to a stranger. Stranger danger," You laughed. You were about to leave, but he held onto your wrist.

"I'm clyde, nice to meet you. Can i get your name so we wouldn't be strangers anymore?" He asked, smiling. It was irritating. He's just so persistent, you already said a clear 'no' yet he wouldn't listen.

"N-" You were about to say no again, but someone stood in front of you. Bucky. He's towering the guy, looking at him intensely.

"She said no. Are you deaf or plain stupid?" Bucky asked, although he tried to show calmness in his voice, him being furious still peaked through.

"Bro, step aside. I got to her first, wait for your turn." Clyde tried to push bucky off to get to you, but bucky held him, using his vibranium arm, yanking the guy away from you.

"Wait for my turn? She ain't a toy to have people waiting for their turn on her. Step forward and I'll break your jaw." Bucky hissed, clearly mad and irritated. Clyde tried to punch him, but bucky caught his fist using his vibranium arm. Clyde tried to fight it, but knowing Bucky's strength, Clyde's fist didn't get to move any further.

"I warned you." He then pushed Clyde, he fell to the ground, and with the right enough of embarrassment going through his veins the moment he stood up, he left and didn't look back again.

"You okay, doll? Did he do something?" Bucky asked, checking you out for possible hints of pain or discomfort. Crazy how he can change his voice from being furious to being soft in an instant. You can melt right here because of it.

"No, I'm okay," You answered. He didn't look convinced though. "Bucky, I'm really okay, he didn't get to touch me further because of you, thank you."

"You know, I'll keep you safe anytime, right?" His soft voice is doing something to you. Your huge crush on him is just growing day by day, and this night does not help.

"Yeah, you'd to that to all of us."

"Yeah, i would. Especially you, I'd break anyone's jaw if they tried to hurt you." He looked down on you, hand on your cheek. He's looking at you with his steel blue eyes, just you, under different colors of light flashing in the club.

"I... Bucky, i kinda hoped you'd do that, " You confessed, the alcohol kicking in your system. Bucky smiled with disbelief and happiness, having to hear you say that cracked something in him.

"Even if you don't hope, I'd do that. I can't watch them have their hands on you, doll." He took your hands, guiding them to his neck. Your hand stayed in his neck, while the other one played with his hair, bucky closed his eyes shut, breathing heavily. The dj switched the song again, it's now playing 'Dj got us fallin' in love by Usher'

"You drive me insane, you know?" He said, voice low, soft, his forehead rested on yours. "You've been driving me insane, doll. It's hard acting all normal and shit everytime i see you when all i wanna do is to be yours." He breathed out, your heart skipped a beat. So... He felt the same way?

"I love it when you hold me during nightmares or when I'm tired, you don't have too but you do. Love it when you play with my hair, when you always reach out and include me, when you smile as if this fucked up world hasn't hurt you, when you jump in danger for us, that's rare, but please don't do that. Even if i say I'm fine, you always know what's up, you don't push but you make sure that your presence is felt and that makes me feel better. You made me believe that's there's still good in me, and i believe that now too. Or when you kissed my scar one time, no judgement. Fuck, I'm talking too much... You feel like home."

His hand resting on you back while the other one reached for your face. You can practically hear each other's heart right now.

"Wow... "You uttered.

" Wow as in you feel the same way, or wow as in 'you talk shit, bucky' " He asked, making you laugh.

"God, i love your laugh," He uttered. Your body is still swaying with him, your hand still playing with his hair. Your bodies are literally close to one another.

"I haven't push you off me yet, that's a start. And wow as in, i wanna fucking kiss you, bucky."

"Call me james, doll... I'm yours."

"James... "And with that, he connects his lips with yours. The crowd and music faded in the background, it's just the two of you in your own world. The kiss was soft, filled with love and patience and it was long overdue.

Your lips moved along with the music, bucky pulled your body closer to him, eliminating the gap between the two of you. from soft, his kisses turned into eager, as if he doesn't want to let go of you. And when he pulled away, his lips formed into a smile. Both of you are breathless, yet happy.

"I've always wanted to do that. It's even better that what I've anticipated," He blurts out. You chuckled softly, cheeks flushed.

"You anticipated for this?" You asked, softly, with a hint of teasing.

"Yeah. I've always wanted to feel your lips on mine, and it's better that what I've imagined. Doll, I have a thing for you, always have, I love you for so long now. It's not just a crush i feel, it's more. And i can show you if you let me." Bucky said, hoping that you'd give him a chance to show you how much you mean to him.

You didn't say anything, you just smiled and pulled him for another kiss. He immediately kissed you back with no hesitation.

"Does that answer your question? I've always wanted this too, for so long. Show me your love and I'll show mine." He pulled you for another kiss, this time, softer and the both of your smiled in between kisses.

"Pay up, told you they will crack tonight." Yelena nudged Ava's shoulder, clearly they made a bet about the two of you.

[elamarth-calmagol]

So, what does everyone think the Murderbot TV show is going to do next?

1. Adapt Artifical Condition for season 2 and Rogue Protocol for season 3? I guarantee there will be a B plot about the Preservation team (basically playing out what SecUnit sees in the news bursts), and I don't think it can run over two seasons without excessive amounts of padding.

2. Do one season, maybe a bit longer, that's half Artificial Condition and half Rogue Protocol? Possible, I guess.

3. Give Artificial Condition its own season, but combine Rogue Protocol in the same season as Exit Strategies, maybe? I don't know if I'd like that. I want a season to end with SecUnit deciding to go back to Mensah.

4. Combine Artificial Condition and Rogue Protocol into one story? If you think about it, Rogue Protocol's plot is not that important to the overall story, but Miki is. It's the opposite for Artificial Condition. So maybe the writers can put Miki and Don Abene into the Artificial Condition plot? Of course, that would require a lot of changes I wouldn't be too happy about. For example, if SecUnit is hired openly, half of its interactions with Miki change, but if it sneaks aboard, it loses a big piece of its experience in pretending to be human, which I really want to see.

5. Somehow put all three into one season? Let's hope not.