#you know. the one where the stick figure is screaming crying throwing up

[sionisjaune]

can someone please make a “girls when the vodafone mclaren mercedes” post please

[deebris]

Weight of Care

Simon Riley x little sister Reader (platonic!)

Synopsis: Simon, your older brother, has been your guardian since you were a baby. Amid the collapse of your family, he made the courageous choice to take you out of the house, raising you as if you were his own. However, despite being happy, your relationship is complicated. While you see Simon as a paternal figure, he struggles with the pain of being mistaken for one. His heart tightens every time you call him "daddy," and he thought you had managed to move past that—until you do it again one night.

Warnings: Just a little angst with a happy ending; reader is 6 years old.

Word count: 1.2k

“Did you brush your teeth?” Simon asked upon hearing your muffled laughter. He opened the bedroom door, its walls now marked by your numerous drawings. Toys scattered across the floor shifted as he entered, and with the first step he took inside, something cracked underfoot, breaking.

“How many times have I told you that you need to put your toys away after playing?” he said firmly, shooting you a stern look. Simon hated messiness, but with you around, it seemed impossible to keep everything in order.

“I was going to put them away,” you murmured, embarrassed by the scolding. But your guilty expression quickly turned into a tearful grimace as your eyes fell your sheep, now shattered on the floor. “You broke it!” Your childish scream echoed through the room, and you hurried to gather the pieces with trembling hands.

“If you had put it away, this wouldn’t have happened,” he accused you, hoping it would serve as a lesson. Maybe then you would finally start to be more responsible with your things. And even knowing he was right, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at seeing your broken sheep.

Watching you wipe your tears with the sleeve of the pajamas and hearing sniffles made his heart soften. It was frustrating how he simply couldn’t stay mad at you. The last thing Simon wanted was for you to become a spoiled child, but in that moment, it was hard to maintain his sternness.

He already felt guilty for not being able to take care of you completely due to work, and knowing that Mrs. Trelawney, your babysitter, was much more lenient than he was only made everything harder. Every time Simon came home, you seemed more stubborn and whiny.  

“Come on, it’s time to sleep.” He lifted you by your armpits and placed you in bed, pulling up the yellow blanket that you loved so much. You had already taken a bath and were wearing clean lilac pajamas covered with stars. “I’ll buy you another one, you don’t need to cry.”  

“But it’s not the same,” you murmured as he collected the toy pieces from your hand, placing them on the dresser to throw away tomorrow. Some parts were sharp, so he checked your delicate hands, worried about possible cuts.  

“It’s the same,” he insisted, sighing tiredly as he tucked your feet under the blanket. Surprisingly, you didn’t argue, remaining strangely silent. “What’s wrong?”  

“Sorry,” you whispered, feeling bad for upsetting him. “I promise I’ll put it away.”

Your promise made him cast a quick glance at the bedroom floor, where pink, blue, and all other colored toys were scattered. Even your dolls were out of place, thrown in various corners. He still felt frustrated because you always said you would tidy up and never did, but this time it seemed different, so he decided to put a bit of faith in your word.  

“Tomorrow. Now you need to sleep.” He stood up to leave, but suddenly remembered something:  

“Teeth.” Simon said, and you blew near his face, letting him feel the freshness of mint on your breath. “Show me your tongue.” He spoke in a suspicious tone, knowing that you sometimes didn’t clean your mouth well. “Good.” He praised, satisfied to see you sticking your tongue out, then making a face, which made him laugh inside.  

He turned off the bedside lamp, watching you settle into the pillow, and began to move toward the door. But hearing your naive voice, he stopped in his tracks, his heart tightening:  

“Daddy, can I go to the museum with my class tomorrow?”  

“What?” Simon asked, stunned, still turned away from you, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Surprise echoed in his voice, mixed with a thread of worry. He slowly turned around, trying to decipher the expectation in your gaze.  

It had been so long since you last called him that. Simon thought he had finally managed to correct you after so many attempts, but he realized that wasn’t working. He had lost count of how many times he repeated that he was just your older brother, but deep down, he knew he was guilty. In trying to erase any trace of your father in your life, he had created a space where that confusion was natural. It was understandable that you saw him this way.  

“Miss Sarah is taking us to the museum tomorrow. Can I go?” You repeated the question, oblivious to the tension in his shoulders.  

“Why didn’t you ask earlier?” Simon swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.  

“I forgot,” you explained, sitting up in bed to grab a piece of paper from your backpack. It was a permission slip for guardians to sign, allowing the trip. “Please?” You pouted, holding the paper in one hand and one of your decorated pencils in the other, as if that could increase your chances.  

“To the museum?” He asked, his voice tinged with melancholy. Simon sat on the edge of the bed, already starting to sign his name on the line, but his mind wandered to a distant place, filled with his conflicting memories and feelings.  

The situation between you two was complicated. You were the only family Simon had left, a little girl. He still remembers when he found out that his mother was pregnant and, even more, the first time he saw you. He had been away from home for several years, and coming back always felt torturous. But the idea of having something so small and innocent waiting for him was what truly saved him. 

Simon took you from home long before your parents died, unable to bear the thought of you growing up in that environment. After his brother died, he projected all the fears and regrets an older brother could carry onto you. It was as if you were his only way to redeem himself for Tommy. You were so young that you barely remembered the rest of the family; for you, the world revolved around Simon.  

He didn’t even realize he was wandering until he felt you gently pull the paper from his hands. Your big eyes locked onto his for a moment, filled with concern, until you broke eye contact, standing to put the paper away and lie back down, pulling the blanket over yourself.  

“Are you okay?” You asked, noticing he was still standing there, lost in thought. The nervousness in your voice snapped Simon back to reality, bringing him to the stillness of the room, where silence hung between you.  

Simon thought of several things to say, like, “You know I’m your brother, right?” or “We’ve talked about this,” but it felt like a never-ending cycle. It was as if nothing could stop you from continuing to call him that. He didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. He knew that, in practice, he played the role of a father in your life, something he chose for himself. Even so, every time he heard, a strange sensation coursed through his body.  

“Good night.” He simply said in his deep, familiar voice, but now, something different was in the air. For the first time, he didn’t try to correct or resist, finally allowing himself to accept the way you called him ‘daddy.’  

You hesitated for a moment, sensing something strange about him before responding softly: “Good night, Si.” And a faint smile formed on his lips, something rare, as if, at last, something had clicked into place.

Taglist: @aenishas

[tsunami-of-tears]

Mission Accomplished

Poly+ ACOTAR Week 2024 - Day 4 (Adventure)

Cazriel x Healer Reader

Summary: Despite the Inner Circle’s best efforts, the throuple continues to fight their affection for each other. To help things along, Rhys sends the group on a fake mission (unbeknownst to them). Of course - everything goes horribly wrong.

Pairing Masterlist

Wordcount: 1.4K

Warnings: angst; violence; injury; animal attack.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:

Reader

Weeks had passed since the incident with the love potion, and you’d given up on trying to figure out where it came from.

Despite the night of passion, your relationship with Cassian and Azriel remained mostly unchanged, albeit slightly more awkward. You were grateful to still be able to call them your friends - joking around with Cassian and your quiet chats with Azriel were your favourite parts of the day. 

You felt torn. You loved both males equally and didn’t want to come between their longstanding friendship. You didn’t want to have to choose between them. 

Their visits to your clinic had gotten less frequent, but Cassian insisted you needed some basic training. 

“Let me at least teach you some self-defence,” Cassian pouts at you for about the fiftieth time. 

You sigh, but smile as you roll your eyes. “Okay fine, it can’t hurt. But I’m no warrior, and I have no desire to be.” 

“I know, the only thing you’ve slain is my heart,” Cassian jests. “But,” he says, taking on a more serious tone, “I don’t expect you to fight in battle, I want you to be able to defend yourself if Azriel or I’m not around.”

————

Rhysand 

Mor waltzes into the office and throws herself on the plush couch. “Gods… They are even dumber than we thought,” she exclaims. “I really thought the potion would get things moving.”

Rhys runs his hand through his hair. “I know,” he agrees. “I’m sending them on a training exercise. Hopefully some time away will help them figure things out.”

————

Reader

You’re on your first-ever mission for the Night Court, camped deep in the forest of the Illyrian Steppes. 

You’d been informed that there were some Illyrian camps causing trouble in the area. You weren’t sure how your skills would help, but you were on standby in case anyone got injured. 

After a long day of hiking and scouting with little results, you’re setting up camp for the night. You stand over the small campfire, boiling water to sanitise your equipment. 

The loud crack of a branch breaking sounds behind you, followed by a low growl. 

You turn around slowly and find yourself face-to-face with a giant wolf. It’s enormous, towering over you. And those teeth… The sharp canines are exposed as it snarls at you. Your veins chill with fear and a sharp scream rips from your throat. 

You cautiously take a step back from the wolf, narrowly avoiding the fire. You don’t dare break eye contact. You try to stand tall, holding the only thing within reach - a ladle - brandishing it like a sword, like Azriel and Cassian taught you. 

You send a silent prayer to the Mother that one of your friends can save you before you become dinner.

————

Cassian 

Cassian sprints from the other side of the clearing at the sound of your screams, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees you wielding a ladle against the angry beast. The terror in your eyes strikes something deep within him, stoking the golden embers to life inside his chest.

His soul erupts in fury, and the deep need to protect. 

A battle cry sounds from Cassian’s lips as he charges towards the wolf with his knife out.

————

Azriel 

Azriel hears your scream before his shadows alert him of trouble. 

Adrenaline courses through his veins. The only thought in his mind is of saving you.  

He winnows straight to you. Right in front of the wolf. Within a second of his shadows dispersing, Azriel feels something sharp in his left side. 

He looks down and sees a hunting knife sticking out of his side, and a wide-eyed Cassian stepping back in shock.

————

Reader

You feel completely helpless as you watch the scene unfold in front of you. 

One minute, Cassian was hurling his knife towards the creature. The next, Azriel had winnowed right in the path of the blade. 

The wolf turns to look at the two Illyrians, who freeze under its yellow gaze. It huffs out a breath before turning on its heel and prowling back into the forest. 

Azriel shakes his head, hand going straight to the blade protruding from his side, “I can’t believe you stabbed me.”

“You practically winnowed into my knife,” Cassian exclaims. 

“Why didn’t you go for your sword? That knife would’ve bounced right off its hide,” Azriel bristles, irritation growing under his skin. 

You leap right into action, stepping in as the tension between the males starts to rise. “Looks like you did need me here after all,” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. “Azriel, sit on that log. I’ll just gather what I need.” 

Cassian stands back with his arms folded across his chest as you work on removing the blade and patching up the wound. 

“It’s not too deep, look it’s already clotting. It might just be a bit sore tonight, but you’re going to be fine.” You attempt to give Azriel your best reassuring smile. 

————

The rest of the night was strained. Both males were very quiet, only speaking in one-word responses. The silence was stifling, with the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the scraping of cutlery on plates.

Unable to handle the creeping tension any longer, you retire to your tent early, leaving the males to work out whatever issues they have.

————

Cassian 

Azriel could hardly look at Cassian, and Cassian couldn’t bear it. 

His brother was staring into the dwindling fire, as he sharpened his blades. The sharp singing of stone on metal cut through the air between them. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” Cassian admits. “I was overcome by this need to protect. I was blinded by fear. I had to protect Y/N.” 

Azriel finally looks up from his work, his expression unreadable before returning to sharpening his daggers.

Cassian runs his hand through his hair. He figured Azriel deserved the truth. “Y/N is my mate. The bond snapped when I saw her standing there, holding that damned ladle like it would’ve done anything.” 

Azriel freezes, a mixture of confusion and shock in his eyes. “That’s not possible,” he says softly. 

“It’s the truth, I felt it.” 

“No… The mating bond snapped for me not long after I brought her to the Night Court,” Azriel states.

“How? We can’t both be her mates, can we?”

Azriels gaze is captured by something behind Cassian. Cassian turns to see what his brother is looking at and sees Y/N standing there.

————

Reader

You couldn’t sleep. 

You tossed and turned, replaying the earlier incident over and over in your head. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts by hushed voices outside your tent. The mention of your name grabs your attention, and you still your movements to glean what the males are discussing. 

“Y/N is my mate,” says an exasperated Cassian. 

Your entire world slows on its axis. 

All thoughts eddy from your mind except one - your mate. 

You quietly exit your tent, walking towards the males around the fire, when Azriel’s words stop you in your tracks. 

“The mating bond snapped for me not long after I brought her to the night court.”

Both of them. 

Both males whom you loved with all your heart were your mates. 

Was this the Cauldron’s idea of a cruel joke? 

You walk towards them, your mates, and the glimmering bond between you starts to appear. You can see the two strands coming from your heart, connecting your soul to each of the males before you. 

As if they can feel your presence, they both look up at you. 

“Y/N” Cassian murmurs, your name a prayer against his lips. 

You touch your heart as you feel the deep longing flow down the twin bonds. 

“Both of you?” you whisper.

“It’s rare, but I’ve read about similar occurrences,” Azriel admits, rising to his feet.

“But, how am I supposed to choose?” You say. Tears well in your eyes and your lip quivers at the thought of rejecting either male. 

Cassian and Azriel exchange glances and a small nod. 

“Who said anything about choosing?” Azriel asks.

“I know it’s a lot, you don’t have to decide anything here and now,” Cassian chimes in, reaching for your hand. “We’d be honoured to share you, if you’ll have us both.” Azriel steps forward, taking your other hand in his. “It won’t always be easy, but I’m willing to try for you. Truthfully, there’s no one else I’d rather be bound with,” Azriel finishes, meeting Cassian’s eye. 

The tears that threatened to spill pool over the edge of your lashes. You nod earnestly as you send all your love down the bonds to your mates. 

You pull them into a tight embrace, your bodies fitting together perfectly, like the final piece to a puzzle, the answer to a question you’d been asking your entire life. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Tags ♡ @littlestw01f @impossibelle @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @the-wall-willow @xasael @lilah-asteria @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @therealmoonstone

[prodbymaui]

UNSAID | LMH

'cause I can't make you stay if you wanna go.

You wrapped your arms around Mark's neck, holding on as he pounded at you in a strength you cannot handle. Head thrashing everywhere, your screams of pleasure bouncing across the four corners of his room.

''Oh God!'' You gasped when you felt him sped up, hands made their way down to Mark's back. Your fingers dug on his back before you can even stop it, scratching the pale skin as red marks showed up. Mark groaned, feeling himself getting closer with the help of the stinging pain on his back.

He bit his lips as he buried his face on the crook of your neck, sticking out his tongue to lick it and planted more marks just like what you did to him. Mark settled one of his hands on the side of your head while the other went to you thigh, lifting it up and putting it close to your chest.

You felt crying from extreme bliss. And cry you did, tears fell down your cheeks as your voice lessened to pathetic whines. ''Mark, mark, mark..'' You chanted his name like a mantra, tongue lolling out as your eyes crossed.

''Fuck, that's so hot,'' Mark cursed under his breath as he watched your fucked out expression, fucking you harder to the mattress when he felt your pussy clamped on his dick just the way he liked it. Soon enough, Mark followed to the path of euphoria, throwing back his head as his hips feverishly thrust inside you. He bit his lips to prevent saying the words that he desired to spit out.

It took both of you a few minutes and a couple of catching of breaths before getting back to your sanity. Mark laid down beside you, recollecting himself. Just as he felt himself calm down, the mattress became lighter and your figure started collecting your clothes.

Mark sat up, not wanting to let you go. ''You should stay the night, you know? It's just- you know- it's midnight and it's dangerous outside,'' He scrambled to find words, not wanting to make it obvious how much he loved your presence.

You only laughed at him, ''Mine is literally a house away from you, Mark,'' You started to wear your previous clothes again, fixing your hair until it's in a state where the activity weren't evident.

''Just--'' Mark stood up from the bed. ''Stay the night, baby,'' Baby? He cursed himself at that. He never called you baby outside of bed so now you're probably thinking he's some kind of weirdo who has attachment issues.

You chuckled, ''Since when did you want me to stay the night?''

''Since I realized I liked you,'' Oh fuck, he shouldn't have said that. But if he took it back now, it'll look like he's playing with you. But he doesn't want you to know that he caught feelings, it was a boundary that you both agreed not to cross.

''You're so pussy drunk,'' You shook your head before bidding him goodbye, leaving him in his lonely and cold apartment again.

Mark fucked up, he really did.

What he didn't know was on the way back, you were thinking about how to apologize to Mark because of the way you responded to him. You also wanted to talk about your feelings, about how you've also fallen for him.

[one-squash-one-end]

I wrote a giant Raven Cycle analysis

Hi! Over the last year or so I've been working on a sort of essay about various themes in the raven cycle series, and I finally finished it a few weeks ago.

It is titled: "Why I love The Raven Cycle - An excessive analysis of the themes of friendship, queerness and growing up".

And since tumblr loves its meta (and bc I love peer validation) I've decided to start uploading it bit by bit here, making this the masterpost (if I can figure out the logistics of the linking lmao, bear with me)

(beware of spoilers up to greywaren starting at like 3b!)

Introduction

What even is the Raven Cycle?

Trust me, the characters are queer as fuck and I can prove it a) Blue Sargent b) Gansey c) Adam Parrish d) Ronan Lynch e) Noah f) Henry Cheng g) Honorary mentions

The Gangsey is a polycule

Analyzing the reoccurring themes a) Friendship b) Being a teen/growing up c) (Found) Family d) Magic (as a metaphor) e) Further themes I appreciate

Drawing a conclusion

Click here to start with the introductory parts!

1. Introduction

So here’s the thing: I love fiction almost as much as I love my friends. There’s something deeply comforting about the escapism, even if the book actually makes me want to scream and throw it on the floor (only one book has been thrown so far, I promise!).  Fiction is a healthy thing to occupy my thoughts with: headcanons! Quotes being on loop in my brain! Just fandoms!

And for me, if I am hooked on a book (series), it does not even need a good plot where a lot of things happen. In fact, I would say that my enjoyment of a book is made up of 30% plot and about 70% characters and vibes. If the characters are bland, if they do not make me feel much emotion, it likely won’t be more than 4 stars (additional info: I am way too nice rating books!). I really, really need to love the characters, to be able to relate to some aspects of them, or it just won’t become an obsession.

Since I have already started explaining that a bit, let’s look at this question: What is important to make a book special to me? 1. I need to cry reading it. 2. I have to think about it often, even weeks to months after having read it. 3. Obviously, I need to love the characters. 4. I need to be in the fandom! This can be hard with some books, but the internet is a whimsical space allowing you to find at least a small number of people who are obsessed with a work of fiction to a similar extent as you are.

Now, why am I elaborating on this so much? It’s because The Raven Cycle did all that for me. It is my favorite comfort book series at the moment, for all those aspects mentioned, but of course I cannot just leave it at that. No, I wrote a whole-ass analysis on headcanons and some of its themes. You’re welcome.

2. What even is The Raven Cycle?

The Raven Cycle is all I adore and live for (next to my friends). So, naturally, it’s a book series, specifically a four book young adult contemporary fantasy series by American author Maggie Stiefvater. The books in question are: The Raven Boys (2012), The Dream Thieves (2013), Blue Lily, Lily Blue (2014) and The Raven King (2016), and yes I will admit that the publishing dates are a bit of a red flag. There is also the very relevant follow-up series called The Dreamer Trilogy (Call Down The Hawk, Mister Impossible, Greywaren), but it’s a lot less easy to get into that here as I do not know these entire books by heart, so I’ll stick to the original tetralogy here.

To stick to red flags, the books are set in the fictional Henrietta, a rural town in non-fictional Virginia, US, in the 2010s. However, that doesn’t really say *that* much about the plot, so let me summarize that really quick, because I can do better than the official synopsis! (Or let’s pretend I can.)

Blue Sargent comes from a family of psychics, yet she does not have any powers of her own. Even worse, she is a bit of an amplifier for the others, meaning she is always somehow but never directly involved in the business. As if that isn’t enough for an identity crisis, every psychic she has ever met has told her that her kiss would kill her true love. Yikes.

But because she is that amplifier, she comes to a church watch on St. Mark’s Eve, where psychics see the spirits of those to die within the following year. It’s important business, but to her it’s really just staring into the dark. Until she does actually see a spirit: That of Gansey. Of course this is not a coincidence. No, to add to this teen’s mount of problems, there are only two reasons why a non-seer would see someone’s spirit: They are their true love, or they killed them. Or, in Blue’s case, maybe both.

The aforementioned Gansey is Henrietta’s Golden Boy, the son of politicians (read: he’s fucking loaded). He does not run with the Republicans though, he runs with dead Welsh kings, meaning he has been searching for the probably dead, presumably sleeping Welsh king Glendower (*1350; †1416; yikes) for the past like seven years. Why the fuck would he do that? Well, legend says that he will grant a wish to whoever wakes him, and our favorite PTSD-ridden guy really wants that favor.

Aiding him are fellow Aglionby students Adam Parrish, Ronan Lynch and Noah Czerny, plus Henry Cheng, though only a lot later in the series, but I really did not want to leave out that menace (affectionately) here. The paths of Blue and the boys cross because of Gansey’s search for Glendower, plus the fact that Blue works at a popular pizza place, but that’s a lot less whimsical. And, well, there’s the implication that Gansey might also be her true love, but perhaps she just kills him because of his bad fashion sense, it would be justified. Anyway, in true Famous Five fashion (Ronan is the dog; I won’t elaborate, the girls that get it, get it) they are of course not the only ones searching for the king, so it’s not completely a wholesome friend bonding activity all the way through.

Be prepared for: friendship and growing up, lots of treasure hunting, family mysteries, magical forests, illegal and slightly distasteful activities (our favorite of course), but most of all, heavily queer-coded (or even canonically queer) characters. Be Gay, Do Crime.

[ladykailitha]

As per usual, super shitty day = unlocking traumatic memory I repressed

So of course, I am projecting that onto comfort characters

Long story short I unlocked maladaptive daydreaming very early in childhood and from the very beginning of primary school I would daydream of my favorite staff figuring out shit wasn't right at home and adopting me. (Obviously would not have been what happened but that's irrelevant)

So now I'm thinking abt little Eddie thinking up grand old stories where his favorite teacher takes him in or like the music teacher helps him out. Bonus points for omegaverse, poor little Eddie out there just trying to find someone who would actually treat him with kindness pups need and deserve.

Also

Reverse! Reverse! (Everybody clap your hands!)

Little Steve accidentally calling one of his nannies mom (extra points if it's in front of his actual parents) and she gets fired bc of that so he locks down those emotions HARD. Skip forward to Claudia Henderson and he is STRUGGLING. He wants her (needs her) to be that parental figure in his life but he CANNOT allow that bc he hurts people and if he thinks of her as his mom then she'll leave him! So he sticks religiously to the social script of polite young man interacting with middle aged woman. He is screaming crying throwing up on the inside bc he just wants to hug her and be hugged but he could never cross that line

Awww... I'm sorry you had a rough day. That sucks. Childhood trauma is the worst!

I think in either situation, Eddie still comes out better than Steve, because he gets love sooner. Eddie doesn't know his unconditional love is coming around that corner. But hooboy, is Wayne waiting with open arms. Scoops him and holds him tight. Doesn't care that he's probably closer to a teenage and an adult this point. Eddie is his now and Al can't have him back. No takesbackies. And when Eddie presents alpha or omega (probably alpha), Wayne gently walks him through it all to be the best he could possibly be.

It will take longer for Steve, but he'll get his unconditional love, too. Because if there is anything Dustin gets from his mom, it's her stubbornness. Pure bullheaded tenaciousness. So once Dustin starts bringing around that Harrington boy, she knows, that's her boy now. Maureen Harrington can go suck a lemon. A whole orchard for all she cares. Steve's her boy now. Maybe not in name and definitely not in blood. But that's her boy and she's going to wrap him up in a blanket, feed him her best chicken noodle soup, and never let him go back to that cold castle ever again. With Steve he'll have already presented by the time he falls in with the Hendersons, but that doesn't stop her any. She'll teach him how to build nests, how to properly scent, how to use scent blockers and which pills to take. She watch over his heats.

[thevoiceofthebard]

Chapter 3 - Hadvar I: Unbound

Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 Late Morning

Hadvar

My name is Hadvar. Soldier in the Imperial Legion. A loyal Nord, despite what those in Windhelm might think. Proud citizen of the Empire. Protector of the people.

This knowledge is all that keeps me from melting into a puddle of fear from the might of the beast currently destroying Helgen. While most of my detachment fends off the beast, I do my best to bring townsfolk to what safety I can find. Not that I have much faith in doing so; even as I escort an old man under cover, I watch the dragon - a gods-honest dragon! - bash its head directly through one of the guard towers. Solid stone and mortar that took months to build and reinforce, walls that have stood up to countless bandit raids, knocked aside as though it were a shanty of sticks. Countless arrows find their marks in the dragon's hide, only to bounce off harmlessly. Unbelievable. Any delusions of fighting this beast, this demon, are shattered in my mind. Escape is the only option.

I hear a cry nearby. A man trapped beneath rubble, his son desperately shoving at the unmoving stone. I notice the dragon leap from the ramparts, heading directly for us. Fear assails me again, but I use it to power my limbs, sprinting for the pair. I grab the boy, throwing me over my shoulder, ignoring his screams as the beast lands in front of us, shaking the ground and almost causing me to fall over. The thanks in the man's face is evident, but my mind is elsewhere as he yells at me, "Go, save him!" I dive behind the wall with the old man, my boots scorched with fire as it bathes the ground where I'd been seconds earlier. Even under cover, the heat is oppressive, and the sounds the dragon is making... Would it were louder, that I could drown out the screams of dying men, but no such luck.

Shaking, I hand the now crying boy over to the old man, when movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. My hand flies to the hilt of my sword, but when I turn, all I see is a man in rags falling to the ground from the second story of the now burnt-out inn. Where in Kyne's name did he come from? Surely he hadn't been in there since this all began? I look up to the destroyed tower behind the inn, just in time to see another figure disappear from a gaping hole in its side. He jumped? Damn. The man is brave, if nothing else.

I offer him my hand, and realize with a start that he is the Breton that arrived with the prisoners. Saved from the chopping block from the dragon, if you could call it saving. Happy coincidence, that; I'd have hated to see another innocent die because of that thrice-damned traitor, Ulfric.

"Still alive, prisoner?" I ask, more out of amazement than curiosity.

"It's Talao," he responds pointedly. Quite a lot of spunk for a man who's nearly died several times today. "I am, and if you don't mind, I'd like to remain so." He glares at my sword, which I note is bared directly at him.

I lower it hastily, but do not sheathe it. Danger, and all that. "Good. Stick with me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy."

The old man looks at me with pride and hope as he comforts the boy. "Gods guide you, Hadvar." This. This is why I am a Legionnaire. Not for praise, or adoration, or battle. I wanted to be a shield for my people. And if I save even one person from the fires of Oblivion today, I will be content.

Enough dallying. "We need to find General Tullius and join the defense." The General will know what to do. The man's a military genius.

We run, heading toward the sound of the General's voice. A roar sounds close overhead. "Stay close to the wall!" I yell, as we squeeze through a narrow alley. The ground tosses beneath us with such force that we both go tumbling down, landing on our backs. Not ten feet above us, perched on the wall next to us, sits the dragon, another gout of fire spewing forth. Surely, we'll both die now, I think, covering my face from the vicious fire and blinding light. I swear I can feel blisters popping across my uncovered skin. But again, it lifts off, granting us a reprieve, and somehow another chance to escape.

Why is it here, for gods' sake? If we knew why, we might be able to do something. Is it hungry? Angry? Is destruction its sole desire, or is it far more nefarious? Is it even intelligent?

So many questions, yet all I can do is drag Talao through the glowing wreckage to the General. Atop his horse, he frantically but deliberately issues order to the troops. "Maintain ranks! FALL BACK!" An archer on the wall is grabbed by the dragon, and let loose to plummet to his death, screaming, a mockery of the creature's flight which ends with a sickening crunch. I've seen far worse horrors committed on the battlefield, but the sheer helplessness I feel, the despair is overwhelming. The general is right; full retreat is our only option now.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" The command spurs me to action once more, heading to the garrison with Talao in close pursuit. He may not have been a townsperson, but I believed in the man's innocence and knew that other soldiers likely wouldn't be as eager to protect him if they recognized him from the cart.

We're only a few dozen yards from the door when I see him, clad in blues and greys. By Ysmir, can't I catch a break? "Ralof!" He whirls around at the mention of his name, dropping into a battle stance. "You damned traitor, out of my way!"

"We're esaping, Hadvar. You won't stop us this time, milk drinker!"

My blood boils at his casual arrogance. "Like Oblivion you will. I'll send you to Sovngarde myself! That is, if they admit traitorous heathens like you."

I move toward him, ready to spill his guts on the ground, when something pulls me back. Talao is suddenly between us. "Are you both completely daft?! There's a dragon in the sky above us, raining death and destruction, and you're bickering like petty children over a sweetroll. Put aside your damn squabble until we're no longer an instant from being eaten alive!"

I nearly scoff at the notion, but astonishingly, Ralof nods and sheathes his weapon at the prisoner's words. I'm so surprised, I barely register him charge us, yelling "Get down!" He tackles Talao and myself to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. Bastard! A trick? I wrestle my sword arm free, intent on skewering him before he does the like to me, when my heart jumps into my throat. A gust of wind slams into us, and black claws grasp at the air we'd just inhabited. We'd been a split-second from the exact fate Talao had warned us of.

Ralof stands, hurriedly helping us all well. "I reckon the man's got the right of things, don't you, Imperial?"

Damn him, but he's right. And I can't truly find it in me to hate him for it. Not just now. "Truce then. Quickly, into the keep." At least there we'll only have to worry about rocks falling on us instead of dragons.

Chapter 2 - Ralof I: Unbound x Chapter 4 - Hadvar II: Unbound

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

☆There's No Place Like Home☆

《You are new to this... Neighborhood? Where the hell are you?》

Episode 3: Drive And Lullabies

[Pilot] [1] [2]

-

《Warnings: the subject matter this site has are potentially disturbing. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Welcome Home was created by Clown @/ partycoffin 》

-

Once your guests had left, you watched from beyond the windows of your supposed "home." The puppets tiredly wave at one another goodbye, completely ignoring your car on the sidewalk as they head to their separate homes.

Huh... Maybe they were too tired to notice?

Taking out your keys, you stare at them unsurely. Looking back through the window and outside surroundings.

 Houses of different colors and shapes surround a certain house in the middle of this "neighborhood." It was a bright, warm red shade and rainbow colored trees sticking behind it.

"That's not a normal color.." You mumble, getting closer to the window. Watching Wally, the supposed owner of the house, walks up the steps.

The door of the house flies open as its window shutters towards your direction. Loud squeaks and bangs once it looked back at Wally. No longer where there curtains that once covered, windows, no...

It was the creatures eyelids.

The glass windows now showcasing big, black pupils. It was unsightly. 

Wally looks back at your home. But now more specifically, your frozen form by your own window.

He smiles, waving his hand at you in goodbye as he walks inside his "home".

You lower your body to the ground. Cradling your head, muttering and mumbling in terror as your hands shake.

The jingles of your keys clashing with one another wake up from your madness.

"I.. I can.. leave.." You breathe out, legs wobbly and body wanting to collapse from all the terror.

"I.. I can leave.. Just get to the car.. And GO." You rationalized finding your footing as you turn the doorknob of the house. Cautiously walking to your car as you ignore the 'living house'.

Unlocking your door, you throw it up and start the car-

[OUT OF GAS]

"No.. No.. NO NO NO!" You bang your fists on the dashboard in anger. Baring your teeth like a animal as you scream and cry.

Banging your head on the stirring wheel stupidly as you croak out a fragile wail in pain.

Slumping against the car window after your.. Fit. You see the many colored houses lined up in front of you, causing you to close your eyes and steady your breathing.

"I can figure it out... I only have to try..."

You mutter tiredly, turning away from your "neighbors" homes and looking at the one you supposedly "moved-in". 

You close your eyes, clutching your keys and lowering your seat.

"Please... Let this be some fucked up dream."

-

[Taglist open]

@aconfusedwonderland @partybowl @trzppyghxuls @cookieswithay @luna-charlie @isometimeswritestuff @kazi-pop @lightspectre-universe @jjowithastar @smilingfox22-blog @jayysnotjoyful @cadaverous-coop @heather-hutchcroft @camilo-uwu @sweetheartturtle2007 @welcomehome102 @pretty-please-just-let-me-sleep @wally-darling-hyperfixation @q1bli @rainingdandelion @anima-chara @aceduchessdragoness @sleepy-planet @pauldanosbandonedirection222 @thelittlexd11

[Ta-Da! In honor of the Welcome Home site update! I've decided to post another installment! Comments are super duper appreciated! I need to know I still got readers who love their dorky little puppet pals! Thanks for reading!]

[manicplank]

I kindly ask you to give a bit more information on that rampaging fakey when you get home and actually have the time to type :3

R A M P A G E

(somewhat of a short fic)

A demonic screech is heard throughout the tower. It echoes so loud that the walls shake. Fake Peppino has been triggered into a rampage of emotion. He's grown large in figure. A hand stretches out of his boss gate and grabs Mr. Stick. He's launched across the level as Fake Peppino throws him when he crawls out the door. He let's out another shrieking cry. The Noise notices him escape from his place in the slum and heads for Noisette's Café. His first thought was that he must protect her. Fake Peppino saw him and chased him through the walls on all fours. The Noise gets to Noisette at the counter and turns around, brandishing a snubnosed revolver. Fake slowly drew closer, and The Noise shot all of the six bullets he had loaded. The holes filled themselves with fresh flesh quickly, and Fake was even more angered. He took one more step, and The Noise pointed at him and screamed,

"YOU GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BLOW THIS WHOLE FUCKING TOWER TO SMITHEREENS!!!"

Fake Peppino whimpered and fled back to the slum. Noisette put her hands on her hips.

"What was that all about," she asked. Noise shrugged and sat on the stool.

"I don't know," he sighed. "Hey! Got any of those sweet mocha coffees left?"

"Mhm!"

"YAAAAAY! GIMMIE!"

Fake Peppino, still on all fours, hopped through the slum and hopped up to the fifth floor. "Hi, buddy," John spoke with a smile. Fake merely hissed at him. "Oh." John frowned. Fake rammed into the War level, activating the alarms. Pizzahead was in there tinkering with the other clones. He was met face to face with Fake, whose mouth was wide open and dripping saliva. He whipped out his fly swatter and swung.

"BACK! BACK, BOY!"

Fake Peppino screamed and ran out of the level. Pizzahead entered a code to deactivate the bombs and headed out to follow Fake. Fake Peppino had already gone down past the slum and onto the third floor. He veered into the gnome forest where he encountered Gustavo and Brick. Gustavo hopped on Brick and rode as fast as Brick could run. Fake chased after them with bloodlust. They slid under a platform where Fake couldn't fit through. Fake Peppino stretched his arms through, swatting at the air. Gustavo managed to dodge every swing. Shortly after, now even more frustrated, Fake Peppino dashed out of the level. Pizzahead dropped down in a heroic manner, fly swatter still in hand, only to be pushed aside and slammed into a wall by the raging clone.

Fake Peppino squeezed his way down to the second floor. The Vigilante was already there, waiting for him as he had been alerted by Pizzaface that Fake was loose. He held out his revolver with shaky hands. "Don't," he gulped, "don't make me do this to ya." Fake crawled slowly closer. The Vigilante closed his eyes and shot, completely missing and hitting the ceiling. Fake Peppino scooped him into his mouth and swallowed, only to puke him back up after The Vigilante shot him from the inside. Fake fled, and The Vigilante sat there with the thousand yard stare, completely traumatized.

Fake Peppino now dropped to the first floor, where Pepperman awaited. "Never fear, good citizens of the tower," Pepperman stuck his finger in the air. "I, the great Pepperman, am here to save the da-" Before he could finish, Fake had wrapped his tongue around him and pulled him into his mouth, chewing him up and swallowing. Peppino walked into the hall. "Nope," he said as he turned around and left.

Pizzahead dropped down from the upper floor, slamming Fake Peppino on the head with the fly swatter as hard as possible. Fake let out a sorrowful cry as he went back to his usual stature. He began to sob, realizing the damage he had done in his blind rage. Pizzahead grabbed him gently by the face. "What's wrong, buddy guy," he asked in a soft voice. Fake Peppino grabbed him and crawled back up to the slum. He took him inside the boss room, where he pointed at a rock. "Ĥųřṭ!"

"You..." Pizzahead was speechless. "You stepped on the rock, and it hurt you?"

Fake Peppino nodded with tears in his eyes. "Ĥųŕť!"

Pizzahead put his hand on his face. "You gotta be fucking kidding me... GEROOOOOME!!!"

Gerome entered the room and sighed. "What?"

"Can you get this rock outta here?"

"Nope." He left.

[film-in-my-soul]

steddie - writer’s choice ❤️

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Writer's Choice - Different First Meetings + Modern/Canon Divergence AU (because I don't want to have the period typical homophobia)

.⋆｡°✩ Steve takes the kids to a local concert and manages to get himself front and center when Corroded Coffin takes the stage. ✩°｡⋆.

Steve is going to kill Dustin. And Lucas, too, for that matter. Max he thinks he can forgive, seeing as she's a full head shorter than most of them and out of all the kids (practically adults now, but if Steve thinks about that for too long he'll want to throw up... or cry), she's the one who'll make sure the rest of the buttheads currently scattered throughout the too dark, overly-crowded concert space don't get themselves into trouble. But the fact remains that Dustin had said he'd stick with Steve if they got closer to the stage, that no one else wanted to go with him, and "C'mon Steve! You want to leave me alone with a bunch of metalheads?" only for Dustin to abandon him!

If there's a saving grace, and it's a marginal one at that, Steve's managed to force himself to the front of the slightly raised platform between the bands changing over so he's far enough away from the mini moshpits that keep breaking out. But it also leaves him closer to the more fanatic audience members who aren't particularly mindful of where they're throwing their elbows, and even with his hearing aid turned off, they're loud, a low chant of "Coffin, Coffin, Coffin!" growing in urgency and volume.

Still, it feels safer to be able to crawl along the stage to escape if he needs to, and Steve can admit to himself that he's not having the worst time. That doesn't mean he's not sending Robin passive-aggressive texts every half hour, seeing as she'd tricked him into being the chaperone. He steadfastly ignores the replies where she calls him out, knowing he would have offered himself up anyway.

He's just about to send her another, maybe even send a selfie of his slowly deflating hair and scowl, when the lights dim almost to the point of total darkness.

There's an immediate hush, and then, when the strobes at the back of the stage flair up, imitating lightning, silhouetting figures that weren't there a moment before, the crowd explodes into a roar. It's almost so intense that Steve's bad ear rings. A fog machine hisses to life from somewhere off the right of the stage, and when a good layer of the smoke has started spilling over the lip of it, ghosting over Steve's knees, the rest of the lights come back on, a mix of neon red and flickering white.

There's a bass line kicking up to match the pattern of the blinks, and something about its low sound matching that visual cue and vibrating Steve from his feet to the top of his head easily fights through the screaming people buddying up to Steve and catches his attention in a not so unpleasant way. The drums follow, and it's effortless to connect the hard hits, higher in pitch and almost imperceptible to Steve's fucked hearing, with the nodding head of the musician responsible for it. And then, like a siren call, a distant wail, a guitar comes to life, and Steve's eyes follow the invisible wave of sound only to stop when-

Holy hell.

Right in front of him, only five feet away, with his leg propped up on a pedal and his wild mane of dark frizzy curls shaking with the rock of his body, is the most gorgeous guy Steve's ever seen.

It could be a trick of the mood lighting, or maybe just the combination of envy-worthy hair and wicked, electric smile, but Steve's pretty sure it's the whole damn package.

The guitarist's in a cut-off tank top, the edges of it tattered and the arms slit so low down his sides that Steve can see the curve of black ink crawling across his ribs. His pants are black and leather, like his boots, and each time he moves, picking out a new cord or riff, the flash of the silver jewelry adorning his fingers, chunky, eye-catching rings, is a beacon for Steve to track. He looks like some 80's hard rocker transported right into the twenty-first century with the sole mission to remind everyone why they included 'Sex' in the phrase 'Sex & Drugs & Rock 'n Roll' and from the way he moves, large and confident, throwing off winks and grins, he knows it.

Some of the girls around Steve sound like they're crying, sobbing out the name 'Eddie,' and given that they only get louder when the guitarist swings his hips and hair in their general direction, Steve guesses that's the guy's name.

A lot of the music fades with his attention so readily captured, but Steve likes this band more than the one before, and not just because he has to check if he's drooling when Eddie drops to his knees halfway through a song for a ridiculously attractive guitar solo. The bass is hard, and it's not just senseless thrashing. There's an occasional mellowness to the musical breaks, and the lyrics are followable. It's still not Steve's kind of sound, but dumb as he is about metal music, he knows these guys are good.

There are a few moments where Steve thinks his and Eddie's eyes meet, where one of those winks or blown kisses might be for him. He's still right against the stage, but Steve likes to think he's gotten a grip on his habit of wishful thinking and shrugs it away. He tells himself it's the blonde with the big rack screaming herself shrill just behind his shoulder that's getting all the attention he kind of wants just for himself.

Steve can tell the end of their set is coming up because somehow the energy in the crowd grows tenfold, and there's a new rocking of bodies where every other note of the song currently howling from the amps bumps Steve up against the platform, harder and harder each time. Something's coming. He doesn't know what, couldn't even guess, but the atmosphere is ratcheting to positively feral levels as he's jerked left and right but managing to keep his feet planted. And when the drum solo kicks in, starting soft but growing into a steady crescendo, Steve's proven corrected.

The audience behind him gives one heaving shove, and he trips forward, barely catching himself on the lip of the stage with his palms but nearly smacking his face on it all the same. He curses under his breath and shakes the disorientation from his head when he realizes someone is right in front of him. Steve follows the leather-clad knee up to a leather-clad thigh to a black cut-off tank top until his gaze plants itself right on the smirking mouth of Eddie, the guitarist.

The drums are still going, still rising in intensity like the crowd that's becoming distant white noise to Steve the longer Eddie doesn't move away. Steve doesn't even realize that Eddie's getting closer until there's a hand cupping his cheek, a thumb pressed to the dip of his chin, and his face is tipped up.

"Careful there, big boy," Steve thinks is what Eddie says, mostly reading his still sharply amused lips, and then he's not thinking much of anything because the cymbals of the drums crash, and Eddie is kissing him.

It's deep and messy and so full of blatant showmanship that it's mostly gross. It also has Steve's toes curling and a startled sort of moan forcing itself from his chest. It's quick also. Too quick if he's being honest. He doesn't even get a chance to close his eyes and feel it before Eddie separates from him with a wet pop and before jumping right back into the music.

He blows a kiss right at Steve and punctuates it with a hard-strummed chord on his guitar. Then he's gone, leaving Steve in a momentarily senseless vacuum until the room comes pouring back into his brain, and he's forced to acknowledge the people shaking him in some weird display of congratulations.

Steve's not sure how he's supposed to feel, but he thinks the next time Eddie throws a grin his way, he won't be as quick to dismiss it as being for him.

Ficlet Bingo!

[silverstarssart]

I FINISHED FOUL HEART HUNTSMAN

(Spoilers ahead) (thoughts throughout the book)

ORIONS SHIRT

Oop. Oliver's intrusive thoughts won (66)

"Excuse me? I am your WIFE!" (126)

*INTENSE SOBBING* HE HAS FORGOTTEN HER (166)

Silas is down so bad for Phoebe. Honestly, same

OLIVER YOU LITTLE BASTARD HOW DARE YOU KISS HER AND THEN SACRIFICE YOURSELF FOR HER WTF (199)

ROSALIND CONFESSING WHILE THINKING ORION IS ASLEEP AHHHHH

"That was what you called me. Not Rosalind. Beloved."

THE REUNION BETWEEN ROSALIND AND JULIETTE

The part where Alisa was like "wanna know what Rosalind left out." and Orion going FUCK YEAH. I died

THE POPCON SCENE

"Its all right if you forget me."

SILAS WHAT THE FUCK-

SILAS WHAT THE FRIG-

SILAS WHAT THE ACTUAL HECK-

WHAT TOMFOOLERY IS THIS.

"In support, Oliver made an ambiguously French sound as the extent of his contribution." OUI OUI BAGUETTE

YESSS CELIA AND OLIVER

"I love you, I love you, I'm sorry I said so many stupid things. I can't believe I asked why we couldn't cross Suzhou Creek."

ORIONS REACTION TO ROSALIND MAYBE DYING I CANNOT

OH MY GOD I KNEW IT OTION AND MARSHALL HOOKED UP THAT IS ABSULOUTLY HILARIOUS.

HE was sunshine (Orion) I was midnight RAIN (Rosalind)

Orion's Taylor Swift song is The Archer I will take no arguments.

Rosalind's (I know she has a canon one but) is Right Where You Left Me

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen? Time went on for everybody else, she won't know it She's still 23 inside her fantasy How it was supposed to be Did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? Break-ups happen every day, you don't have to lose it She's still 23 inside her fantasy And you're sitting in front of me

At the restaurant, when I was still the one you want Cross-legged in the dim light, everything was just right I, I could feel the mascara run You told me that you met someone Glass shattered on the white cloth Everybody moved on

THE EPILOGUE

THE BABY REVEAL WITH STICK FIGURES IMAO

THE PROPOSAL

Was screaming, crying, throwing up through this whole book

@the-princess-fangirl THIS IS YOUR FAULT. I WILL NEVER RECOVER. (love u)

I NEED TO LIE DOWN

[steeb-stn]

700 words of Prospect hurt/comfort, enjoy

—- “Ezra!” 

Her anguished voice echoes through the trees. It’s been said that the Green has its own haunting beauty, but all he sees now is cruelty, a maze of greenery and vines and thickets, throwing sound from one vast tree trunk to another, keeping him from his girl. 

“Ezra, help! Help me!” 

He tries to run toward her voice, but his legs are weighed down with lead, his lungs heavy with Dust. Tries to call out to her. “I’m coming, birdy! Where are you?” It comes out barely a whisper.

“Ezra please!” She is begging him now, as if he wouldn’t saw his other arm off if she needed him to, as if he would not give her his very heart. He struggles through the trees, tripping over the brush, continuing forward on hand and knees. 

“Cee, I’m coming, I promise you I’m coming! Tell me where you are, little bird!”

She doesn’t answer him, only screams and sobs, every cry tearing through him like a knife. Finally he falls upon a clearing in the trees.The Queen’s Lair lays before him, and she lies at its edge, her face covered in tears and naked fear. She reaches for him, nails clawing into the dirt. “Ezra, help! Ezra!” Dark figures pull at her limbs and her hair, dragging her back into the pit, first her father, then the Saters, then the mercs. “No! Let me go, no!”

He snarls, ready to tear limb from limb, but however hard he tries he cannot get closer to her, always struggling in the dirt, pulled five steps back with every one he drags himself forward, he can’t get to her.

“Please!” She sobs. He feels  her despair as if its his own, but he’s trying, he’s not leaving her, this isn’t fair. “Please Ezra, you can’t let them take me, you can’t, we had a deal-”

“Hey! Wake up. Ezra.” He comes to with a start. The night is pitch black in front of him. A slight weight on his shoulder causes him to reach out in reflex until a thin arm is firmly in his grasp.

“Birdie?” His voice is harsh and panicked in the stillness of the night.

“I’m right here.”

He sets up with a start, now just able to make out her slight silhouette in the darkness. He reaches for her, able to get his hand on the side of her neck, feel that she is whole and hale. He looks around anxiously, but it’s too dark to see any threat that might be there. He lets go of her just long enough to reach the bedside light. But when the room is finally illuminated, there is no one there. No enemies, no dangers, just the two of them. She squeezes his arm where it is wrapped around her. 

“Ezra, it’s okay.” Her serious expression is somewhat adorably at odds with her oversized Life is better on Lao! t-shirt and her bedhead. He tries to school his expression, calm his rapidly beating heart. She is safe, here with him in their little one bedroom flat, watching him concernedly. “Bad dream?”

“‘Fraid so, little bird.” He runs a hand down his face. “Did I wake you?” 

She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s okay.” 

“What was I saying?”

“I couldn’t really tell. You were just yelling.” 

He hopes he doesn’t look too relieved at that. Besides, it’s nothing he wants to trouble her with. All thoughts of the Green belong far from her mind. 

He looks up at the hand on his shoulder, her thumb rubbing back and forth against his arm. It’s not something she used to do, the touching. The comforting. He taught her that, somehow., though he doesn’t know how that could be. 

They taught each other. 

He gives her a smile. “Thank you for the rescue, little bird. I’m sorry for the interruption to your rest.” He ruffles the hair sticking up at the crown of her head. “Back to bed with you, yes? You’ve got class in the morning.” 

She smiles, squeezes his arm. “Maybe some tea first? It always takes me a while to get sleepy again.” 

That’s how he spends the next half hour, watching her putter around the kitchen, drinking tea side by side, their shoulders brushing together, allowing his heartbeat and his mind to finally settle.

[darhknight]

X-Men 97 Reaction

Reacting to Episode 7. Bright Eyes

• WARNING •

Spoliers under the cut. Do not read unless you seen the episode or don't care about spoilers. I warned you.

The gravestone and speech from Nightcrawler broke my heart

"He say it was just in the cards" my heartstrings

Every gambler has a tell. Modesty was Gambit's.

Not Jubliee crying. Someone give her a hug

Dad Wolverine to the rescue

Jubliee is right tho. Where the crap is Rogue?

Found her

Love how Nightcrawler knew Rogue was f*cking stuff up. Like that's a good brother.

HULK NAME DROP

General Ross? Sir she might kill you be nice

CAP'S SHIELD. CAP'S SHIELD

STEVEN ROGERS BOIIIIIIIS

Love how Rogue was like five seconds from fighting Steve and Steve was like 'nah let me just show you what I found and maybe we can work together once I get the ok.'

she said no

then she proceeded to throw his shield into the mountains somewhere

Big Boss Energy

A resort ... mmm Kay. Who's paying his bill guys?

Kick his butt. Kick his butt. Kick his butt

Annnnnd we are back to the other X-men

Is that BEAST'S GIRLFRIEND THE LOVELY CARLY OR CARY I CANT SPELL HER NAME THE REPORTER LADY

Love how the same mutants show up everytime in the background

Not the statue heads of Magneto and Charles 😢

Jubliee convincing Reberto to tell his parents. I'm so proud of him. 👏

BEAST IS ANGRY 😡

A little Jean and Scott moment. Good for them they need it.

Why am I not surprised EMMA FROST is the first survivor they find

Also sorry Scott. We know you love Jean and Madelyn. (That's not how her names spelt my bad)

Back to Rogue

Nightcrawler being a good brother

Him KNOWING ABOUT HER AND MAGNETO

No she's crying.

Their all there for her. I'm so happy

IS THAT BASTION?!

EVIL NASTY MAN. EVIL NASTY MAN

HE Killed Him. He killed Gyrich.

I skipped over Jubliee and Roberto. My bad.

Love how his mom knew

Shes like honey if your weren't a mutant I be concerned

'It was your secret to tell.'

'Spriters anyone?' Like ma'am. You just made a reference to him maybe not seeing Jubliee anymore and your offering drinks?

Back to the other X-men

Forgot to mention how much I enjoyed watching Trask tell them the truth

Also Morph being like 'He created the master mold let's like not trust him.' Aka he's evillll. 😈

Sleeping GAS

(Notice as I was typing this that I have the scenes backwards. Whoops)

Is it me or do those robots kinda look like ultron?

Trask really be losing his mind right now. I actually feel bad for him.

Love how Trask is ratting out Sinister tho

Like he took one look at what Sinsiter did and went NOPE. Gonna go rat him out to the group of mutants I have been trying to kill since season one of the original show.

ROGUE DROPPING HIM

GIRRRRRRRL

SHE DEADLY

'Is this what we are now?' A great question Morph. The answer is ... complicated.

HUMAN SENTINEL!!

Dude he knocked Rogue OUT

Love the little Nightcrawler saving Rogue moment. Thank you creators for my fill of sweet siblings.

Morph getting hurt and Wolverine yelling his name

I ship it

You GET YOUR HAND OFF SCOTT

Never in my life have I liked Cyclops but this show has changed me

SO GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SON

CABLE. CABLE. CABLE.

Jean reading his mind to figure it out

'Let's skip the reunion dad.' I'm dying

My son is meeting his son guys. Their meeting!

BASTION IS BACK

EVIL HUMAN SENTINEL CYBORG.

NASTY MAN

Oh Sinister is here too I guess.

rip the human race. Bastion gonna turn them all into sentinels. bet.

THEY KNOW ABOUT XAVIER

OH NO

XAVIER YOU DONE MESSED UP

That Song. I don't know if I hate it or love it.

MAGNETO!

ERIK MAGNUS LESNHARR

MY HUSBAND?!

BASTION YOU GET YOUR NASTY HANDS OFF MY MAGNETIC HUSBAND

I don't care if he has facial hair you don't touch him

Also love how Magneto has the mutant collar AND tape over his mouth

Plus cuffs around his hands sticking him to the chair

Like I understand the collar and the chair but like the tape?

This man is the master of magnetism not screaming really loud

Also you be in the middle of nowhere

Who's gonna hear him?

But once again

GET YOUR HANDS AND THAT BLADE AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND YOU D*CK

'Just obey. Just listen. You were made for this.'

Leave Erik alone.

• Maybe a few unfavorable opinions •

Erik is a holocaust victim. And jewish/german. Was treated like crap and Bastion is out here telling him that he was made to obey to be Bastion's plaything?

That he was made to be a Slave

cause I don't know if you all got that vibe from that scene but I definitely did

Especially if you know ANYTHING about Bastion

The guy makes Red Skull look sane

Bro I hope Rogue finds you and tears you a new one

Or Charles.

Or any of the X-men for that matter

Actually in my honest opinion it probably be Wolverine. Like I'm gonna call it right now. If Charles doesn't find Magento telepathically. Five bucks says somehow Wolverine does.

Or Bastion turns Magento into a sentinel

Actually don't do that

Please

Leave my somewhat questionable but trying his best to play nice with humans master of magnetism husband alone.

He deserves better

They all do

Expect Sinister.

He can die in a ditch for all I care

And Bastion ... sadly

For plot reasons we gotta sacrifice Bastion

Sorry bud

Gonna say also that Cable might have to go back in time cause I don't feel like they are going to keep Gambit dead.

But that's just me.

Thanks for reading my ranting

[violetsandviolencepoetry]

I often regain memories or get faces or names back in my dreams. I remember one where I almost saw the face of the woman who hate crimed me, I didn't but I now remember she had a chestnut brown ponytail.

I remember the first extremely strange dream I had where I walked through a house made of my memories, I knew I had to open a door in the basement, it looked like a door to a house I lived in for a while when I was six. I kept having to hide in old cupboard and hall closets that I recognized. They didn't want me to open the door. I remember one room I entered and it was my bedroom in that house from when I was six. (I never lived anywhere long enough to have a childhood home.) And my dad was sitting in that room, younger than he was in reality. He would pick up a toy out of my toy chest, and it would look brand new, and he would tell me it's name and it would age to how it looked in the present and with the toy my dad would age little by little, until he withered away.

I left the room.

I kept sneaking through the amalgamation of houses I've lived in. Avoiding the shadows that didn't want me to reach the basement. I finally, FINALLY after what felt like ages, reached the door and put my hand on the handle, I pulled it open and then! And then I woke up.

I wrote it down since it was such a strange vivid dream. I still remember it vividly. I even skipped the detail of the bloated corpses of the dead battering against the outside, trying and failing to get in. Anyway after that day I started getting back memories.

Blood sticking to my knees. You need to put pressure on it, he's going to scream. Baby, you have to breathe, you HAVE to breathe or you're going to keep throwing up. Blood sticking to my knees. Hot water made it worse. White towel. Asking her to touch me in the locker room. She was cruel. People being paid to spy. Faggot. Dyke. Slaming someone's head against the locker. Romeo and Juliet. Secret kisses. You're going to Hell. Stay away from my sister, Fag. Fights. Bruises. I can't walk, it hurts too bad. I can't sleep it's too much. Blood sticking to my knees.

That sort of thing. The therapist I was seeing at the time said that memories come back when you are strong enough to handle them. I didn't feel very strong but she did make me feel better about it. Like I wasn't going crazy.

I have had plenty of strange dreams full of memories now, I can parse through them what is real pretty well. I think.

I always wake up when I figure out I'm dreaming. I'll realize something doesn't make sense, mention it to someone and wake up. It always freaks me out, the feeling of having realized that world around you isn't real.

I even have waking dreams sometimes where I won't know when I am until I realize. I always am in the woods when I come back to myself. Most private place around, best to go there when I can't stop crying.

I've been keeping a dream journal since freshmen year of college.

None of this is quite the point but it's important context.

I didn't know whether or nor I was dreaming. I know that. But I remember not being able to see, the world was an inky black, and I started screaming. "I WANT TO WAKE UP I WANT TO WAKE UP IWANTTOWAKEUPIWANTTOWAKEUPIWANTTO WAKE UP I WANT TO WAKE UP IWANTTOWAKE UP-" over and over and over again. I remember thinking that the screaming felt strange on my throat, that it should have hurt. But it didn't.

I woke up on my elbows, inches away from my pillow. I remember deciding not to record it in my dream journal. I remember falling back asleep. I don't know what scared me so much, I don't scare easily, even in dreams. No matter how bad the situation I'm in I'm always confident I can get out of it. So I question what was in the ink? Was it a memory? Some invention of my mind? It bothers me that I'll never know, but hey. At least I know what was behind the door.

[wesperbrekkered]

Wesper 23 for the kiss prompt? :0

Thank you for the prompt! Apologies of its not my best work, I wrote this as distraction from some girl pain hehe.

Tw: nightmare, mentions of blood, extremely mild panic attack.

Prompt: a kiss in relief

_________________________________

They didn’t always start out this way.

Sometimes Jesper was in the room. Sometimes he was outside. Always, always, he heard the scream.

This time, Jesper was outside. He was standing outside the window, a pair of rose clippers in his hand. And as always, there was a figure in the room.

Sometimes Wylan was painting. Sometimes he was playing the piano. This time he was curled up on the bed, sketching something or another. Always, always he was alone.

Jesper knew what was going to happen. It happened the same way, every time. He tried to move forward, tried to knock on the window, but his body was rooted in place. He opened his mouth, trying to shout a warning, but no words left his mouth. He tried to scream, yell, pound his fists against the glass as ice cold panic gripped his insides. Always, always he failed to do them all.

A door into the room swung open. Wylan lifted his head. Jesper tried, tried to do something, anything that might prevent the inevitable.

Always, always Jesper failed.

Sometimes it was a gun. Sometimes it was swinging fists. This time it was a knife. Always, always there was blood.

And a scream.

Jesper looked down at his hands. The rose clippers were covered in blood. Wylan’s blood. Because it was always, always Wylan’s.

Bile crept up his throat.

Sometimes he screamed. Sometimes he cried. This time he wanted to get sick. Always, always Jesper crumpled.

He stepped back, back, shaking his head in disbelief. It didn’t matter how many times this happened, Jesper never could quite believe his eyes. His foot caught on something in the gravel and he fell down, down, down into terrifying darkness.

And nothing, nothing he ever did could wrench him from the darkness.

Jesper bolted upright with a wrenching gasp.

The room around him was spinning, his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to the sweat on his back, the sheets tangled around his legs. He tried to suck in a breath, tried to force his eyes to register their surroundings, but it was so dark and he couldn’t breathe, and Wylan, where was Wylan—

“...Jes?”

Jesper fumbled blindly, throwing his arms out to the side even as his breaths came short and gasping in his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey,” there were hands, small and warm, gently wrapping around his thrashing wrists. “You’re okay.” There was a voice, soft and rough from sleep, but always soothing, always gentle. “I’m here. You’re in bed, you’re safe, you’re okay, and I’m here.”

And finally, finally, Jesper let himself relax, even just a little.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, even as Wylan murmured a gentle, “good.” He closed his eyes, opened them again, sucked in another breath. Wylan’s thumbs were rubbing soothing circles on each of his wrists, passing over his rapid pulse. Jesper closed his eyes, focused on the circles, tried to time his breaths to each pass of Wylan’s thumb over his pulse.

Wylan was talking, whispering gentle reminders that “It’s okay, I’m here, we’re both safe, you’re okay.” Jesper hardly registered the words. It took all his energy to just listen to his familiar voice.

Perhaps a minute passed, perhaps a day, perhaps an eternity, Jesper didn’t know.

But eventually, the world stopped spinning, his heart slowed its racing, and Jesper found that he no longer had to fight for each shaky, shuddering breath. His cheeks were wet. He didn’t remember crying.

Jesper exhaled shakily, then slumped forward against Wylan’s reassuring figure, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Wylan let go of his wrists, wrapping one arm around Jesper’s shoulders and letting the other rest on his back, rubbing soothing circles along the length of his spine. Jesper counted each circle, and breathed again.

“Are you with me again?” Wylan murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Jesper’s head. Jesper nodded, hands gripping tightly onto Wylan’s shirt as if he just might disappear if he only let go.

“Nightmare?” Wylan asked, squeezing his shoulder. Jesper nodded again.

“Same as always?”

Another nod.

Wylan hummed lightly in understanding, “do you need to do your check?”

Jesper pulled away from the hug, already nodding frantically.

Every time Jesper had this nightmare, every time he woke up trembling and crying and seeking Wylan’s comfort, he had to do his check.

The kiss was gentle, when Jesper ducked his head for it, the press of Wylan’s lips as soft as ever. Wylan never led these kisses on these nights, letting Jesper do just what he needed in these scary moments He hummed lightly, like he always did, like he somehow knew how much the sound soothed him. He could feel each tiny huff of air against his own lips between every reassuring kiss.

When Jesper cupped Wylan’s cheek, he let his hand slip further back, pressing the pads of his fingers against Wylan’s fluttering pulse. He mentally counted each tiny thump.

Jesper’s other hand was constantly moving. Pressing against Wylan’s chest briefly, just over his heart. He felt each calm beat, neither hurried nor strained. Alive. Healthy. Safe. Then it slid lower, over Wylan’s stomach, down his sides, slipping round to feel Wylan’s back. His skin was warm even through the sleepshirt he wore. No blood, no bruises, no broken skin, or gaping wounds. Nowhere hurt. Nowhere was in trouble.

The panic on Jesper’s mind faded, the fear in his body slowly draining, the ball of stress in his stomach gently unravelling.

Wylan was okay. He was alive.

He pulled away from the kiss with a relieved sigh, pressing their foreheads together. He kept his fingers pressed on Wylan’s pulse. Thump, thump, thump. A rhythm more beautiful than any dance, more lovely than any song. Proof that his boyfriend was very much here and that all those horrors were just a dream.

A horrible, terrifying, reoccurring dream, but a dram all the same.

“I’m okay,” Wylan murmured, still stroking his back, “I’m here. We’re all okay, we’re okay.”

He was okay.

Jesper nodded. He inhaled, exhaled, felt the beating pulse under his fingertips, the huff of air against his lips, the warmth of Wylan’s body bleeding through his shirt. He nodded again, and pressed a final, relieved kiss to Wylan’s nose.

He was okay.

“You’re okay,” he croaked, and Wylan nodded and smiled, and the shard in Jesper’s chest fell away, just a smidge.

Sometimes Jesper cried some more. Sometimes he panicked and tried to run. Always, always he performed his routine check.

And always, always Wylan was okay.

[invisiblefoxfire]

There have to be some autistic bakers out there, right? Because I'm fully at the end of my rope here. I've been making my own bread for like... 2 years now? And I still can't figure out how to fucking do this. It comes out edible every time, but not quite the way I want it. And I think the main issue is the kneading. No one has ever been able to explain to me how to knead dough in a way that makes actual sense to me. Whenever I try kneading dough, it sticks to my entire hands so hard that I just wind up wearing a dough glove. At that point I can't knead it any further because it's become a second skin on my hands and I can't get it off. (I then have a sensory overload meltdown, scream GET IT OFF MEEEEE, cry, throw things, occasionally break something or injure myself, then break down in a sobbing heap of self-loathing for a while.) As a result, I have worked out a system of making bread where I basically "knead" it with a spoon in the bowl and a lot of muscle. This doesn't lead to very good results and also fucks up my wrists.

Before I continue, let me get the following out of the way:

I know there are recipes for no-knead bread. That is not the kind of bread I want to make.

I already have a stand mixer, but it's useless because I am making very small loaves of bread, and it's just not enough for the mixer to work. (I am one person living alone and I can only eat so much bread every day, and even these small loaves often get moldy before I can finish them)

I have neither the money nor the space for a bread maker, and in any case I don't like the kind of bread they create.

I have tried flouring and oiling my hands. It helps for approximately 0.2 seconds and then the benefits evaporate and I'm right back where I started.

I have tried using gloves and it also doesn't help. The dough just coats the gloves and now I have two pairs of gloves on instead of one.

I have a plastic dough scraper but it doesn't help. The only surface I have to knead on is a silicone baking mat, which gets dented if the scraper digs into it, and if I try to move the dough around with it, I wind up with bits of dough sliced off and adhered to the scraper, which then also becomes near impossible to clean.

So. Is there someone out there who can explain to me in very specific autism-friendly terms HOW THE FUCK you are supposed to do this? Is there a video out there that shows the process of kneading bread dough from start to finish that doesn't just go "it'll be sticky at first but get less sticky as you work it" and then cut to the fucking finished product? HOW, specifically, do you touch and grip and move the dough without it coating your entire hand and then refusing to come off forever, leading to me bent sobbing over the sink desperately trying to scrub it all off with soap and hot water and continuing to discover bits of it under my fingernails for hours afterward?

"Turn and fold it"—the second my fingers touch bread dough, it adheres to my skin and will not come off. I'm like fucking Tetsuo in Akira, becoming one with this formless blob which I can't seem to remove from my skin no matter what I do.

I have tried various dough recipes and it doesn't seem to matter what the ingredients and ratios are, I can't figure out how to knead it. The one I am using now is actually pretty dense. It uses dry active yeast, 50g rye flour, 200g wheat bread flour, 150ml water, about a teaspoon of olive oil, teaspoon of salt, and tablespoon of sugar for the yeast. I like dense bread, actually, so that's fine - I'm not trying to make a light, airy bread.

My current system is to, once the yeast is woken up and the ingredients all combined, jam a spoon in the center and roughly stir it as hard as I can, trying to stretch it as much as possible, occasionally repositioning the spoon. Basically roughly replicating the motion of a hook attachment in a stand mixer, but without the hook, and without the machine power. This flares up my wrist tendinitis every time, but it's that or nothing. When I've gone as long as I physically can, I pat it all together with the spoon and do the first proof. Then I do knead it on a silicone mat, which is a harrowing experience, because while it's no longer an instant second epidermis, it is still always sticky enough to give me sensory overload. I often wind up with no choice but to constantly re-coat my hands in flour (I'm talking literally once every 15 seconds or so), which of course only serves to make the bread even denser, but without doing that, I can't knead the dough at all without having a meltdown, because at this point I'm already stressed from the entire process.

"Why don't you just give up on making bread" I like bread! I like baking, aside from the kneading part! And I can't buy this type of bread where I live. I don't want to give up on this, I just want to figure out how it's physically possible to do!

I asked a friend who bakes bread about this. I told him that it's too sticky, it coats my hands, and then I can't get it off. And he said "it's supposed to be sticky, just keep working it and it'll get less sticky" and I just stared at him. How can I "work" dough that is stuck fast to my skin? It won't let go of me. I can stretch my hands apart and it will split into two stringy masses so that it can keep hanging on to my hands rather than let go. WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHEN YOU SAY "WORK THE DOUGH?

Am I supposed to just clap my hands together and stretch them back out over and over again? I've seen people knead dough on a table or mat and the dough DOESN'T ADHERE TO THEIR HANDS. They'll be like "it'll be sticky" and then show the dough sticking temporarily to their skin then letting go when they pull their hands away. WHAT IS HAPPENING.

I feel like I'm missing something massive here. There's some movement people are doing that keeps the dough from adhering. Or maybe my skin is secretly made of fucking glue, I don't know.

Someone please help. I feel like attempting to knead dough is going to be the trigger for my final nervous breakdown.