#it's like giving crumbs to pigeons out here

[absent-o-minded]

Uh Oh

The YR Season 2 Teaser dropped yesterday? You know what that means ! *Fires up the Chainsaw*

The Palace:

Personally, I think it was very clever of the YR PR team to release the first 4 minutes of Season 2 in replacement of a supposed trailer (eventhough one will likely come) because this does something very different to that of a montage of clipped, edited snippets throughout the entire season - Here, we're given a tonal opening.

Right from the get go, the transition from Wille's soft, intimate dream sequence to reality is indicated through a colour shift, and thus within moments of 0 dialogue an obscure location setting, we understand the gravity that the consequences of Season 1 has had. The golden-hued, saturated colour composition of Wille's dream is ruptured upon opening his eyes, whereby a greyish-blue seeps in through the curtains and he remembers where he has woken up. Simon isn't here. Actually, he never was. Unfortunately, Wille is in the single worst place on Earth. The Palace.

Even just by this subtle indication, the Palace becomes this sterile, de-saturated environment and we realise that the extent of the ending of S1 has, in fact, extended to the building itself. To Wille, the Palace takes upon this sombre reminder of the loss of hope. And despite never being a home, it's even less of a house now, because it's haunted.

The Walk:

This idea of the Palace being haunted is solidified in this small scene because Wille takes on the persona of a ghost.

The interaction between himself and the Cleaner/Housekeeper is weird, especially considering the royal settings, because all usual pleasantries are abandoned. Instead, Wille walks past, and she offers him no more then a quick glance, before continuing with her work. And it's not a look of acknowledgement either, it's more so the look you give when you hear a noise, wondering where it came from.

In turn, the camera follows him through the dimly-lit corridor as he stalks through it, the white shirt making him look almost-hollow. It's hinted at the gothic and I love it, because it makes so much sense. When a character is ruined, deprived and lost, they're not really full anymore, they're drifting through states longing for warmth. That's what Wille is doing right now. All of his desires (as seen in the very first 20 seconds) are confined to dreams, where he can escape the sadness of reality and experience a different plain, but that is his only solace.

Even now, he is both unrecognisable to himself and to staff of the palace. He's so far from who he was that when he got so close to experiencing something that felt like his, it was brutally stripped away and stomped on. Now, all that's left is himself (whoever that is) an his grief (wherever that's getting stored - It's pestering and sweltering). This is really just me wanting to start a ghost choir tbh.

The Blazer and The Portrait:

How has all of this pain, this line of ascension, this sense of missing and longing and wishing been compacted into a blazer? Erik's blazer.

I could cry over this picture - It doesn't fit at all. It's too big on the arms and at the waist. The crown has lost all of its significance, because now the blazer grips the body, but on Wille it's oversized because it was never meant for him. None of this was ever really meant for him. None of the plans made were catered towards him, the narrative followed someone else and he was supposed to be a supporter. A bystander. But now, the room is empty. The stand holds a piece of what waits for him, but it feels all too wrong and uncomfortable because it was Eriks.

His body is distorted in it because he's trying to fit the role of something that was never tailored to him, but he's desperate to feel some sort of closeness to Erik. He's hugging it tighter around himself in the hopes that he'll feel like Erik, assured and confidant, or even better, that he'll feel Erik, his compassion and his warmth. He's just a kid. Isn't that enough? He's just a kid who misses his big brother and who just wants a hug.

Not just this, but Erik's portrait is in the frame and is placed behind Wille, which has so many meanings, such as: 1.) Erik is subverting the theme of pressured surveillance by looking almost fondly, or sadly on his doting brother, like he understands that from his death, Wille now must fill his shoes, and he has to bare witness to the trials and tribulations that Wille is about to face, 2.) Wille is trying to emulate Erik's confidence and grace, of which are all encapsulated in this blazer as the framing lends itself to parallelism - The blazers present on Erik, but it looks neater, refined, right, like it's meant to, but on Wille it just looks strange.

How else can you say 'I miss you so much' when the other person isn't here to hear it? How else can you articulate 'I wish you were here. Or at least, I wish I were more like you, so then maybe in some part you would be here.' other than trying to picture their clothes, their face, their eyes? How else are you supposed to ask 'God, I wish that you would tell me what do to. How did you do it so well? How do I do it as well as you?' other than wearing their blazer and hoping that it'll wrap you up and take you away from all fo this? When you can't sleep, and you can't weep, and you can't put a name to your pain, what else are you meant to do than miss them and hope that it's enough?

The Tin:

I know I said that I could cry at the last picture, but this really is the last reason to push the stake further in. Just look at it, it's so-

Of course, just to plop the cherry on top of the cake, Wille ruffles in the inside pockets and finds this little tin (Is it a match tin?) engraved with 'Once A Brother, Always A Brother'.

This little addition offers the only reciprocal of Wille's love, as well as offering the only validation of his feelings, because it works both ways. As well as being Crown Prince, Erik was the only one that Wille wholeheartedly trusted, and felt like he could tell anything to. That's a special person, and it's a unique relationship when it happens, one that is precious. But Wille is also Erik's brother, and there is likely a part of him that feels responsible for carrying on his legacy, both out of love and out of duty. In this situation, the lines are so blurred it's hard to tell where devotion starts and obligation ends.

Not just this, but the fact that it's a match tin (as far as I'm aware) and in S1 Wille's flame was 'ignited' shows how Erik has always been present throughout Wille's journey.

I would just want Wille to know that Erik loved him so much, and that he would've been so supportive and proud of his little brother. Now I'm going to go burst into flames tears, 'xcuse me.

The Burning and The Mirror:

Now, I'm no pyromaniac, nor have I dabbled in arson, HOWEVER-

Notice how, through the framing, Wille's face somewhat replaces August' in the mirror after Wille has burned it away? His flame has been ignited, and now it's manifesting within himself. The burning itself is significant because it's an act of self-rebellion, and provides a little bit of catharsis.

Through this, Wille is actively erasing August from the narrative and distancing him from his Brother, who isn't here to do it for himself. Perhaps one of the main things that Wille is trying to protect is Eriks legacy, particularly in relation to his previous friendship with August, who Wille already stated at the end of S1 is "no longer a part of his family." It's just that now Wille has reason to act upon his desires.

But also, the way in which the 4th wall is broken is equally as significant - Beforehand, when Wille first breaks the 4th wall in S1, it's in the Apology issue and the camera creeps closer until it receives the warranted reaction from something that is suffocating and intrusive. But now, he breaks the fourth wall through the perspective of the mirror, looking at us through a reflection, as if we're stood behind him (The question this begs is whether that's in solidarity for Reputation Era or that we as an audience represent the lingering presences that he's ready to banish, displaying the conviction he has about August).

Either way, our presence is acknowledged, this time against the framework of consequences as opposed to the previous one in S1 of expectation.

And I understand that revenge is not always the healthiest means of healing.....HOWEVER-

The Eriksson House and The Acceptance:

IT'S THE GROOVY GANG !

This is a slightly different representation of the Eriksson home than we've seen before, as usually it's dark and the mains rooms we've seen are the kitchen, the living room and Simon's room, and initially when I watched this I thought that they had moved (The threat of getting doxxed, the presence of the press etc) It could be a possibility, or it's just that we're seeing a different image of the home.

It appears much lighter and airier, comprised of pastel greens and windows, which offers the impression that maybe the family are in a better place now due to the stark contrast between this home and the Palace.

Also - I'm guessing that the letter Sara gets is for her acceptance for residency at Hillerska, right? But the placement of the acceptance letter is both for narrative sake, like kickstarting Sara's journey regarding staying at Hillerska as well as externalising her wants - Acceptance. Throughout S1, that is all Sara wanted and all that she craved for, and now, this is the first sign of her integrating into the Hillerska environment and hoping that she is accepted beyond admission. I'm really excited to see how her story plays out !

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

Wille simply just closing the door on Kristina. No shouting. No crying. No clipped words. Just the simple act of rejection.

More indications to August' eating disorder/body dysmorphia (He's an extremely nuanced character, and I still stand by the fact that resenting a character for their actions whilst acknowledging their nuanced portrayal are not mutually exclusive. Thanks critical thinking, luv you babes <3)

The music that played after Wille lit up Augusts face? Already SLAPS. I'm so excited for this years soundtrack !

Well, I'm down with freshers flu atm so this genuinely took all of my brain power and now I am s P e N t. But, please let me know what you think !

#young royals #young royals spoilers #young royals netflix #yr season 2 spoilers #yr s2 spoilers #young royals season 2 spoilers #lisa ambjörn #analysis #it's like giving crumbs to pigeons out here #one 4 minute teaser and suddenly none of us know how to act anymore

[gabessquishytum]

A/B/O warprize au!

Dream and his siblings have recently taken over their parents’ kingdom in a much needed coup. They’ve split up all their territories and it’s going pretty well honestly.

Except Dream is kind of being his usual sulky self and now that the coup is over he is at loose ends (re: chucking bread crumbs at pigeons).

Luckily Death knows just how to help. She gifts him a piece of the spoils, one of the prizes that used to serve their father. Like all of Time’s servants, he has immortality so that he doesn’t age, all in the name of better service of course.

Omega Hob is pretty frustrated by the whole situation. He had no particular loyalty to Time, but he’d been on the verge of escaping Death’s castle. Hob was looking forward to exploring the big wide world, thanks. Stupid Death, ruining his escape plans.

Death is certain that Hob will be a good influence on Dream. She’s seen him giving food to a pregnant omega being held in the same area, so she knows he has a kind heart. Plus, she has a feeling they’ll be compatible.

So there Hob is, wrapped up in a bow (and some more sturdy cuffs) and given to Death’s sulky brother. At first, Dream doesn’t seem all that interested in Hob. He outright says he has no use for a mate or a plaything. (Which. Rude. Not that Hob wanted him either.) They talk some, but Hob’s talk of playing cards and chimneys only makes Dream’s lip curl. Sometimes Dream gives him books, which Hob takes to mean that Dream finds his uneducated manner off putting. He gives him perfumes and soaps too, because apparently hob’s natural scent is too common for his princely nose. Fine then. Hob can escape here just as easily.

Hob sets about planning his escape while Dream sets about ignoring him despite Hob living in his personal quarters. Only then, Dream’s rut hits. Stiffly, awkwardly, he asks Hob to service him. Hob can tell Dream is just barely holding himself together. He is a vision with glittering eyes and a very pleasing bulge in his trousers.

“No,” Hob says.

The prince looks surprised. “But it is what you are for. Isn’t that why you were given to me?”

“Yeah well, you’ve been nothing but rude to me,” Hob reasons. “So no, I don’t fancy it.”

Dream stares, open mouthed, breathing in lungfuls of Hob’s scent. It is empirically ridiculous for Hob to turn him down. He belongs to Dream. Hob waits to see if he will fly into a rage. He’s not sure he could take down an alpha in rut if he chose to force the issue but somehow Hob doesn’t think he will.

Sure enough: “Fine.” Dream does his best to collect himself. “Kindly remove yourself then.”

So Hob does. In fact, now seems like a great time to escape. Hob makes it two days before the guards catch him and bring him right back to Dream. Dream glares balefully at him from the bed, still flushed, the air still stinking of rut. “It’s not enough that you won’t fulfill your purpose, you also must humiliate me?” He grumbles. “The whole kingdom now knows my omega despises me.”

Hob stares at him. “I’m not yours.” (Technically he is.) “you don’t give me the time of day. You don’t even want me. I thought you’d be glad to have me out of your hands.”

“It is not proper that you should leave me,” Dream says, imperious even with his sanity hanging by a thread. “It makes me look—“ he cuts off.

“You should have just let me go. Got yourself an omega you like,” Hob reasoned. “Damn what’s proper.”

Dream stares at him. He’s so gloomy. He would be gorgeous if he weren’t such a prick. “I never said I do not …” he swallowed. “I never said I do not like you.”

“You clearly don’t. You scoff when I speak and you only want me because you’re in rut,” Hob replied.

Dream frowned at the blankets. “That is not…I realize I am not…it does not matter,” he finally says. “You are mine. Regardless.”

“Forgive me if I’d like to be liked,” hob says.

Dream eyes him again. “You are not … uncomely.”

“Gods wounds!” Hob laughs derisively. “Is that the best you can do? You think that’ll get me into bed?”

Dream just keeps staring. “Perhaps the issue is that you do not love me.”

Wait a minute, when did they start talking about love?

“I realize I am not….” Dream grumbles. And that seems to be the end of it.

(Because Dream is inwardly realizing yet again that he was terribly rude to Hob when he first arrived. And clearly awkward enough that Hob has not noticed that Dream doesn’t hate him. In fact Dream has started to like having him around…

Ohohoho yes this is very far up my alley. Hell yeah.

Hob goes from "whatever, fuck you, I don't care." About Dream’s attitude to him, to actively trying to please the king. Trying out those soaps and perfumes, dressing like the omegas around Dream’s court. Trying to be elegant and developing all the right opinions about music and art. But Dream still doesn't pay him a single iota of attention. So Hob goes right back to being himself. If he's going to be ignored he might as well dress how he likes and do as he pleases.

It's fair to say that he's developed quite a bone to pick with Dream. By the time the rut comes around Hob has had enough of feeling like shit. There's no way he's jumping on the alpha's cock just because he's been ordered to. Dream will have to pin him down and force him, if that's what he wants. (And Hob has grown to know Dream well enough to know that for all his faults, he would never do such a thing.)

So they sit together in almost silence as Dream endures his rut. He refuses to even touch himself. He just grits his teeth, sweats, and occasionally growls helplessly. And Hob? Fuck, he has to sit on his hands to stop himself from leaping onto the bed and helping Dream. He refuses to give in but it's almost torture to watch him suffer. So, he does the next best thing. He talks.

About how he's felt being passed around the Endless family like a toy. How he wanted to escape so badly. How he held out a little bit of hope that Dream would be good to him. How he's gone through his heats hoping that Dream would come and comfort him. With every word Dream seems to sink more and more into self hatred.

"I thought I would hurt you. I thought that you would reject my attentions. And I thought... that you were just another omega who would soon pass out of my life." Dream whispers. "I treated you badly. I beg your forgiveness."

Hob finally crawls up onto the big bed and wiggles up against Dream’s body. Just pressing against him and sharing the space. "I'm not letting you knot me just because you said sorry." He grumbles. "I could never despise you, but it will take something to make me love you. You can't keep giving me nothing."

It's not easy to fall asleep mid-rut but Dream does doze off eventually. His omega has given him a lot to think about, particularly the fact that Hob is his omega. And he'd better start acting like it - or he might just lose everything.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw omegaverse

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice - epilogue

[continued from Part 23]

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Ice clinked against the stainless steel of her coffee tumbler like hollow wind chimes. She brought the pastel pink container to her lips, taking a careful sip. She’d already spilled some of it in her lap, and now brown spots dotted the yellow of her dress. Carefully, she set the tumbler down beside her, taking a moment to glance up at the scenery around her.

It was a golden-yellow summer day with a cloudless sky, save for the smog hanging over the city. Despite last week’s heat wave, the temperature was more moderate today, giving New York a much-needed break. From a bench in Central Park, she sat beneath the canopy of towering oak trees. A breeze rolled through that chilled her skin delightfully, aided by the icy beverage in her cup.

Nearby, a flock of pigeons scavenged for crumbs. On this particular Saturday, construction sounds were minor, reduced to distant echoes. The bright sounds of a street musician’s violin floated on the wind from nearby in the park. She heard a whistle from a group of children in the distance as they practiced soccer kicks. 

Soccer would be good for Bella, she thought. The seven-year-old girl had tons of energy and legs that were longer than she knew what to do with. Ever since the Olympics and watching Space Jam: A New Legacy, Bella had been obsessed with becoming the next WNBA champion. She described LeBron’s performance as a masterpiece. 

Her aunt knew better than to let her personal opinion spoil the girl’s fun.

That had been a good day. Today was a good day. She mused to herself as she took a breath. She was aware of the fact that the day wasn’t technically over. And perhaps there wasn’t anything particularly different from yesterday. But as her muscles relaxed beneath warm rays of sun on her shoulders, she found peace.

“Mind if I sit here?” a kind voice said from behind her. The muscles in her neck pulled taut. Her heart seized up and tripped over itself.

She glanced over her shoulder to find a pair of doe eyes fixed on her. Cherry lips twisted into a lopsided smile. 

Impossibly, Peter Parker looked younger than the last time she saw him. The only sign of age in his creamy smooth skin were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, and a faint pink scar blending with the wrinkles above his brow.

Without the beard, he looked criminally soft. Big, bright amber eyes were fixated on her in a way that made her heart want to burst. She felt like she was floating in space and plummeting through the atmosphere. 

At the same time, the primal part of her brain screamed out shrill sirens. Just the sight of him and his soulful eyes felt like she was tearing off a broken limb. Watching as his teeth pinched his pouty lip gave her the sensation of ripping apart nerve endings. Her stomach soured as her heart ached. 

Beneath the heart, lava boiled in her belly. Her eyes were open wide, they could even be mistaken for shock. It wasn’t shock, however, but sheer rage burned in her eyes. 

Peter Parker, the persistent paradox. 

The only man that could stir every emotion in her, like the sun conjures every color of the rainbow out of drops of rain. He painted her world in vivid colors, and yet she was colorblind to everything but the golden hue of his eyes.

Peter Parker, who could make her feel stronger and weaker all at once.

She burned for him, in every sense of the phrase.

And at the present, he was holding his breath, waiting for her reply. She gazed up at him as emotions warred within her. He waited patiently, ready to accept whatever fate she thought he deserved.

She pursed both her lips tight, eyes narrowing. “I’ll allow it,” she said. 

His lungs came to life once again, as if he’d been spared the guillotine. Gently, Peter rounded the park bench and sat down in the spot to her right. She kept her nose forward, eyes focused on anything but him.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked gently, gazing down at the pamphlet in her lap.

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. “A brochure.”

He observed the glossy tri-fold sheet with a nod. “I see that.” Instantly, he recognized the pictures and logo on the pamphlet, recalling how he once read the same words. “ESU, huh?” he noted with a half smirk, observing the ivory towers of the campus nestled in Midtown Manhattan. “Thinkin’ about classes?” He bit his lip anxiously. “What d’you wanna study?”

She held still, remaining silent as she stared down at the brochure. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and it felt like razors being shoved into his eye sockets. 

“Dunno,” she answered with a gentle shrug. “Interior Design, maybe.” She cleared her throat and spoke with a little more volume. “Thinkin’ about applying for a grant for this fall.”

A smile warmed his eyes, though melancholy weighed down the corners of his lips. “What’s in the cup?” he asked, pointing his nose towards her coffee tumbler.

Lashes fluttered, she followed the end of his fingertip down to her beverage, almost having forgotten that it was there. “Oh,” she said meekly. “It’s a Mauna Kea.”

Peter quirked up a brow. “A what-ya-saya?”

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from curving. “Mauna Kea,” she repeated slowly, enunciating the syllables. “Means ‘White Mountain’ in Hawaiian.” She hesitated for a moment, licking her dry lips. “It’s the name of the tallest mountain on Earth,” she declared, mustering confidence, “from peak to summit.”

A crease formed in Peter’s brow. “I thought Everest was the tallest mountain?”

“Tallest by altitude,” she divulged with pride. “Mauna Kea is bigger.” She flicked her eyes over to his and was immediately captured by his soulful gaze.

“No joke?” he replied with a thousand-watt smile and rosy cheeks. 

“Yup,” he answered, as butterflies filled her belly.

He gazed at her as if he were witnessing the sunrise for the first time. “So, you’re drinkin’ a ‘White Mountain?’”

Her heart skipped a beat. “It’s a cold brew. Blended with honey, macadamia milk and ice, topped with coconut milk foam.” She intended to look down at her cup. Or at the pedestrians. Or the trees. Or the sun. She intended to look anywhere but at him. She really tried. “I made it myself,” she said, feeling heat crawl up her neck.

His eyes glowed, further enamored by her mere existence. “Wow. All this time, all I’ve been drinking is black coffee.” A smile glinted in his expression while his blush gave him away. “Just black coffee. Bitter. With extra sadness.”

She fought the smile her lips formed. “That’s a shame.”

“It is. People tell me I should take more risks, though. Go out on a limb.” His eyes wandered across the park before shifting back over to her. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and in his eyes she could spot his trepidation. If he looked young to her before, now he looked like a blushing boy asking his crush to prom. He gazed at her with the same terror, his heart in his throat and on his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

A fire burned bittersweetly in her heart as tears burned behind her eyes. She gazed at him, feeling her emotions swell. “Mari,” she answered, truthfully. She studied the bourbon and topaz facets of his irises and the lovely curve of his cupid’s bow. “But all my friends call me ‘Honey.’” 

Peter’s lip trembled at that, eyes glistening despite his attempt to control it. “Honey,” he repeated with a murmur, as if chanting a prayer, or a protection spell. As if it was the answer to everything in the universe. In his universe, at least. “It suits you.”

A bittersweet smile warmed his features as he gazed at her, lost in the universe and freefalling towards her singularity. Her eyes went glossy as she mapped the pores, freckles, and scars on his face like the constellations in the sky.

“I missed you,” he said, endearingly.

Her heart throbbed at the pain in his voice. “I know.” She licked her lips, sadness filling her expression. “You hurt me,” she said somberly.

With misty, red eyes, he whispered back, “I know.” He swallowed hard, tears swimming in his gaze. “I’m sorry for that. M’sorry for a lot of things. But I don’t regret a single moment.” 

Eyes glistening, a warm smile overtook her features, lighting up her gaze. She nodded in silent reply.

The sight of it made him want to die of joy. “If it doesn’t sound too forward,” he began gently, speaking with measured formality, “I was gonna ask you to come home with me.”

Home, he said. The significance of the word wasn’t lost on her. A tear rolled down her cheek, sliding along the curve of her grin. “Already?” she breathed out a laugh. “Geez. That was fast.”

His smile faded; he melted into enraptured awe. “No,” he whispered, eyes glowing with admiration. He leaned forward, breaking the invisible barriers between them. Her eyes fluttered shut as his calloused fingers brushed over her jaw, triggering a shiver down her spine. “I’ve waited years for you, remember?” he quietly rumbled. “I’ll keep waiting. For the rest of my life, if I have to.”

The sweetness of it all made her dizzy. It made her feel like her heart had spilled open and she would bleed out on the grass. “I’ll take it,” she sniffed, as Peter thumbed the tears from her cheeks.

“Take what?”

“The rest of your life.” 

He melted in her gaze, staring down at her lips. “Sweet girl. You are my life.”

Without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The sensation made her heart flutter, her mind soar, and her brain sizzle. It made her wounds heal and her soul sing. It made life worth living. It made hope real.

When they parted from the kiss, they were breathless and dizzy, hearts thrumming together in sync.

The honey hues of his chestnut eyes were fixed on hers. “So,” he said, thoughtfully. “Mauna Kea. Ever see it up close?”

She smirked. “Nope. Never been to Hawai’i.”

“Me neither,” Peter shrugged, his eyes alight with life. “Wanna change that?” 

End of Volume 1

A Note From Your Storyteller:

Whew. That was long.

I can't believe this has come to an end. Before I began writing, I was skeptical about this story, but honestly I could've never anticipated or expected the overwhelming support and love that I've gotten. People have made art from my art. They have showered me with gifts for my gift. If you'd say any gift is an expression of love, then gifted art is the ultimate expression of devotion. I love that you care about my characters, and about me!

What's next?

Good question. I've been at odds with this answer, and now it feels like I really need to commit to a path. My imagination is full of many more places that Honey and Peter can go. I could probably write 2-3 novels about these two with all of the effort I put into making these characters come to life. Realistically, I'm a mom with a baby, and I'm about to be a one-person band for the next few months. I'm excited to share these stories, but I'm not sure when or how, or even what that will look like.

The best thing you can do to interact with me is to keep your eyes on my updates from my Ko-fi page! I'm hoping to allow that to become a place where the S&V 'fandom' (wtf that sounds so weird what happened what is this life I am not worthy) can gather and where I can share updates.

In addition to S&V-related news, I'm going to post writing tips, best storytelling practices, AMAs, my favorite fics of the week, answer questions, and maybe even offer commissions. Keep in mind, none of this will be gatekeeped (gate-kept?) or behind a paywall. Even if you're not a regular... er, um, patron?... (barista?) on Ko-fi, you can still hopefully find some interesting stuff to check out.

But even if you don't do any of that, because... who cares, right? I do want you to do one thing for me. One tiny thing that will make the world better. One small thing that could end up changing someone's life.

The next fanfic you read, if you feel any emotions about it at all, please hit "reblog."

You don't have to write a long review, or leave a comment, or add any tags to it. You don't have to do anything more than click the reblog button. But please reblog. When you reblog, you get to share the gift fanfic writers make with someone else, regardless of whether you know them. And subconsciously, you tell the writer 'yes, I see you, and I think other people should, too,' and that small thing can save someone's life one day.

Forget engagement, forget likes vs comments vs reblogs vs community labels vs filtering settings—

Stories are gifts. They are expressions of love put to words. They are emotions lived, repackaged, wrapped in a bow, and then shared with others, along with a kind little note that says 'here's this moment of my heart, I hope it moves you the way it moved me.'

Reblog. And fill the world with a little more love.

#Lizzy writes. #Lizzy writes! sugar and vice #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker au #peter parker angst #dark peter parker #mob peter parker #Mafia peter parker #Mob spiderman #peter parker x oc #mafia au #mob au #spidermafia #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm peter parker x you #tasm peter parker x oc #andrew garfield au #andrew garfield peter parker x reader #andrew garfield spiderman #andrew garfield x reader #peter parker andrew garfield #andrew garfield #the amazing spider man #the amazing spiderman #Amazing spider man #spider man au #tasm au #tasm spiderman

[c-e-d-dreamer]

I Was Enchanted To Meet You: Part Two

A/N: Fluffy Disney shenanigans continue for these two lovely idiots in honor of @elucienweekofficial ;) Also, I just need everyone to pretend that Nesta and Elain aren't technically sisters, okay? Just for the sake of this fic! Nothing to see here.... anyways! Hope everyone enjoys :)

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Elain

The sun’s rays spill in around Elain and gently tug her away from sleep’s warm embrace. Slowly but surely, she blinks her eyes open, stretching her arms above her head until she feels that satisfying pull in her muscles and shoulders. She smacks her lips together and sits up, but it takes her a few moments to fully recognize where she is.

She half expects to wake up in her bed back in her cottage, for Pip and her other forest friends to greet her before they enjoy a nice breakfast together, but then it all comes flooding back to her. The old woman. The wishing well. Climbing out of the hole in the ground into this strange world. The memories flash across Elain’s mind until her chest starts to constrict and heave, until her stomach flips over itself and she has to squeeze her eyes shut against the onslaught.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Elain exhales out all of those memories, all of those negative thoughts. She simply doesn’t have time for that. Cassian is coming to rescue her, to take her back home to Andalasia, so there’s simply no point. It’s important to focus on the positive instead. Like the very nice family that showed her kindness last night and allowed her to sleep in their lovely home.

Well, mostly lovely.

Elain can’t help but wrinkle her nose as she eyes the space around her, the empty food cartons, the crumbs, the dirty dishes she can spy piled up in the kitchen. This place most definitely needs a good thorough scrub, and she supposes the least she can do as a guest here is help with that. It will be the perfect way for her to pay the Vanserras back for their kindness.

With a decided nod, Elain pushes up from the sofa and stands up. She steps over to the window, having to put a bit of force behind it before it slides up and opens. With a satisfied hum, Elain leans out, cupping a hand to her mouth and singing a tune that floats away on the morning breeze. When the echo of her voice finally fades, she steps back and waits, excited to see what forest friends this strange world has that can help her.

That excitement morphs into pure bewilderment, though, when the creatures that answer her call arrive. Rats. Pigeons. Raccoons. Bugs. They’re certainly not the types of friends Elain is used to back in her forest, and it takes all her willpower to keep her face neutral, not to give away the bile that’s started to tickle the back of her throat.

“I suppose it’s always good to make new friends,” Elain forces herself to say aloud, but now that she’s said it, she lets the truth of those words fill her with new found determination. She lifts the skirts of her dress up and ties them off so they’ll be out of her way and claps her hands together. “Right. Let’s get to work and make this place sparkle as it should.”

As Elain starts to sing her favorite happy, working song, all of her new friends get to work. They start to gather up the trash and sweep up the crumbs in the living room, clearly having everything under control, so Elain skips into the kitchen. She fills the sink with warm, soapy water and digs out a pair of bright yellow gloves from the cabinet beneath. While she continues to hum and sing, she gives each dish a thorough scrub until she can practically see her own smiling reflection blinking back at her in the porcelain.

“And here we are,” Elain says, handing each dish to a raccoon to wipe dry before one of the pigeons flies the dishes to the correct cupboard to be put away.

When the dishes are finished, Elain leaves her friends to finish wiping down the countertops and mopping the floor, and instead, she picks up a feather duster and heads back into the living room, the floor thankfully now visible. She dusts off each of the lamps on the side tables and continues toward the mantle, but her movements pause as she takes in the neat line of picture frames.

The first photo appears to be Willow as a baby, perhaps even just a few days old. She’s swaddled tightly in a bundle of white blankets, just her face and rounded pink cheeks peeking out. Lucien has her cradled in his arms and close to his chest, his smile wide as he peers down at his daughter rather than the camera. Even though she can’t fully see his eyes in the photo, Elain can still see the joy, the love glimmering in that captured gaze, the emotions frozen forever in time.

The second photo seems to have been taken at some sort of beach. Willow is a few years older than in the first, perched happily on her father’s shoulders. Her smile is wide, showing off a mismatched smile of growing teeth. A pair of sunglasses hides Lucien’s eyes from view, but Elain can’t help but notice that his smile seems a bit softer in this photo, almost more cautious.

The third photo is just Willow, proudly holding a small chalkboard, colorful looping letters declaring it her first day of school. But the final photo seems to be the most recent. It appears to be some sort of formal affair, judging by the attire of the both of them. Like the previous two photos, Willow’s face is bright and happy, but it’s Lucien’s face that really draws Elain’s attention. He looks almost… reserved. Resigned. Even as he smiles softly with his daughter in his arms, there’s something almost sad about it.

It both warms her heart and leaves her chest aching to stare at all these photos. To see such a happy, little family, and yet, at the same time, seeing a man close himself off through the years and through the photos. Seeing a man who clearly no longer sees all the beauty and wonder and love that the world has to offer. Even this strange one.

An alarmed squeak to her right finally pulls Elain away from the photos. She looks over to find that one of the rat’s tails has been sucked up into the vacuum cleaner. Elain lets out a quiet gasp, and sets her feather duster down, rushing to the small creature's aid.

“Here, let me help you,” Elain exclaims, reaching down to gently pull the rat’s tail free. “There. Much better, huh?”

The rat gives another squeak, this one a happy confirmation, and then it goes scampering off to continue cleaning. Elain smiles as she glances around the room, watching as the rats continue to wipe down the windows with their tails until they shine, as the pigeons finish straightening out the books and magazines on the coffee table.

“This place is already looking so much better,” Elain praises her new friends as she stands up, earning a cacophony of cheers and chirps.

With the pigeons’ encouragement at her back, Elain is guided into another room in the apartment, a large bath taking up most of the space in the center of the room. One of the raccoons scampers forward and turns the nobs until water spills from above the bath, the heat of it filling the whole room with steam.

For a moment, Elain is completely enraptured by this completely new and strange contraception of this world, but then the pigeons begin to tug the pins and ties from her hair, carefully pulling apart her updo with their beaks. Elain reaches her own hands up to help, her fingers making quick work of the tangles until her hair falls down along her shoulders and back.

Her friends help her with the buttons and stays of her dress next, until it falls away in a bundle of white fabric at her feet. Elain steps fully out of the dress and toward the spray of water, holding her hand out tentatively. A sigh of delight pulls its way from deep within her chest at the warmth that spills across her fingers, and humming to herself, Elain steps gingerly into the white basin and under the spray of water, allowing that steady stream to work out every knot, to wash away everything from the previous day.

~ * * * ~

Lucien

“Daddy! Daddy, wake up!”

Lucien groans softly and buries his face deeper into his pillow. His alarm for the day hasn’t gone off just yet, which means he still has a few more moments of blissful sleep. A few more moments to cling to that sleepy relaxation blanketing his limbs and sinking down to his bones. A few more moments to keep grasp of the dream he was having, even as the tendrils of it slip through his fingers like smoke.

“Daddy, come on. You have to see this.”

Slowly, Lucien opens his eyes. He reaches a hand up to push his hair out of the way and comes face to face with another head of bright, red hair. Willow blinks down at him, her eyes wide, and still clad in her pajamas from the night before. Her little hands are pressed to his shoulder, fingers digging into the tee he wore to bed, and when he doesn’t move fast enough, she gives him another shake.

“What is it?” Lucien asks, his voice mumbled and still sleep addled, as he sits up in the bed.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Willow offers vaguely, grabbing onto Lucien’s arm and tugging. “You’re just going to have to see for yourself.”

Lucien allows his daughter to tug him up, and he clambers off of the bed. Still clasping his hand tightly in hers, Willow leads them out of his bedroom and down the hallway of their apartment. When they finally reach the living room, Lucien swears he must still be dreaming. He has to be. Because there is simply no other explanation for the sight before him.

Rats. Pigeons. Raccoons. His entire apartment is covered in vermin. They run across the hardwood floors, climb up over the coffee table, and if Lucien peers into the kitchen, he can even see them on the countertops. He feels like he’s going to be sick. The sight has bile swirling ominously in his gut, and it takes all of Lucien’s willpower to swallow down his gag. How did they even get inside? Is the whole floor infested or just their apartment?

“What do we do?” Willow asks, tearing Lucien away from his spiraling thoughts.

“We’ve got to get them out of here,” Lucien declares, jumping into action.

He stretches his arms out wide as he moves through the living room, trying to herd the pigeons toward the open windows as best he can. Most of the birds squawk but fly away in the direction he intends, but for those that don’t, Lucien merely grabs them with his hands and all but flings them out the window.

“What should I do with these?”

Lucien looks over at the question only to find Willow holding the tails of four rats in her hands. The sight has his stomach turning even more than it already has. He doesn’t even want to begin to think about all the potential germs his daughter could get from that simple touch. He’s going to have to scrub them both down thoroughly after this.

“Don’t touch them,” Lucien chastises her, rushing forward to yank open their front door. “Just throw them out. Throw them outside.”

Thankfully, Willow does as he requests, practically tossing the rats out of their apartment and into the hallway. He instructs Willow to stay by the door while he moves back into the living room. He crouches down and waves his hands low to the ground, pushing all the remaining critters into a large clump and encouraging them toward the door.

When the last of the vermin is over the threshold, Lucien slams the front door closed, daring to slide the lock into place for extra good measure. He leans against the wood and lets out a relieved sigh, his heart rate finally slowing back down to a normal rate, as his eyes scan across the space, double checking no other creatures are hiding anywhere.

“Come on,” Lucien says to Willow leading her into the kitchen.

He grabs the little stool they keep there for her and sets it down in front of the sink. He then turns on the water as hot as he can stand, encouraging Willow to hold her hands under the spray when she climbs up onto her stool. He squeezes a generous amount of soap into both their hands, scrubbing hard until Lucien is sure he can no longer feel the remnants of holding those pigeons or touching those rats.

“What a crazy morning,” Willow giggles, shaking the water from her hands.

“Crazy is an understatement,” Lucien mutters, shaking his head.

He still can’t quite wrap his mind around the way his world has turned upside down in less than twenty four hours. One night and it’s as if the rug has been pulled clean from beneath his feet, leaving him stumbling and confused. Before, he had felt so comfortable in his routine. He woke up, got Willow ready for school. He went to work and trudged through his case files. And on the weekends, he would get a babysitter, so he and Nesta could have a date night.

It was easy. It was steady. And sure, Vassa would tease him relentlessly for being boring, for already being an eighty year old man, for lacking in the wonders of romance as she said, but if there’s one thing that Lucien knows first hand, it’s that romance is a load of bullshit. It’s nothing like the books or the movies. There’s nothing whirlwind or worthwhile about it. All it leads to is disappointment and heartbreak.

And he was perfectly okay with that, to be without it, with the quiet reliability of his life.

And now he’s catching crazy women who fall off billboards? And letting them stay the night? And waking up to an infested apartment? It’s madness.

Lucien's swirling thoughts do bring him crashing back to the one thing currently missing in action for this strange morning: Elain. While he and Willow dry their hands, Lucien’s eyes dance back toward the living room, but there’s no sign of her. Even the blanket that Lucien had draped over her the previous night is now neatly folded away.

Lucien starts to half wonder if he actually imagined the whole previous night, but the sound of humming drifts through the apartment, prickling his ears. Leaving Willow in the kitchen, he goes investigating through the apartment. He follows that lilting, gentle melody, like a siren song leading him blindingly but willingly, until he reaches the bathroom. The door is closed, but over the sound of that humming, Lucien thinks he can hear the shower running.

“Elain?” Lucien calls out, knocking on the door before tentatively pushing it open.

Just as Lucien steps inside the bathroom, the shower curtain is yanked back, Elain stepping out like some sort of goddess of steam. The honeyed strands of her hair now hang loose around her shoulders and down her back, the light spilling into the bathroom sparking against the curls until they look almost like spun gold. The heat of the shower has left her skin dappled in pink, the constellation of freckles across the apples of her cheeks more prominent beneath the color, and especially when Elain smiles widely in greeting.

“Good morning, Lucien,” Elain offers brightly, stepping out of the shower and accepting the towel that two pigeons wrap around her. “I was just enjoying your magic waterfall room.”

“My… magic wat…” Lucien splutters, letting out a sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mother, help me.”

“Where does the water come from?”

Lucien lets out a near hysterical laugh, dropping his hand back to his side and settling Elain with a bland look. “The pipes.”

“And where do the pipes get it from?” Elain asks earnestly, like she didn’t pick up on or didn’t care for Lucien’s dry tone or sarcasm.

“You can’t be serious,” Lucien mutters, more to himself than to Elain.

Completely unperturbed and unbothered, Elain steps over to the bathroom sink. The remnants of the shower steam still cover the mirror hanging above it, blocking the view, and she tilts her head and frowns at it, even as her hands still reach up to fiddle with her hair.

“Here,” Lucien offers, stepping to the other side of the bathroom to grab an extra towel.

“Oh, don’t worry. My new friends can take care of it.”

Elain cups a hand to her mouth and starts to sing just as Lucien sidles up beside her, reaching up to wipe the towel against the mirror and clear the steam away. Seemingly in response, more pigeons come flying into the room, knocking into Lucien’s arm and the back of his head. As if that’s not enough, more rats go scurrying across the bathroom floor and over Lucien’s feet.

Lucien lets out a shout in alarm, stumbling backwards in a desperate attempt to get away from the vermin now invading his bathroom. His arms flail with the movement, accidentally knocking into Elain and throwing her equally off balance. Lucien curls his arms around her waist, hoping to at least keep her from a disastrous spill, but it just sends them both spinning out of the bathroom and tumbling to the floor of the hallway.

A pained grunt pulls its way free from Lucien’s chest as he lands hard on his back, his elbows and tailbone already flaring in protest at the harsh landing. Elain lands right on top of him with a quiet squeak, still clad in just a towel. Even through the sleep pants and tee that Lucien is wearing, he can feel everywhere her body is pressed against his, and Lucien closes his eyes and sighs, praying to the Mother, the Cauldron, and any other deity that might be listening to give him strength.

“Are you kidding me?”

Lucien freezes at the sound of that voice, his whole body locking up with tension until he swears he can hear his blood pounding in his ears. His eyes snap open, and he turns his head, his worst fears confirmed when he sees Nesta standing in the doorway of their front door. Her blue gray eyes spark with icy rage, that narrowed gaze flitting between Lucien and Elain like she’s unsure whom to direct all her wrath at.

“Nesta, it’s not what it looks—”

“It’s not?” Nesta cuts him off, her tone clipped and cold. “Then who’s this?”

“I’m Elain,” Elain answers for him, clambering up to her feet and stepping toward Nesta with her hand outstretched in greeting. “I stayed the night last night.”

Nesta scoffs, turning her ire back on Lucien. “Did she, now? Wow. And here I thought you were such a great guy that I never stayed the night. I thought it’s so sweet that he cares so much about his daughter. Didn’t realize this was the real reason.”

“Nesta, please,” Lucien protests, pushing forward past Elain and to the door, to Nesta. “It’s really not like that. It’s just that last night, we were—”

“I don’t care, Lucien,” Nesta snaps. She shakes her head and adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder, turning away from the apartment, but Lucien catches her wrist before she can leave.

“Please don’t leave. You were going to take Willow to school, remember? So, the two of you can have grown up girl bonding time.”

“Why? So you can have grown up girl bonding time?” Nesta pulls her arm free from his grasp, lowering her voice to a whisper, so Willow doesn’t overhear. “Fuck you.”

With that, Nesta stalks away down the hallway and toward the elevators, leaving Lucien gaping like a fish after her. He lets out a frustrated groan, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. This is truly the worst morning he thinks he’s had in years. How could this happen? How could everything just be crumbling chaos all around him? He glances back to Willow and Elain, both still standing in the front entryway awkwardly, and hesitates for only a moment before rushing out the door. He runs down the hallway, hoping beyond hope that he’ll get lucky.

“Nesta, wait!” Lucien calls out, when he reaches the elevators, just in time to watch the doors close on Nesta’s still annoyed face.

Lucien stares at the elevator doors, at the numbers above as they tick down and down. He’s not sure if this is meant to be a sign, if the Fates are just laughing in his face at this point, but if there’s one thing Lucien does know, it’s that he’s never helping a random stranger ever again. No matter how pretty they are.

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog​ @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl​ @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld​ @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias​ @kookskoocie​​ @unlikelypersonalknight1 @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone

#elucien #elucienweek2023 #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar #pro elucien #elucien fanfic #elucien fic #elain x lucien #elain and lucien #enchanted au #my fic

[cloudofbutterflies92]

😶‍🌫️🫴🎂✨ !

Oh my cutie pie asked and I'll give her my bread😏 (it's an hc based on this post and it takes place after the death of Makarov)

"What is dad doing?" Diana looked at her father sitting on the ground while feeding pigeons, Joseph was there beside him assisting him.

"Your father decided that today he brought out the personality of St. Francis" Eden shook her head amused, Diana hurriedly joined him as she was intrigued.

Anyone passing by really could not imagine seeing a man of that size being so docile with pigeons, animals that had been forgotten by humans long after they had been used to send messages. So-called carrier pigeons.

"Careful little Mozart," Simon instructed his son on how to feed the approaching pigeon, "you must approach slowly."

"Like this?"

"That's my boy" in his low Mancunian accent the blond complimented his son, who all happy turned to his mom.

"We have St. Francis and mini St. Francis here" the woman kissed the head of first one and then the other.

"Dad since when did you become friends with pigeons?" Diana grabbed some bread, being joined by one of the birds who quickly grabbed the crumb with it beak.

"You know it is said that animals warn people with a heart. Your father is a kind soul."

That sentence made Simon turn around, a slight red color showed up on the man''s face, getting up and joining Eden.

"I thought I wanted to build a shelter for pigeons, and help them. Especially those in trouble, what do you say lil bunny?"

"Now they're kissing" murmured Diana toward Joseph, immediately with his hands in front of his eyes. The two parents looked at their children, smug and amused faces at how funny they looked.

"I think it's a good idea, what do you say?"the brunette look at her husband with a twinkle in her eyes

"That I want to help Dad!" Joseph ran to his father, being picked up by him.

"As long as he buys me a new skateboard then yes" Diana with folded arms smiled, seeing him arch an eyebrow jokingly as he saw her follow her mother.

A family united more than ever, the family they had always dreamed of having

#x: fire and gasoline #oc:eden“spectra”park #pairing: ghost & eden #call of duty oc:eden “spectra” park #simon ghost riley #call of duty oc #cod oc #original character #call of duty #cod mw2 #ghost x eden #call of duty fanfic #call of duty drabble #cod #ghost cod #cod ghost #ghost x female oc #ghost x original female character #oc: joseph riley #oc: diana riley #riley's family #ghost #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare 3

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Your Fate is Sealed With Mine: Chapter Twenty-Three

Your Fate is Sealed With Mine: Y/N Burgess is the granddaughter of Alex and Paul, and after having spent so many summers at their manor and always wondering why she was forbidden from entering the basement, she descends the steps into the world of the Order. She broke out the being that had been trapped in that glass cage, but what does he want with her now that he is free?

Warnings: Morpheus is a Pouty/Sulky Boi, Reader Argues with Matthew Over Hotdogs, Hob is Amused by Morpheus’s Relationship with Reader, Morpheus is a Simp for Reader (And Doesn’t Know He’s Showing It).

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x Female!GranddaughterReader, based on Netflix’s ‘The Sandman’, Reader now has long-ish hair for plot reasons (Just so Morpheus can tug on it later). 

Word Count: ~2.2k

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Morpheus was picking apart the bread loaf in his hands, flicking the tiny crumbs at the pigeons in front of him, pecking away at the grass. He had a conundrum on his hands. His bonded and consort defied him at almost every corner, constantly picked fights with him, and when you weren’t starting a fight, you were testing every bit of restraint he had to not take off with you and ravish you until the end of time. What kind of woman was capable of such a feat? Y/N Burgess. He had to choose the one human that vexed him to no end and could bring him to his knees with a single look. You had no idea the power you held over him. 

He flicked another breadcrumb and watched as the pigeons eagerly fought over the morsel. Then a soccer ball was flying toward his head. Morpheus caught it without effort as a young man jogged over. 

“Sorry, man. Nice catch, though.” The man said with a soft chuckle. Morpheus offered him the soccer ball once more. The man took it with another smile. “Thank you,” He turned away and walked passed Death slowly approaching Morpheus. She sat down next to him and rubbed her hands together. They sat in silence for a moment. 

“What are you doin’?” Death asked, peering at the half-torn piece of bread in Morpheus’s hands.  

“I’m feeding the pigeons,” Morpheus responded drolly.

“You do that too much, you know what you get?" Death questioned, leaning over with a smile. “Fat pigeons. That’s from Mary Poppins. Did you ever see it?”

“No,” Another period of silence. Death let out a sigh. Difficult and solitary as usual. Eons could go by and her brother wouldn’t change. 

“Okay, so what's the matter?” She asked, giving her younger brother a look. He had his realm back, a woman who would always love him and be by his side, a loyal subject. What did he have to mope and pout about?

“What do you mean?” Morpheus questioned, taking another morsel of bread and throwing it to the waiting pigeons. The birds fought over the piece as Death snorted. 

“I can tell something's wrong. I mean, look at you. Sittin' here, moping, pigeon-feeding. It's not like you.” She said, eying the pigeons once more. Feeding them couldn’t be this riveting, could it? No, not when he had Y/N Burgess as a bonded. No one could get bored with you around. 

“No. Perhaps it isn't. I don't know what's wrong, but... You're right. Something is the matter.” Morpheus sighed, looking down at the bread he held. His fingers rotated and picked at it absentmindedly, his thoughts unsettled and unorganized. “When they captured me, I just had one thought. Vengeance. It wasn't as satisfying as I'd expected. Meanwhile, my kingdom had fallen apart. My tools long since stolen and scattered. And so I embarked upon a journey to find them. Which I did. I'm now more powerful than I have been in eons.”

“And yet... Here you are, feeding the pigeons.”

“You see, until then, I'd had a true quest. A purpose beyond my function and then suddenly, it was over, and... I felt disappointed. Let down. Empty. Does that make sense? I was so sure that once I got everything back, I'd feel good. But in some ways, I feel worse than when I started. I feel like... overwhelmed. I don’t know what to do to keep her happy and I fear that I will never be able to keep her safe from those who wish to hurt me. She’s so precious and delicate.”

“You could have called me, you know.” Death reminded her brother. “You’re not alone, how many siblings do you have? Six? And you didn’t ask any of us for help?”

“I didn't want to worry you,” Morpheus spoke in his defense. 

“Oh, I don't believe it. Let me tell you something, Dream.” Death snatched the bread from Morpheus’s hands and brandished it at him. “And I'm only gonna say this once, so you better pay attention. You are utterly the stupidest, most self-centered, pathetic excuse for an anthropomorphic personification on this or any other plane. Feeling sorry for yourself because your little game is over and you haven't got the balls to go out and find a new one?”

“I didn't think you—“ Morpheus’s protest was short-lived as Death went off on him again. 

“Exactly. You didn't think. Do you have any idea how much Y/N came to your defense when I spoke with her? Do you even appreciate the fact that you will have someone who will love you unconditionally for the rest of time? You have someone waiting for you, at home, and you’re here moping!”

“How do you know Y/N?” Morpheus questioned in confusion. “When did you speak with her? She never mentioned—“

“She was drunk off her arse over you, that’s what. Doesn’t even remember talking to me.” Death snorted in disgust. “Do you know what she said to me that night?” Morpheus said nothing. “She said that we didn’t deserve you, that you deserved siblings that actually acted like siblings. Went right off on me actually. She thinks the world of you, Dream. Don’t take that for granted.”

“I would never,” Morpheus replied quietly. “She has gotten me through many dark times.” 

“Then why do you keep yanking her around like she’s on a leash? Do you not care for how she feels?” Now Morpheus was getting angry, how dare his sister insinuate that he would ever care so little for the one he had bound to himself? Had he not done everything he could to keep you safe from his enemies?

“I have many enemies, sister, surely you can understand why I feel the need to make sure that something so precious to me is protected? I can’t do that if I let my guard down,” Death rolled her eyes. “She is new to our world, I won’t let her get hurt any more than she already has. You know not what she has suffered.”

“You’re not getting it, Dream.” She stated, looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Y/N isn’t as defenseless as you think, and neither is she going to break. She’s got balls where you don’t.” His eyebrow went up incredulously. “And your enemies? If they know what’s good for them, they should be scared of her.” 

It was about two days after you had woken that Morpheus had tracked you down. You were still giving him the relative cold shoulder regarding his cold feet but tried your best to remain cordial with him. He was complicated and it was probably centuries since his last relationship. He was rusty. Or at least that was what you were telling yourself to feel better. That rejection still hurt. At least you were finally venturing back into the waking world. You didn’t know exactly what you were going there for, but it would be nice to have a sense of normalcy. 

Well, at least as normal as one could be with a talking raven and an Endless who couldn’t decide if he wanted you or not. No, that wasn’t right. He did want you, but for some ungodly reason, he did his best to stay as far away as possible. Fine then, you would simply enjoy yourself as much as you could, without him. See how he liked that. 

So while Morpheus met up with whoever he was meeting with at a place called The New Inn, you sat outside, taking up a seat at a patio table. Matthew was standing on the table, cocking his head side to side as you stared off into the distance. 

“What do you think he’s doing in there?” You questioned after a period of silence. Matthew did his bird form of a shrug. 

“Who knows, he doesn’t seem like the type to have friends, let alone make one… but that’s what he told me. It sounds like they have history.” 

“Trying to befriend Morpheus is like trying to befriend a rock.” You huffed out, leaning back in your seat and crossing your arms. “You aren’t going to get very far. He doesn’t want anyone even remotely close to him.” 

“He cares for you,” Matthew protested like the saint of a raven he was. You let out a wry chuckle and shook your head, drumming your fingernails on the table. 

“Hardly counts, he doesn’t have much of a choice.” You said in refute. “Every time I think I’ll get any form of affection, he starts pulling away and I— it hurts. I know he wants me but when he pulls away the sting of rejection puts even more cracks in my already chipped heart. Can’t he see that? Does he not see how much it hurts?” 

Matthew hopped a few paces closer to you and picked at the sleeve of the light jacket you had on. Your eyes dropped down to his. 

“I can’t say I understand him that well since I’m still new at this… and don’t repeat what I’m about to tell you because he’ll probably pluck all my feathers… but I think he’s scared,” Matthew explained, shuffling his wings nervously. 

“What does a being like him have to be scared about? I’m a bumbling human who is now immortal and essentially, has no idea what she is doing.” You said, waving your hand about. 

“Y/N, he’s never had a lasting relationship.” Matthew reminded you. “But you? You are what he will always have. You’re something that no matter what happens, he will always have you to return to. You aren’t going to be able to betray him, not in the way he fears. When has he ever had that kind of security?” 

“I’m not a goddamn security blanket.” You mumbled out, planting your chin in hand and leaning against the tabletop. “But you have a point.” 

“Yes, I do,” Matthew said proudly, his chest puffing out. “Now I’m starving, what do they have to eat around here?” 

You looked around the immediate vicinity and didn’t find much. 

“No idea, never been in this part of London before, but…” You pulled your phone from your jacket pocket and held it up for Matthew to see. “I’ve got yelp and we can certainly remedy that.”

Huddling over your phone, Matthew hopped closer and peered at the screen as you opened the yelp app and did a search of the area for restaurants that had takeout. Your thumb tabbed through a few listings and you found a highly-rated deli that was only a block or two away. The reviews raved about the sandwiches and by the time you were opening the menu your stomach was rumbling in excitement. 

“Ooh, Ooh! I recognize that stand!” Matthew cried out in excitement, airing out a few bird noises as his eyes focused on something in the distance. Your eyebrow went up as your nose wrinkled. Hotdogs? Again!? Most definitely not. 

“We’re going to the deli, the sandwiches are rated the best in the city,” You spoke as you scanned the rest of the deli menu, noting that there was a section for hotdogs. That would surely appease the flapping raven, would it not?

“Does it look like I can eat a sandwich Y/N!?” Matthew flapped his midnight wings in exaggerated emphasis. “No, I have wings. Wings which I cannot use to eat a sandwich!”

You pinched your forehead with a heavy sigh. Why did the raven have to have such an addiction to hotdogs? Given the amount he consumed, one would think that he would turn into one. 

“The deli has a hot dog on the menu Matthew, we don’t have to go to a hot dog stand just to get one!” You spoke, waving your hand in front of you while opening up the maps app and rising to your feet. 

“But the stall has the best hot dogs!” The bird complained. You rounded on him. 

“We have had hot dogs for lunch the last three days!! I am having a damn sandwich for lunch and that is final, Matthew!” A movement to the side caught your attention, and turning in place, you saw Morpheus staring at you in amusement. Might as well ask him if he wanted one, he probably didn’t but it didn’t help to be polite. He might be acting like an arse to you, but you didn’t have to be one. “Do you want a bloody sandwich?” He blinked at you in puzzlement. “Do. You. Want. A bloody sandwich!?” Morpheus still looked confused and you finally shook your head, at your wit's end. “You know what, I’m just going to get you one. You are being entirely unhelpful, I’m done quarreling about this with a bird.”

“I’m a raven, thank you very much!” Matthew squawked back in outrage as you started marching your way in the direction your phone said to go. You ignored his irked complaint.

“Come along, Matthew, I’ll explain the hot dog options as we walk.” Matthew flapped after you, soaring down to land on your shoulder. 

“Who is that again?” Hob questioned, thoroughly puzzled by what had just taken place. He had learned a little about the woman named Y/N Burgess, but he didn’t quite know what to expect. Certainly not that. Morpheus aired out a sigh. 

“My consort.”

“Consort, eh?” Hob repeated looking up at Morpheus with a sly smile. “Never thought I’d see the day where you actually looked at a human let alone got into a relationship with one.” 

Morpheus didn’t respond and continued to stare after the receding woman fondly. Observing his long-time friend, Hob was sure that the Endless didn’t even realize he was looking after Y/N with such a soft look. One of adoration. Oh yes, his prickly friend had changed in the years since they last met, and Hob was certain it was for the better. 

Date Published: 10/31/22

Last Edit: 8/20/23

Previous | Masterlist | Next

#dream the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #lord morpheus #dream of the endless x reader #sandman x reader #the sandman #the sandman netflix #dream the endless #morpheus

[gosorsomething]

Warrior Nun: The Book of Josephine, Chapter 11

Finally posted a huge update to my Warrior Nun spin-off fic here

here's an excerpt of chapter 11:

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2a, "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die;" [Genesis, Part XI]

“DRIVE!” Dina shouts as they leap into the van. Tires kick up a wake of water when Sister Otesha stomps the accelerator into the floor. Greg fights with the momentum of the van to slide the door shut, but not before someone else takes advantage of the opening and hangs on, snarling as he tries to pull himself into the van.

“Fuck!” Otesha looks over her left shoulder for a split second to see a group of possessed people spilling out of the building in the increasing distance behind them. Fortunately, they can’t keep up with the speed of the van.

Greg kicks at the possessed man’s head but he still manages to hang on, being dragged along the side of the vehicle through the flooded streets. She lands a blow that seems to do the job, causing him to lose his grip, and Nora helps to pull the door closed. Otesha continues speeding away, weaving through openings and lane changes on their way back to New Jersey.

“What. The Hell. Was that?” Otesha pants, glaring impatiently at a red light.

“More than we bargained for.” Dina pulls her coif off her head.

“I’m going to call Sister Shannon. We aren’t equipped to deal with something like this.” Joanna peels her gloves away from her fingers and wrings them out on the floor.

“And by call, you mean, send a telegram. Or maybe, I don’t know, a carrier pigeon?” Greg says sarcastically. Otesha watches the light change to green and calmly passes through the intersection, keeping one eye on the side mirrors in case anyone comes up behind them.

Joanna exhales frustratedly. “I know our communication is fucked. I don’t know why we have to write letters and shit. Isaac says it’s about being discreet or whatever but if I didn’t know better I would say it seems like the Vatican wants us to be overwhelmed.”

“Isaac calls Vincent.” Nora says matter-of-factly. The others turn to look at her. She raises her eyebrows. “On the phone? I overheard him the other day.”

The others look at her like she’s grown a second head.

“Isaac also told me that Cat’s Cradle only communicates with other chapters in writing these days.” Dina says.

“Right, so the Codex can get every detail for the record.” Greg unwraps a package of mini powdered donuts, distracting everyone from their conversation.

“Where did you get those—” Joanna plucks one away from Greg’s lap and shoves it in her mouth.

“I didn’t bring them to share!” Greg hugs the rest protectively up to her chest, powdered sugar spilling onto her black habit.

“Nah, pass ‘em out.” Otesha commands, staring into the back of the van via the rear-view mirror. She holds out a hand behind her seat and pinches her fingers together a few times. Greg disdainfully sets a donut in her hand, then gives one to Nora and Dina.

“The Body of Christ.” Greg holds up one of the donuts in the air.

“Amen,” The other nuns mumble through the crumbs in their cheeks.

Nora reaches underneath her seat into a bag and pulls out a bottle of grape soda.

“The Blood of—”

continue

start at chapter one if you are intrigued!

#warrior nun #warrior nun fic recs #warrior nun extended universe #the book of josephine #avatrice #warrior nun fic #this chapter seriously ate a part of my soul and spat it out i think

[red-dead-sakharine]

The tragic life of Paul the Pigeon

Paul was a pigeon living with a large flock in a large city. Concrete and metal was all he knew. Every day the flock would gather near the train station to clean up after the humans who cared not for the food they dropped on the ground. Every night, the flock would gather on the rooftops nearby, socializing before nightfall.

Paul was new. He had just hatched this year, and now made his first steps into the dangerous world of men.

He sat on a lantern and watched the humans below, as they went about their business. Curious creatures they were to him. Always walking swiftly from one place to the other, chattering strange noises, staring at little flat rocks in their hands.

Paul noticed several other pigeons pecking on the ground nearby. There seemed to be food there, so he swiftly took flight and joined them. It was a downright feast! A large chunk of bread lay on the ground and the pigeons where fighting over it. Paul cautiously approached, still uncertain of his place within the flock. A larger pigeon pecked and flapped its wings at him, and he swiftly retreated to a safer distance.

The next moment he heard a shrill sound behind him, as a human on one of those strange iron contraptions almost ran him over. In a panic, he took flight and returned to his lamp post. Here he was safer. Or so he thought. An even louder noise came from the street, as two of the metal boxes almost collided and barked at each other.

Paul got scared and took to the skies once more. Surely, up here he would be safe? Nothing can take him, while he is airborne. His little heart was racing. Everything was big, loud and terrifying.

He eventually landed on a thin branch, that was not from a tree and seemed to go on forever. He was alone up here for the moment, and he took a break to rest his wings and calm down. Below him, many humans were standing crowded together before a small precipice. Paul observed them, wandering what might be special about this place. There was no food and the humans were huddling in their fur, beaten by the wind on the exposed plateau.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a large, snake-like metal box appeared and approached the precipice. It held onto the branch, Paul was sitting on, with a never-tiring arm as it moved along, and Paul got scared it might try to catch him - so he took flight once more.

He landed on the ground, where the piece of bread had been, and looked for left-over crumbs. A pair of feet almost knocked him over. He scrambled to get out of the way, only to end up in the path of another human, who did not give the slightest care for him. Again he scrambled to get away, dodging two, four, six more feet, before he had enough space to take flight again.

How did his flock-mates live here? Paul thought he would never get to rest. Eventually, he landed in a little nook at the side of a building. With wide eyes, he looked at his surroundings, trying to understand this concrete world of men.

As he was trying to wrap his little bird brain around the dangers of the city, a shrieking sound came from behind him, and a shutter began rolling down outside the building he was resting on. Paul tried to take flight, but as he spread his wings, his feathers got caught between the moving metal grating. The shutter dragged him off his perch as it moved, causing Paul to flap helplessly as he tried to escape. He flapped and clawed and pecked at the grating, but the metal beast was too strong. And just when the ground came near, Paul's head ended up below the metal grating.

The shutter came down on him, and with a crunch, his struggle was ended.

Paul's little body was pinned here, underneath the security shutters, for the rest of the night. A warning to other pigeons not to rest here.

A thing to be ignored by the uncaring humans, walking by.

- In loving memory of Paul, the dead pigeon I saw wedged below a shutter on my way home from work

#short stories #inspired by real life #pigeon #tragic #sad #I'm not sure why but when I saw this dead little pigeon it made me incredibly sad #wonderful animals with an undeserved bad rep

[dnangelic]

TSUN! I HAVE SOME CHOICE WORDS TO SAY TO YOU!!!!

you are such an absolute delight to see on the dash and interact with, and that is no exaggeration! I adore all of your muses and even if i don’t know any of their respective medias, i learn about them through your writing and your metas and you talking about them and thats so fun to do!!! ITS ACTUALLY MY FAVORITE THING EVER! I appreciate you giving my dazai a chance despite not knowing bsd aswell as p much any of my other muses sknsksns you’ve been so sweet to me since we first became mutuals and i genuinely love seeing you around so much 😭 i see you on the dash and my day gets atleast 10% better without fail every single time. i hope u talk about your boys forever and ever . ITS SO FUN TO BUILD DYNAMICS WITH YOU!!! anyone is lucky to write with / plot with / interact with you i wont even lie and i genuinely believe that nsjsksnsjssn i appreciate that you show interest in so many of my muses it makes my heart so so so warm . I HOPE WE CAN CONTINUE WRITING NOVELS TOGETHER FOREVERRRRR even though i know im the one who owes you like 2829922 things ksnsksns DW AB THAT . I ALSO WANNA SAY about you writing dark and daisuke specifically i think its so good how much care you put into a series thats really old and like Ive genuinely put the manga on my reading list BECAUSE of the interest garnered from your writing !! SOLELY BECAUSE OF YOU ! u are an absolute angel ( … hehehehensnensn … bejbwnw … get it bc … bc …!2&2!/@/!/82 s hehehehe ) AND YOU ARE ALWAYS SO KIND TO ME and always so interactive and i can’t even beginnnnnnnnnnnnnn to properly articulate how much of a joy you are 2 interact with !!! wishing you and daisuke and dark and yan qing and all ur muses the best day ever . 🙌

OH MY GOOOOOOSH and to think i was sitting here at ur post like 'should i ask permission for nine asking for permission. what if nine doesn't wanna say anything. i hate feeling like im ever panhandling for a compliment. nine should be pouring soup into my lap and slapping dark + calling him a bitch so i can finally apologize but youuuuUUU YOUUUUU ALL THESE FEELINGS R SO MUTUAL!!! I LOVE SEEING U TALK!!! IT BRINGS ME SM JOY TO SEE U POST!!! even the most random stuff. doesn't matter if its long or short. literally dont even worry abt owing me stuff ur presence alone is also a DELIGHT ur fr like such a funny mut and person BUT UR ALSO SO GOOD AT UR MUSES TOO??? LIKE i could go on forever abt how much i respect ur dazai alone and how even if i don't know bsd canon that's probably for the best, bc ur now ur dazai is The canon dazai to me, but u also have like nine... billion... (hehehesbhgbssnsjkdj x2) MUSES ON UR MULTI THAT U ALSO FLAWLESSLY INVEST URSELF IN AND!! WOWWWW WHAT A MUN!!! genuinely im so glad i found u even in this hellsite and that i can just toddle around following u like this everywhere 🐥 every like i leave on ur post is me picking at it for crumbs like a pigeon in a city being tossed bread. keep tossing that bread for me please please. IM CRYING. IM WAILING!!!! BUT SINCE U BROUGHT UP READING DNANGEL LET ME ACTUALLY HELP U OUT TOO??

scans are like absolutely everywhere and most places have the godawful quality fan translations. u can and frankly probably should read the official eng which is available here. dnangel had a weird run where the eng was only licensed and translated up to book 13. 14 and 15 (and beyond) are fan translations, but there's exactly one chapter that's ALWAYS broken on any website you go to except this one. this site doesn't complete the series though so the last link you'd have to hop to is this one. but the entire series is only 20 volumes in total. you could speedread through it in like a day. it's short and sweet and i love it even with its flaws. why else would i b here writing dark n dai. anyways. point is. tysm. im holding u and all ur muses tight. i wont leave u!!!! im so glad i met u!!! uve done sm for me already and i wont forget it!!! MY SO TALENTED FRIEND!!!

#*･ﾟ⊰ ANSWERED. ⊱ #*･ﾟ⊰ 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒. ⊱ ✦ › OUT. #longerhuman #WAAAA WAAAAA blows my nose into a tissue #lkjdkgj u should save those links btw #in order #they take you directly to where each last link/chapter leaves off! so no looking for the right one or anything #im always like 'PLEASE DON'T READ THE FAN TRANSLATIONS' at ppl bc those were like. when scanners were just being invented #and all the translations are insanely choppy or questionable #eng isn't word for word and loses some things but that's how it always is with translations sometimes LOOOL #plus i kno u want to see dark's lamE CRINGE ASS GOTH FONTTTT #HIS ~WORLD OF DARKNESS~ #ILY THOUGHHHH ILYSM #TYSM AGAIN #WAAAA

[palavrasdeputaria]

Like I know people shit on TikTok but I’m not on there for a lot of the drama or dances.

My favorite accounts

A woman who runs a raccoon daycare

Moosetok - yeah it’s just moose walking by

Unclogging drains like huge street drains it’s so satisfying!!!!

An editor for smut novels who has feedback such good feedback

Have you seen the bug girls? Beetle girls? Spider girls? The accidentally saved a monarch pupa and now I’ve built an entire enclosure for them and oops have hundreds girl? That was just one girl

The lady who explains TikTok drama to her spouse and he’s kinda interested but more concerned and it’s funny as fuck and the only time I hear about TikTok drama

There is an entire series of posts dedicated to watching peoples cats walk around so we can see their primordial pouch swing…just jiggly cat tummy

Mr Cubert Crumb the tiny fish

NORTH OMAHA CAT LADY!

That Icelandic guy that’s just out here fucking with all of us so well

People trying to get into Berghain

The woman in the bonnet who just loves Bad Bunny and his filthy ass lyrics

That chai guy

THE BLACK FORAGER!!! This majestic glowing wood nymph is just yeah

#teambreadcrumbs bring the hardcore discourse about whether they belong on Mac and cheese

Crutches & Spice y’all!!!!!

TiaraTok which is just beautiful grown ass people wearing gorgeous crowns and tiaras

All of the indigenous educators and comedians and historians and artisans and musicians and dancers and cooks and gardeners and damn that list could go on.

Goth banjo woman who plays her banjo aggressively over men saying stupid shut

Zoology Marco just showing us animals at the San Diego Zoo! And being so cute while doing it

Msnewslady and her husband and now baby just doing regular things with newscaster inflection and tone

Condiment Claire and MillTok

Mercury Stardust!!!!

Quinn L Bishop just giving us beautiful chaotic climate change solutions that would probably work

Amber Wallin and I guess her husband sometimes too

That Italian sandwich maker!

That guy who mixes paint to match things

All the animal groomers!

That lady who had a pigeon adopt her at the pub

That guy sharing his character crushes and it ends with mister peanut

There is more but I’m exhausted so let me know if you want a part two

Hahahaha, that was a TikTok joke, fyi

#TikTok #social media #gardens #characters #smut #food #funny

[halonicheart]

Morgana at the start of her story was very distant, a bit belligerent and very mistrusting. As things change within Ishgard so too does she. Below is a glimpse into the a friendship she initially thought severely unlikely with Emmanellian.

“Oh Morgana~” Emmanellain’s annoyingly chipper shouts rattled in her skull. She turns with a huff to find him nearly skipping her way, a toothy grin and an excited glimmer in his eyes. He stops right in front of her with a hop, chest puffed up with pride in such a way that reminds of her the local pigeons that scuttle around for crumbs… mayhap it was his birdnest mop on his head that reminded her of as much. He speaks before she can ponder the matter much longer. “Come! Look upon my rugged visage!” Emmanellain smirks, he tucks a lock of hair behind left ear to reveal more of what looks like a thin scar going across his cheek. “What say you? Do I look more manly? Dashing even! I’ve a few more elsewhere- even bruises and a cracked rib!”

She stares at the man owlishly before shaking her head. “Cracked… ribs aren’t something to be proud… shouldn’t you be resting if that's the case and not running around shouting all holy hells?” Morgana pokes his still puffed out chest a couple of times before giving him a hard stare. “Aren’t you in pain?” She wonders if it would be cruel of her to poke around to find the general location of the aforementioned cracked rib, she ultimately decides not to in fear of watching him crumble to his knees.

“Oh dreadfully so I nearly fainted when it initially happened but I powered through it… somehow… nevermind the semantics on the matter.” She most certainly minds them but he isn’t about to share any details, not unless she tortured it out of him. “Do not change the subject, old girl, answer my questions then we may discuss their history later!” He chirps once more, leaning closer down to show off the nearly paper thin scar beneath his eye.

“Ah… well um….” She really isn’t sure to respond to this. If he wanted someone to truly stroke his ego, he most certainly came to the wrong person. “You look… like yourself? It’s a little thing… you look the same as ever to me.” Had he not pointed out as much she wouldn’t have even noticed it for a good awhile, truth be told. Judging by Emmanellain’s severe pout, that was the wrong answer. “Oh come off it, what did you expect me to say!”

He wipes away none existent tears. “You wound me old girl! Here I thought you could spare some words of praise to soothe my aching!” His attempt to melodramatically wail only causes him to wince and clutch his side. “Ah-! No-nothing this old boy can’t handle! Fret… not! Despite my wo-wounded… heart I shall sally forth!” It was painfully clear he was in absolute agony from his antics.

“... how recently did this happen…” Morgana can only sigh when she notices Emmanellain deflate, eyes fixed on the ground. “It was recent… wasn’t it…” He nods only once. “... does anyone know…?” He shakes his head. “…not even Honoroit…” He shakes his head again, sorry sod looked like a scold child. “Where is he? Is not usually scuttling not far behind you.”She was greeted only with dead air that told her all she needed to know. Honoroit was likely told to stay put and await his return in some foolish attempt to look cool. Morgana wasn’t sure what was more agitating, the fact he thought this was a grand idea or Honoroit actually going along with it. “... Gods! Emmanellian-! … come on!” She gingerly loops an arm around his, guiding him to her shanty home. “I’m not well adept in healing magics but I know minor ones and I may have some balms to help with the pain. Clearly you’ve your reasons for not saying anything so I’ll be the first to tend to you… moron…” The insult comes out much softer than she intended, almost fond. For the moment, she can’t bring herself to lecture him. “Count your stars that it didn’t pierce a lung or some such and before you make some silly remark that oh how would you know- you would be dead!” She barks.

Emmanellain only listens quietly as she continues to prattle on about the dangers of walking around with an unattended broken rib. It struck him odd, she herself said she wasn’t so adept in the art of healing and there are only two types of persons who would be so knowledgeable in injuries… those who study medicinal arts, healing, human study etc- and those who have lived through the injuries. “... you… speak as if you’ve had a rib or two broken on you before!” He tries to mask his worry with a smile, as if he were making jest but the empty stare he was given by his friend made it evident how poor the attempt was.

“... how bold of a man who can hardly stand upright now to show concern for me…” She looks away briefly, as if contemplating her next words. “Tumble down the stairs- when I was still a Baudelaire. Was a clumsy child.” Her voice was strained like she had rehearsed the statement her entire life. It was the kind of reply that left no comfortable room for questions. “Had some… accidents. Such is the way. It’s all fine now.”

There was a part of him that was screaming, withering, crying over the burning desire to pry. Emmanellain may come across as a drunken gossip, but he knows more than tea time talk of local debauchery, petty rumors- the like, and for another he can hold his liquor. All of Ishgard knew Morgana’s birth mother was rather strict to put it kindly, rarely was the young child seen without her clutching her hand as if it were a leash. Everyone knew, yet could prove nothing of what they could only imagine was happening behind closed doors. In a fleeting moment, he wonders of her own scars. “Morgana.” He won’t press into the matter, he will patiently wait as a true gentleman would for her to open up. “Thank you. I am glad to have you here, to have you as a comrade.” The usual hint of mischief in his voice is absent, he speaks with such composure that it nearly shakes Morgana.

She can’t help but let out a breathy laugh. “You know… sometimes you can actually come across as cool and mature when you don’t try so hard.” Morgana immediately regrets saying as much. There’s already a dreadfully annoying grin on his face that were she a crueler person she would have flicked nose the moment it began to form.

“Really? Truly? You find me cool and mature!?” With his free hand, he swoops back his bangs, holding them for a moment as he tries to decide what kind of manly expression he wished to have.

Morgana groans loudly. “I did. For a moment… and now you ruined it.” She has to stifle another groan when he only whines in response. “Enough of your belly aching! You’re only going to agitate the pain more!”

“Alright, alright- by your leave, old girl!” He sighs, looking like a kicked pup. She mirrors a sigh but smiles nonetheless. He could be a handful sometimes, but she too was glad to have a comrade in him.

#cadaverous creations #morgana greystone #platonic #non ship ficlet #I cracked a joke they would be buddies and now I’m running with it #also I like to think Emmanellian is actually pretty emotionally intelligent when he isn’t being mellow dramatic #vaguely implied child abuse #it’s a brief few lines #but it’s still there

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

Jonathan Sims Is Dead In The End

Chapter 6: Asch et al (1951) (AO3)

chapter summary:

The Asch conformity experiments (1951) were on how likely people were to conform to something that they know is incorrect. Participants were given a simple line-measuring task, and asked to determine which of the lines out of a series of options was the same length as a sample line.

The groups were composed of one participant, who said their answer aloud after most of the other people that they believed to be participants as well, but were actually confederates for the researchers. In the beginning, all said the correct answer aloud, until all confederates chose the incorrect answer; often, the real participant would choose the incorrect answer as well, in order to fit in with the rest of the group.

Sasha's standing in line at her usual coffeeshop on Wednesday morning, staring very intensely at the menu they've got written above the coffee machines. She's looking nowhere near the barista who's got a dark burn crawling up his neck, one that she Knows was the result of barely escaping something to do with the Desolation.

She hadn't seen anyone else with a Statement on Monday after work, nor had she seen anyone like that yesterday, so of course she's going to be subjected to it for an extended period of time today. She doesn't remember seeing him later on, when the hunger had first set in, but she supposes it's more likely than not that he'd simply quit before she would have had any idea that he had a Statement to give. The turnover rate at customer-facing jobs is much higher than at other sorts of places, so he'd probably just been lucky and dodged her when she'd been at her worst, last time around.

She doesn't want to change breakfast places, though, because she's been going here since before she was transferred out of Artifact Storage, but she might go back to eating frozen foods at home in the mornings for a while until she's sure she won't see him again, won't be tempted to take his Statement.

She's only got one person ahead of her, it's fine, she can manage for just a few more minutes while she gives her order and then stares at her phone for the rest of the time. The cashier takes the order of whoever's in front of her, and he pays in cash; she's waiting anxiously for her turn, hoping to just get it over with so she won't have to keep studiously ignoring the man.

The cashier dismisses the man in front of her, then turns to the man with the burn and goes, "Yo! Isaac! I'm taking ten, you got till?"

To her horror, the man with a burn waves off the cashier and moves to the till next to hers. She tells herself to suck it up, it's just a damn coffee order, it'll take two minutes! Two minutes of not taking a Statement, that's it! Doesn't matter that the three that she's had in the last two days have felt staler than ever because she's read them already, doesn't matter that Beholding's practically clawing at the back of her mind begging her to take it, she can't. She won't. She refuses to be like that again, become the thing she was, the thing that led to the end of everything as anyone knew it.

She says her coffee order too fast for the man- Isaac- to catch it, so she has to repeat it twice over. It's just a damned latte and a bagel, but she's so desperate to get away from the situation that she's managed to fuck up saying even that. She takes out her card with a trembling hand, staring down at the card slot, making sure she doesn't look up. Finally, the transaction is over, and she feels like a complete mess of a person but at least she felt no fear coming from the new cashier.

The coffee and bagel don't take too long, and she walks out of there like she's trying to politely run- which, to her credit, she is. She walks the rest of the way to the Institute, passing the metro exit she'd climbed up yesterday and the day before. She eats the bagel on the way, trying not to drop too many crumbs, not wanting to attract pigeons to get trampled underfoot in London morning foot traffic, and finishes it just as she gets to the doors.

The paper that the bag came in goes straight into the bin just as the clock above Rosie's desk ticks to 9:00, and she ducks quickly past with a wave as she practically dives through the door to the Archives.

She's got a plan for today. She couldn't enact it yesterday, still too early in the week, but today she can make an attempt. She'll have to act fake casual, which she practiced all of yesterday to mixed success, given that Tim was clearly still jumpy around her, but she also doesn't have much of a clue why that originated in the first place, so. Mixed success.

She goes into her office with a soft greeting to everyone else in the Archives, keeping with her "night-owl" sort of attitude that she'd had at this point in the timeline- it wouldn't do for her to "suddenly" get very used to being an insomniac and act awake at all hours of the day. She puts her bag down and starts poking through some papers from that box Elias had pushed at her on Monday, grabbing a few fake statements that she'll spend until lunch disproving.

She puts her purse in the way of the door, a temporary doorstop for until she gets a chance to go out and buy some general office supplies. She'd been using the communal ones in Research for far longer than she's proud to admit, and borrowed enough pens from Tim that she probably owes him a decent debt already.

Speaking of Tim... he's still uneasy around her. He's somehow managed to shift himself and his desk so that he constantly has a clear view of her in her office, without seeming at all odd to the others. She hasn't got any idea why he would be doing this, what she managed to do wrong in just a moment or two on Monday and continued to do wrong since, but she hopes there'll be a way to fix it. Their communal spiral into suspicious paranoia about one person hadn't gone well last time, she highly suspects that it won't go well this time, especially if she's the object of suspicion this time.

All of this is why, come lunch, she waits until all of the assistants are in the breakroom before going in herself, and clears her throat to get Tim and Martin's attention. She waits for Martin to nudge Jon, and for him to take his headphones off, before she tries out what she's been planning since Monday evening.

"I know that Tim, Jon, and I have already known each other for a while, and I don't want you to feel like you're being excluded or anything, Martin, so... do you all want to go out for drinks on Friday night? I'm hoping this isn't going to seem like a- a sort of 'boss' thing, because I just want us to be friends down here. It's a small department, so there's no reason for me to be stuffy and uptight about things like this, and we could all benefit from getting to know each other a bit more now we don't have any other coworkers, so... yeah?"

Contrary to how she's saying it, she'd actually worked on the phrasing of this request for much of last night, making sure it sounds just casual and unsure enough to be nonthreatening for Martin, as well as to convince Tim and Jon that she actually does want to go out instead of making it a 'team-building' thing like their old Department Head at Research had done sometimes.

Martin doesn't hesitate for long before nodding his assent, because he'd always been that kind of social person who wants to be invited somewhere but won't make his own events- anxious and extroverted at the same time, she remembers when she'd been like that, when she'd first started out and hadn't known anyone. Tim is quick to agree, too, just after Martin does, and the quick, near-unnoticeable glances he throws between the two of them betray that it's intentional. He's probably trying to ensure that Martin doesn't end up alone with her, judging by his hushed conversation with Jon on Monday.

Jon waits a little longer to agree, as well, and Sasha smiles to herself. She knows that it's probably going to be awkward, at first, but she wants things to be different from last time. She wants there to be a trust between them that wasn't there last time, she wants that spiral into paranoia that most of them had had to be damn near impossible this time around.

She wants to integrate all of her assistants into this group, into trusting each other and her, so that one suspicious event- or even a series of them- doesn't put one in isolation from the others, doesn't lead everyone into thinking that they're going to be the next Jane Prentiss, no matter how true it ended up being. The suspicion and hostility, though as subtle as they could manage, hadn't done Jon any favors last time, and she doubts that it will again. The events that followed, the consistent isolation of everyone by the end hadn't done Tim or Martin any favors either.

She smiles, a nice, normal smile, and says, "Great!" before grabbing her own lunch and bringing it to her office.

She won't force herself on them now, not when Tim and Jon know that she's a workaholic and Tim clearly started looking more and more nervous the longer she'd been in there. She knows, once the door to the breakroom closes, that he's probably whispering his suspicion of her to the others, but she hopes to be able to fix whatever she'd done on Friday, and she doubts he's being specific on why she isn't to be trusted, anyway, if Monday was any indication.

She goes back to the fake statement she'd been pointing out inconsistencies in earlier, and hopes that maybe, just maybe, this'll be the start of a happier ending.

#tma #my writing #tma fic #jonathan sims is dead in the end #jonathan sims is dead in the end fic

[harrison-abbott]

On the horizon a gleam of late clouds lie, perfect as shapes of ice. This is the least colourful place to be seen all day and yet, it’s the Mediterranean Sea. That touchdown of commerce. The Sea that made empires, and Europe, and this nation. White shoots froth against the blue vastness in these regular waves.

 What’d it be like to swim out there and just keep swimming and never return?

 Smells of diesel from the beach-worker chaps; girls walking in bikinis: men with flatter chests than most folks: the insectile cranes from the port on the horizon. Viscous seagulls. This gigantic cruise ship, scarily huge, laying beyond the coastline, bespeaking of offkey wealth and noir novels from the past.

 A swim in the sea would be nice, but, the wallet and jeans and backpack getting stolen wouldn’t be so pleasant. So it’s not so keen to leave your bag here whilst you dip unto that watery vessel, no matter how glorious it is.

 So, let’s head back into the city.

 Pots of paint explode everywhere. On the walls and down the alleyways and the walls of the parks, there are pictures and paintings of all kinds. Skulls and beasts, witches, dames, a diva; mad wolves and fine cats.

 All of these artists made all of this street art so long ago and you know none of their names and that seems the greatest point of art, within any medium.

 [Many of the buildings in this district are smashed up or abandoned with this nice gnarly masonry tumbled between their deserted courtyards.]

 Flags of lemon, tomato and blue on the balconies overhead.

 Pigeons meddle in bred crumbs in the 28°C degree shade.

 A walk in the market, perhaps?:

 Intense smells of fish and meat. And there are hacked -ff limbs of cows, and so on, and those slivers of the fillets lying there in the ice. Not so good. But the olives, courgettes, peppers, watermelons, nectarines, strawberries, berries and nuts and bananas are all terrific … alongside the gaudy homely smell of the bread section.

 When you buy a baguette it’s warm under the paper. An orange as well? Spanish orange. Vitamin explosion.

 A man comes up. He doesn’t speak the same language. Money. That’s what he’s after. May as well give him some. Why not? The man is obviously mucked up; it’s okay to be a charity in a tiny way.

 The cathedral plonks out its bells. Sings them, rather. These orchestral clongs of metal resounding over the city – and it’s not near the hour or related to the time of day. But the sounds are railing and one could be, if you think of it, three hundred years back, to close the eyes and listen to the echoes throughout the spanning courtyard.

 How about the central park which cuts through the centre of the city, next. Palm trees make iconic silhouettes with the sky. Pure camera candy. Angelic fountains of aqua blue followed by young folks cycling in whizzing sparks. Are they trying to get fit? Or they do this every day?

 There are hunky men, further down the park, doing lift-ups and their biceps are pumping. And, farther ahead, there are the green squares of the football, basketball and tennis courts. And, again, it is odd being in a country where sport is far more flagrant and possible than one’s home one. (Because you see the badges and scarves and indemnity all over the town.)

 But, well done to them. The tip tap and crack and of their young feet going on the astonishing green span of the Velcro pitch: wouldn’t it be nice to go and play with them, even if the mutual skills aren’t there.

 The karate-like language bangs about in the hot air. Sexy language, no doubt: hard to emulate. The purple on the flowers of the trees that you pass don’t look like purple, they look some other colour. But their trunks are also bulbous and windy and twisty and you imagine climbing up them if you were a tad younger.

 Try somewhere else in the city. A metro ride. Stupid fumbling about with the ticket machine, trying to get a ticket, with these other people waiting behind.

 Watching the other faces on the train (whence on it) it’s not like being an individual: rather feel like a nobody-man on a planet with eight billion people on it. But, this is okay, only a natural feeling?

 Going through the black tunnels of the Metro line, the lanes of the train corridor twitch in lime green and they twist and turn around the underground matrix.

 There are men with grey hair. Women with wrinkly skin. Groups of boys with brown skin. They look at their watches and there is a wonder what there personality is like and yet there is no way to know them and then five minutes later they will get off the train and … there is no cinematic conclusion.

 Getting off the subway and walking up the steps into the startling sunlight.

 Perhaps head down to the Fine Arts Museum? It’s free. Sounds cool.

 Most of it’s religious art. Almost all.

 And it’s astonishing how violent that type of art is, despite how white and pink the skin of the protagonists. The stories on the little placards where they describe the gory details of said Saint or Hero.

 These images are totally different from the street art you witnessed earlier. And yet it seems valuable to wonder why religion and sacrifice still remains important in the present age.

 Outside of the museum, the city booms and ticks, still. The gulls circle and meander overhead. Walking back towards the hostel, and passing a park, there are three black cats, coiling there, beyond the bars of a fence. Their eyes cut up, with feline verve.

By the last tilt of the day the sky has changed and some glimmering clouds are left and a sad fruity sunset beyond the hills.

 Against this backdrop the neon lights of the towns beyond the city have braved up and winked on their blinking eyes.  

#writeblr #travel writing

[touyaz]

the sum of blessings.

pairing hawks | takami keigo x fem reader

word count 2,909

notes had +this thought right after watching squid game. could not get it out of my head (’: for @sunnyfunerals​ who is carrying the bnha squid game au (please read her works +here !!) && please give plenty of love to @ultimatedoodler​ for drawing +this stellar piece of vip keigo!

WARNINGS vip hawks, squid game spoilers, dark hawks, noncon/ dubcon, fingering, public sex/ exhibitionism, power imbalance, the whole concept revolves around dehumanisation, face slapping, choking, slight degradation, praise. no pronouns for reader.

MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.

+

"Don't you look… delectable?"

His voice is deep, raspy enough to send your heart aflutter, deafening as he leans in millimetres closer, teasing the distance between his teeth and the ticklish skin of your neck. His hand skirts around your back, settling on your waist and dragging you towards him. He's flushed against you, thigh to thigh, turned so your shoulder knocks into his chest when he leans to tug on your earlobe.

"Mm, you won't mind if I help myself to a little taste, will you?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He already knows the rules. You're not there to converse with him, you're there to serve — be it the untouched wine that sits on a platter on your lap, or your body, the law doesn't specify — and so you offer yourself up as your job entails. Think of the reels of cash you'll be handed when this is over, focus on the warm shower you'll indulge in when the day is finally done; don't squirm away when he licks a broad stripe up your neck, don't look into those daring amber eyes when he turns your face his way. "You're just so… tempting."

You swallow, and he tracks the movement with his eyes, smirking faintly. His thumb slides up from your chin to the swell of your bottom lip. You should be worried about how he's smudging the goldenrod paint into the carmine — you should be trembling at the prospect of a bullet in your head for ruining your makeup, even if it's not exactly your fault (that never seems to matter to those higher ups, to those storing your rights away) — but all you can focus on is the tip of his thumb smoothing over your tongue. It's sweet at first, the taste of chemicals in your mouth. Then it dulls to something akin to cardboard. Saliva pools in your mouth, but you can't swallow. Not when he's still pressing down on your tastebuds, not when he's pushing even further.

The jewels in his mask blur together into a sea of gold, flecked with dusted diamonds, rich with the promise of something dangerous. His thumb scrapes against the grooves in your tongue on his way out, and when he swipes the wet digit beneath your eye, all you manage is a shaky gulp.

"Why are you crying, hm?" he asks. His voice reeks of faux sympathy, each syllable laced with a burning desire to see your downpour. "What's the matter, pretty bird?"

He tilts his head like he's waiting for your response. It reminds you of a pigeon, of the way they angle their heads this way and that as they inspect crumbs on the floor before they dig in. You wonder what his fascination is with birds, and why, out of all the animals in the kingdom, that was what you had to dress as. Hawks, you recall one of the VIPs calling him. It’s fitting — a bird of prey; a king on his throne. You'd rather be his long-forgotten tiger footstool than stare back into those beady eyes of his.

A moment passes, then another, and he raises his brow.

"Answer me," he says. You don't move and he frowns a little at your silence. You almost don't recognise his face when it's not lined with mirth. He taps on your cheek with the hand still holding your face. "Answer me."

As subtly as you can, you shake your head.

"Are you scared?"

You nod.

"Of me?"

You don't move.

"You shouldn't be," he continues, and that awful pout of his has turned up once more. "I've not done anything wrong, have I? You're here to keep me company, I'm simply… enjoying it, aren't I?"

You wish he would leave you alone. You wish he would take a look at the other VIPs that have yet to bat an eye at the other animals in the room. You wish he would stop slapping your cheek to keep your attention all on him.

His mouth drops with a little gasp suddenly. "Ah, I know what it is." He pinches your cheek, as one would to a baby, but the gesture isn't at all cute. The biting pain lingers long after he's stopped squeezing. "You're scared of the big guy up there, aren't you?"

He nods his head, but you don't need to look to know who he's referring to.

"Mm, he is pretty terrifying, isn't he, birdie?" He wets his lip before continuing. "Don't you worry your pretty little head, he won't get in the way."

You wonder how this man could stop a bullet from the gun that glints in the Front Man's pocket. You wonder why he's so confident that he's irreplaceable. This place goes through dozens of bodies a day, no matter what mask the wearer adorns. A crime is a crime is a crime.

You aren't left pondering for too long.

His hands leave your body and he sits back, clearing his throat before speaking to the room.

"None of you will mind me playing about with this sweet thing, will you?" You're looking at Hawks until he turns you to face the front of the room. You think the Front Man is staring at you — glaring, probably, plotting your timely demise, mentally dividing up your paycheck already — but you focus on the glass behind him. A fall from that height would be a blessing.

To the left, a voice asks, "You're missing the games already?"

Hawks chuckles. "No, of course not. Call it dinner and a show, my good man."

The voice replies, "Have at it."

Others join in, either shrugging or telling him to enjoy his meal. He tilts his head at the Front Man. "Is that alright with you?"

You wonder how the Front Man remains so steady. You wonder if he's internally seething at the disorder, or if he truly doesn't care.

"You may do as you please. Enjoy."

"See, darling," Hawks calls, turning your face back to his. "There's nothing to worry about."

His hand falls to the wine glass on your lap, lifting it till the rim creases your lip.

"Have a sip," he encourages, holding it there. You don't dare move. The first person falls. Laughter ensues. "No? Suit yourself."

You flinch for the briefest second as the drink trickles down your face. It may warrant your death, but you close your eyes, cringing at the sticky residue that will be left behind, quivering when you hear the muted thud of the glass. A fingertip traces the red streams, smearing the wine into your skin.

He makes you face him again.

"Now, don't you look even more enticing?" he murmurs, pushing the tray off of your lap. "Come closer."

You obey. It's all you can do. He keeps his eyes open as he follows the rivers with his tongue, uncaring of the paint that decorates your face, unbothered by the clench of your jaw beneath his mouth. You hear him hum when he crosses the apple of your cheek, feel his smirk when he licks at the corner of your lips. You don't know if the sticky wine or his dirty spit soils you more. Maybe it's the paint — the reason you're here, the reminder that there are others desperate enough to stoop as low as you have.

You want to wipe his saliva off. You don't get the chance to when he pulls you up and seats you on his lap.

Another player falls. You watch them flail while they can.

Hawks plays with the wings on your back in the meantime. "These look so pretty," he comments, tugging on the feathered tip, letting out a quiet oops when the plume falls free. It doesn't squirm before it hits the ground. "You're my pretty bird, aren't you?"

He pulls another one out, and drags it across your bare back. It tickles, the feather-light touch, the gentle grazes across your shoulder blades. When he trails down to your hip with it, you shift in your seat only for his other hand to wrap around your throat, holding you still.

"Oh?" he says, the single word intoned with enough amusement to make your fists clench. He repeats the action and you bite your lip to keep yourself together. "Is something wrong?" he asks, as if he doesn't already know, as if he isn't the cause of your discomfort.

With the hand on your neck, he moves you until your back is pressed against his chest, parting his thighs so your own legs spread, too. He rests his chin on your shoulder and the jewels scratch along your cheek when he tips his head down, watching himself move the feather along your stomach.

He must feel your breath hitch in your throat when he teases the plume down and then up because he snickers quietly. "Excited, are we? I know I am." He finishes his sentence with a roll of his hips and ice runs through your veins when you feel his hardness.

You don't know how you missed it, but now you can't keep your mind off of it. It pokes at your lower back, and no matter how much you arch away, he follows your movements, delighting in your unease, rejoicing much to your chagrin.

"Where do you think you're going, birdie?" Hawks chimes, tightening his hold on your neck. It's not enough to cut your air supply, but you don't think that was the point anyway. It's a display of power. Your life hangs in his blood-stained, golden hands — a show of dominance, of control, you realise; he could just as easily cut the thread loose and end you (the thought crosses your mind, another player free falls), and no one in the room would jump to step in. "I'm not done with you yet."

The feather trails further down. You can almost hear the corners of his lip turn up when he brushes the plume over your sex. "This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it?"

"Stop."

It comes out as a whimper, barely audible over the raucous laughter that explodes when two people fall instead of just the one, so timid and fitting for a frail little bird such as yourself. He stops, but you don't think it's because you asked him to. Maybe he's thinking of the ways he should kill you for defying him.

Your life isn't yours to govern; your demise isn't yours to decide.

There's nothing more you could lose by continuing.

"Please stop."

"I was beginning to think you were mute. That would've been a shame."

His voice is light and airy. Nothing like the spiteful, irate tone you imagined he would have.

"Is that really what you want? For me to stop?"

You nod, but he clicks his teeth at your reply. "Answer me properly now, darling. Do you really want me to stop? Because I don't think you do."

The feather brushes against you gently as it falls. His hand replaces it, cupping over your sex so you can feel the outline of each finger press into you. He's warm, smooth like he's never worked a day in his life, surprisingly gentle like he actually cares for you.

"I think you're enjoying this," he continues, toying with your body, sliding two fingers up and down your folds, following the line of your entrance teasingly. "Someone of your background can only dream of all this. Of course you're enjoying it, no need to save face. No need to lie to me. Tell me what you like, dove. Go on."

"I don't— please, just, please stop."

"Your mouth says one thing, but your body says another." He dips his finger, just the very tip, into you, but it's enough for both of you to feel the wetness. You writhe in his hold, but he squeezes your neck once in warning. "It's alright to have fun, you know? This can't be new to you — whoring yourself out like this, I'm just another notch on your belt, aren't I? Or… Or is my pretty bird innocent? Hm? Is that it, darling? Too busy trying to make ends meet that you've never been touched properly? Oh, don’t worry. Don't worry, sweetheart," he says, and your body tenses when a single finger finally breaches past, pushing down to the knuckle and staying still. "I'll be gentle. I'll take care of you."

With that, he pulls his finger out, only to repeat the motion. In, out, in, out. You're shaking your head, quietly pleading for him to stop, but all he does is shush you, telling you to stop drawing attention to yourself. "Do you want them all to see? I won't stop them if they want a piece of you, you know — I can't blame them, either."

You shake your head, biting your lip to hold back a sob. You try to focus on the game, but it's all hazy.

"Good. I don't really feel like sharing." A second finger joins, and your head falls back on his shoulder at the stretch. The beaked nose of his mask skims across the thrumming flesh of your neck, but you don't move away when his lips latch on, teeth sinking into your skin without remorse. "You're all mine now, aren't you?"

"No," you cry, and he all but snickers at the way you try to fight his hand away from your cunt. His hold on your neck tightens, breath cutting short, and he hums when your hands fly to your neck, trying to pry him away.

"What was that?" he asks, digging his nails into your neck, scoring the line of his rings into your body. "Think I misheard you, dove. You're all mine, aren't you?"

"Y-Yes," you wheeze, mouth tripping and spluttering over the words as your vision darkens around the edges. "Yours— Yours, please—!"

Air rushes into your lungs like a burst dam when he lets go, settling back into his loose grip. You clench the sofa on either side of your legs, channeling your frustration into the leather.

"That's it. That's a good bird," he praises, granting you a kiss over the crescents he left behind. "This isn't so bad, is it?" His hand ventures down from your neck in search of your clit. You can't tell what the others in the room are saying, too focused on the lewd squelch that accompanies a third finger slipping in. "Mm, sound so pretty— so fucking pretty for me. Can you hear that? Can you hear how much you're enjoying it? Fuck, I bet the players can, too, you're so fucking wet. Look at you."

He pulls out to raise his hand, spreading his fingers to show off the arousal that hangs between them. The sight disgusts you. You want to lunge forward and snap them apart, but that won't wipe away the slick dripping out of your hole, dampening his slacks, wetting your thighs.

Your fingers twitch at your side as he carries on rolling your clit. You want this to be over already. You want him to have his way and be done with you, to leave you alone and let you stew in your misery for as long as possible. That won't be long, you think, this game is nearly over.

He groans around his own fingers, tasting your arousal before shoving those same fingers into your own mouth. "I knew you'd taste amazing — fuck, I just knew it. Cum for me."

"I can't—"

"I'm not asking," he growls, using the replacing the fingers on your clit with the spit-soaked ones. "Fucking cum for me."

You don't want to, but there's no stopping the heat that stokes inside you as he circles your bud, rolling the nerves around, setting them alight with each flick of his wrist. There's no helping the way your back arches off of him, and you'd be thankful he raises a hand to muffle your cries if you weren't already so delirious because of his touches.

You curse behind his hand, clenching your eyes shut as your release finally washes over you. White hot flashes behind your eyelids. Stars dot your vision. A ringing strums through your ears until it tapers into soft cooing.

You blink your eyes open slowly, wincing at the overhead lights.

"There you are," he grins, gradually bringing you down from your high. "There's my pretty dove."

A chuckle sounds in the room, but it's not the low, teasing one you've grown familiar with. You tense in his hold, and the shh, it's alright he murmurs does little to quell your nerves.

"You call that a show, Hawks?" the man with the fox mask asks. "Missed the whole game for a bit of fingering, and you've still got your pants on."

"What can I say, Fox, I'm an easy man to please," he replies. "You'd be the same if you felt this tight cunt."

"Is that an offer?"

"In your dreams."

You can't focus on their banter. If you squint, you can make out the shape of the gun in the Front Man's pocket. It grounds you. This will be over soon.

"Front Man," Hawks calls, letting his fingers mindlessly drum along your slick sex. He pushes his bulge against your back. You pray the gun makes an appearance soon. "How much for this pretty bird?"

#bnha smut #mha smut #hawks smut #keigo smut #takami keigo smut #bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo x reader #takami keigo x reader #yandere bnha #yandere mha #yandere hawks #yandere keigo #dark bnha #dark mha #yandere bnha x reader #yandere mha x reader #yandere hawks x reader #yandere keigo x reader #tw dark content #mine #mine.bnha #tw power imbalance #tw slapping #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw dehumanisation

[incorrectbatfam]

batfam as times of day and why

Bruce – 01:00. It doesn't feel like much changed as you pick at scabs, but so much can happen between now and sunup. You could come up with a new theory of why the universe is the way it is, or your arms could be the refuge for someone plagued by nightmares. Regardless, life moved forward, and so will you.

Jason – 03:00. Nothing you do or say matters as stoplights bounce off the rain-glazed asphalt. You have no one to call, which is exactly what you want, because this hour belongs to you and the angry sentiments you've spent all day bottling up. Play a song, cock your gun, and make a toast to being the last one standing.

Dick – 04:00. Safely suspended in the limbo between night and day, you don't yet have to pick up the weight you've spent your whole life carrying. As much as you love helping others, you're relieved nobody needs you yet. I know the inevitable is daunting, but until that arrives, all you have to do is breathe.

Damian – 07:00. Kick yourself into gear. Chin up, backpack on your shoulders, and look the day in the eye like the warrior you are. But don't forget to take in the little things, like the smell of your dad's aftershave and the eager golden retriever at the fence by the bus stop. Whatever life has in store, you're more than ready.

Stephanie – 09:00. Cars zoom past the opening storefronts and you can't wait to get a piece of the action. You hype yourself up with your favorite to-go breakfast before hopping on the bus, headphones on like you're in a bubbly music video. Don't forget to say thanks to the driver—this leg of the journey wouldn't be possible without him.

Barbara – 10:00. Punch in, and down to business you get. You can look forward to lunch in a couple of hours, but until then, you dedicate yourself to beating your personal best. A sense of satisfaction fills you as you hit "send" on that email as you know for certain you're gonna reap what you sow.

Carrie – 12:00. Woohoo, you're halfway there! Time for a well-deserved break with your favorite sandwich on your favorite park bench. The leaves gently rustle. You feed a few crumbs to the pigeons pecking around you. Another freckle appears on your arm as the sun playfully pokes it.

Duke – 15:00. Though it feels like there's still a lot to do, you gotta give props to yourself for making it through the majority of it. Look up from that syllabus and listen to your friends laugh at the weird bug they found in the grass. Right now is the youngest you'll ever be, so you might as well enjoy the ride.

Harper – 16:00. You clock out and hop into your car at the peak of rush hour. Sitting on the highway is frustrating, but at least you have your favorite radio station and the knowledge that others are stuck here with you. You chuckle. Isn't it funny how we're connected in the most banal ways?

Kate – 18:00. You're almost home. You drum your fingers on the steering wheel in anticipation, though you don't know why. They're your family. You can show up in dirty pajamas and they'll still rush to hug you. But maybe it's because they love you and you love them that you wanna give them only the best.

Alfred – 19:00. Everybody's gathered around, telling their stories over mashed potatoes and cups of cocoa. Chairs squeak. Glasses clink. The table roars as someone tells a bad joke. You've been on this planet for a while, but you haven't found anything that remotely mirrors the feeling of a warm hearth and happy home.

Cullen – 21:00. The sun disappears and you slip into the refuge of your room to bury yourself in stories as you mull over how to write your own. You replay the day's events, straining for inspiration. But you don't need to be constantly productive, and you don't have to torture yourself to be an artist.

Cassandra – 22:00. The wind feels like the first sip of water in a sweltering summer. You have a front row to the city showing its true colors, and you're not afraid to step right in. The night tastes of street tacos and red wine as a melodious cacophony serves as the backing track to your main character arc.

Selina – 23:00. Things wind down. You find yourself on the roof of your home, gazing at the cosmos in awe of the fact that we managed to travel that far. A hand takes yours, and you lean on a sturdy shoulder. Silence is silver as the moonlight, and nothing is more golden than time stopping so you can share this moment.

Tim – 00:00. You're exhausted. Time seems to tick by too slowly, and you wonder what you're even doing here. Getting lost in your head is easy. But there's something about the way you can doodle in the stars that makes you think it's not all that bad. It's still dark, but it's a new day, and you will begin again.

#ask #anonymous #batfamily #batfam #batclan #batman family #dc comics #tw food mention #tw gun mention #tw alcohol mention

[nnatsume]

Ok you said you wanted Valkyrie so here I am, Mika simps rise1!!1!

May I request Mika with a very caring and conforting s/o? Because our baby deserves someone who spoils him when he's feeling down :((

Tysm!

a / n : you said spoiling mika and i went ballistic. because yes. as a community, we need to take care of and spoil him more. love the mika. care the mika. i hope this can feed the starving mikap’s because you all are like surviving on bread crumbs from 3 yrs ago. if happyele doesn’t feed you then i will.

also sorry for disappearing if an explanation is demanded then i will explain. i'm back on here now and i really hope i can get to those halloween reqs before christmas starts 💀

✦ mika with a caring & comforting s/o !

giving mika an ounce of attention and kindness may confuse him at first, but give him a little time and he’ll be trailing you like a pigeon for breadcrumbs. you’d be surprised at how strong that attachment is. he seeks out your caring nature, finding comfort in your presence alone from the very beginning. he’ll be hovering around you constantly, and helping you whenever you need him since you’re so kind ‘n cute!

he’ll be very surprised when you openly love him back. mika looks at you like he’s seen heaven when you do just as much as touching his hair. and he finds himself enjoying it so much, he keeps asking for more. what he feels, he doesn’t know, but it feels so nice and soft, he just gets addicted to it. “the thing..”, he’ll mutter shyly, patting his own head, “can ya do the thing?”

as much as mika wants to go to work sometimes, your arms just look so much more comforting. before he even touches his costume, he finds himself falling into your embrace and nuzzling his head into your neck. he likes just laying still, basking in your warmth. you can feel him smile against your skin as he toys with your hands. your touch is most comforting to him.

mika likes sharing his candy with you a lot. there is something about enjoying a nice treat together that just makes him feel warm. when you bring him a generous batch of candy, mika looks like he’s on the verge of exploding. he can’t even hold the bag properly, throwing it aside and promptly jumping into your arms. his face feels like it’s burning on your shoulder.

mika found himself staring again. you looked so content, munching away at your candy. it made him feel happy too, the sweetness tasted even better on his tongue. he couldn’t hold back a smile. you look so pretty. and you care for him so much. just the thought of you holding him makes him go red-faced.

“mika? are you okay? you’re giggling again.”, you asked, with that cute, confused expression of yours. he covered his mouth in embarrassment, wide-eyed.

“m.. more than okay!”, he stammered with a laugh, scratching the back of his head. again, seriously? he was so embarrassed. quickly, he reached into the bag, unwrapping a strawberry gummy and holding it out to your mouth, as you did to him before. “‘ere! these’re tasty.. have some, have some!”

he was getting better at changing topics.

when he’s down, you’re all he needs. he won’t seek you out himself though, not wanting to worry or burden you. you’ll have to check on your mika once in a while and take the initiative, because he won’t tell you when he’s sad, insisting that he’s completely fine even though he’s frowning. in those moments, all he wants is to sleep in your arms. and when he gets to, he wakes up as if reborn.

he likes to give back to you a lot, hoping you won’t get bored and leave. jewelry, plushies, and clothes are his most common gifts. mika often stays up late into the night, employing shu’s help to make you pretty gowns. when he sees you in them, he has a short circuit. the plushies that he makes you are cutesy, customized characters for you! they’re there for you when he can’t be. your bed will be full of them. mika is your little loyal crow, bringing tokens in return for affections.

call him cute one time and he’ll be happy for the rest of the year. nice words from you encourage him to do better, and he finds himself quickly improving in his arts, so much so that you may even catch a word of praise from his oshi-san. when you mention his eyes, call them pretty, it makes him feel so warm. mika starts accepting and improving himself with your help.

spoil him in moderation though! otherwise, he will never let you go in the morning. mika just wants you to love him lots. his confessions aren’t always direct, sometimes even accidental. lean in close, and you can hear him muttering his declaration of love in his sleep. there is so much love within mika, so treasure it dearly! ♪

#enstars #ensemble stars #mika kagehira #mika kagehira x reader #enstars x reader #ensemble stars x reader