#please read kinder gentler

[ohitslen]

Hey guys why are my hurt comfort fics hurting a whole fucking lot and not comforting me in the least huh what’s up with that

#ugly sobs because MAN. #kinder gentler is really making me loose all my marbles I love it so much #please read kinder gentler #by skittydyne on ao3 it’s so good crying #it has its fun moments. it’s sad moments. it’s soft moments. reincarnation prompt. ranch owner Nai. what else do you want #it’s hurting like a bitch rn but that’s what makes it good #I went to another one for comfort and we also reached the hurt part on that one too LMAOOO HELP ME #lenssi rambles

[delicrieux]

—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.1: things of present and future importance

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship warnings for this chapter—trauma, anxiety, swearing, and sum depression as dessert word count—2k

uh-oh, carmen is losing it again, this time in front of his new employee, too. 

author’s note: give me this wet dog of a man and give him to me NOWWWWWWWW

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | read on ao3 . next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] <3

there’s a lot of things wrong with this situation, but carmen does not have it in him to care. maybe he never will, and that’s okay, because it’s his fucking restaurant and he knows he could be kinder, could be gentler, could, maybe, keep all of those splinters in his gut from hurting too bad if he took a few deep breaths just how they say in therapy. deep breaths, slow breaths, and then they look at you like you’re a toddler having a meltdown in the middle of the street and suddenly, suddenly, it’s all go fuck yourself and the door slamming shut.

carmen’s an abandoned puppy – disheveled hair and round eyes that have been unloved (by him, most of all), with his head bent and shoulders tense, not sure whether to flee or attack, but offense is the best defense and just like a bad dog he bites when frightened. it’s all teeth and anger and desperation; jaws lock and teeth sink and he doesn’t let go because he’s starving, even if what he’s fighting for is nothing but a cadaver of a place, space, body – brother? no, don’t think of mikey. he’s starving, has been for ages – approval? don’t say that – and that hunger bubbles to the surface when confronted by a minuscule imperfection, like sauce on the stove left to simmer for too long.

it’s a bad first impression, second impression, third, what the fuck, he’s good at food and not very good at math, unless math comes to food and then, maybe, he can sort it out. still bad, still fucking terrible, to be honest, and somewhere in the frying tangles of his mind he knows that yelling doesn’t help, and that yelling in front of the new hire doesn’t bode well for retention. the last enzymes of his sanity warn him – calm down, just, just calm down, carmen, you’re making it worse, you’re making it fucking worse – but the to-go machine keeps beeping, and the kitchen is too hot, and his staff is too anxious, and everything is amplified tenfold by his brother’s looming shadow that exists to him only. don’t think of mikey.

“can someone please turn that fucking thing off?” it’s his voice, laced by such scorn and a barely contained anger that makes him tremble by the pans. he’s losing his mind. sweat collects on his temple and his eyes sting from the fumes billowing onto his face, “sydney!”

“yes, chef.”

sydney’s a trooper, doesn’t bend under pressure like steel, and he sees her maneuvering in his peripherals, quick and agile to not get into anyone’s way, least of all his. briefly, he thinks about burning this place down. he blinks. the beeping stops – she ripped the cord out of the socked, dropped it onto the floor that sent an echo.

the new hire watches this shitshow unfold by her station, eyes wide and weary, ears perked for orders. her hands move – strong hands, swift hands, long fingers and rough palms that cradle a knife the way a mother would cradle a child. she doesn’t look at what she cuts, but she chops and slices and it’s all automatic – trained response? – and if carmen were to take a ruler and inspect the pieces, he’d be impressed to find that most are even and none are crooked. he’d hum, then, skim through the folders of his mind to re-check her experience, re-check the college she went to. he’d say something like, “good work, chef,” and maybe she’d smile at the bare bones of the compliment he’d given her, and when he’d be alone in his dingy office he’d pull out her resume and examine it with more interest because he’d be too embarrassed to ask.

he’ll grow familiar with those hands, with the dips and curves of knuckles and the tiger stripes of scars running down their expanse; he’ll grow familiar with the touch, too, soft despite the callouses, but only to him. not yet, though, not for another few months till a completely expected storm will halt the trains and he’ll have to drive her home. it’ll be weeks after that awkward silence in the car and stolen glances at soaked t-shirt-clad skin.

her form is unfamiliar to him – he hadn’t any interest to look, nor would he find anything curious when all is covered in oversized fabric and a blue apron. at present, she’s his colleague, nothing more, and a young one at that, too young and too talented to be stuck in such a place and with him running it.

but he will look. sooner than expected, and not for any devout reason, unless loneliness can be considered holy.

he’ll feel bad about it, too, and he’ll feel worse when everything escalates, because it always does.

for now, he cooks by the open flame, letting hot oil sizzle on his hands and the fire lick his fingers, and maybe, just maybe, he likes the pain because he knows nothing else. it’s become empirical to him. an indication that he’s still alive. that he’s still in control of something, even if he isn’t.

richie, richie, good fucking god, richie always picks the worst moments to bitch about.

“are you fucking with me?” carmen’s voice, again, a bit higher this time and just a gruff. doe eyes narrow at the bell-tower named richard jerimovich that has the audacity to look clueless, “do not fucking fuck with me right now.”

richie: shove that stick outta [fuck you] your ass, cousin carmen: are you deaf? richie: boutta go deaf if you keep yapping [don’t got time for this]; listen, i just [you just?] came to talk [talk? now? talk?] yes, to talk, look carmen: now you wanna talk? now? you wanna [jesus] fucking talk right now?

the tension in the air is sharp enough to slice through skin. everyone pointedly pretends not to hear this conversation. carmen doesn’t want to hear this conversation, either. there’s a line of people waiting. he reminds richie of that, and richie reminds that oh, he knows, and –

“richie!” it’s sydney, cheeks glowing with sweat and bandana crooked, “not now.”

richie huffs, looks at carmen with a certain exasperation, a wordless question of ‘really? really? you’re letting her run the show, now?’, and carmen needn’t be a genius to know that richie’s gonna bring this up later. he’ll never hear the end of it, he scarcely does now. it’s a headache in the making. his heart skips, or maybe stops, and for a moment he feels white-hot panic shoot through his veins. it passes with a shiver he doesn’t show. he breathes just a tad quicker – not enough air, not enough fucking air, jesus.

richie retreats with his arms raised in surrender, amused and annoyed simultaneously. a quiet follows his departure, and carmen looks at the staff, gaze jumping from one to the other before settling on her. she’s unperturbed by the chaos, working, watching, assessing, and later he’ll learn she wears that face the same way he wears his anger – as armor.

eyes meet and there’s a certain understanding that glimmers in the depths of her iris. but what could she understand? three weeks from now, he’ll come to learn that she’s used to rough edges and loud voices: he’ll learn that she’s the daughter of the chef that made his life hell back in new york, he’ll learn that she took up cooking because she wanted to appease her father, he’ll learn that her parents have split and her mother is sick and that she’s not calm but disconnected and that she tends to live in her head just like him.

but he doesn’t know that now, so he blames the shitty lighting that blinks and buzzes and, “fak, for the love of fucking god, please fix it.”

he said please this time, and it means he’s cooling off. he thankfully misses the quick look the staff shares – a mixture of relief and pity. either would have been devastating to recognize.

the only upside is that the day goes by fast. too much to do, too much to stress about, and carmen’s used to running on nothing but nicotine and adrenaline and an odd spout of desolation, and he manages everything, keeps the pieces glued together until eventually everything becomes too much and then he crumbles. still picks them up gently, like handling broken glass. he visits the storage often. closes the door for a moment and just lets himself breathe, reminds himself how to. doesn’t calm, only collects, reigns in the anger that coats loneliness. don’t think about mikey.

the staff cleans in a similar silence that douses after a storm.

the night's clear, crisp air compounded with cigarette smoke. he leans on the wall of the restaurant, staring into space, listening to the white noise of a restless city. by now, sydney has flipped the CLOSED sign; by now, his new hire is probably thinking about quitting, elbows deep in cleaning detergent as she scrubs the floor. he’ll have to go over her work and double-check. just in case there’s something more to do for hands that are always restless.

he tries to think but his head is scrambled. too many thoughts rushing in and out, loud, obnoxious, too quick to leave a lasting impact. he’s tired. he’s always tired. he wants lay on his bed and let sleep swallow him whole, but he knows that won’t happen. if he sleeps, he dreams of new york, he dreams of fire, he dreams of voices coming from the other room. one, in particular, holds a familiar rasp and drawl, punctuated by laugher, weaving a tale and stop it, don’t think about it anymore, just stop it, don’t think about –

he tosses the cigarette, watching the embers burn.

don’t think about mikey.

he enters through the back exit, stalks through the restaurant like he's haunting the place. briefly stops to stare at the mirror behind the bar. doesn't really recognize the man staring back.

the clock reads 00:30 am.

marcus was the last to leave, or so carmen assumed by the silence that shrouds the place, but as he makes his way to his office, he hears a locker shutting, and the sound rattles him so much his heart beats in his throat. all of that previous exhaustion ignites into anxiety that makes his limbs lock up.

she halts by the mouth of the kitchen, hair matted from sweat and lower lip marked where her teeth sunk, drooped eyes widening a fraction as she regards him. he can only stare at her in return, at her messy hair and pinched eyebrows and the slight downward curl of her lips.

“you could use a coffee,” she utters, and her voice is jarring – not for any unpleasant reason, but for the fact that he didn’t expect to hear it. he’ll grow to like it, crave it, even, because it’s a lovely cadence and it’ll sound even lovelier when she says his name.

he’s frightened by it now, if one can be scared of such a thing. so he bites.

“it’s almost 1 am.”

“right,” she mutters dryly.

“why are you still here?” he questions, and it almost sounds like an accusation, because he thought he was alone, only to suddenly be proved wrong. feels like an invasion of privacy, to be fucking honest, “your shift ended like an hour ago.”

“oh, I, uh, had some things to finish, so…” she trails off, but she still looks at him, and it’s unnerving, really, how she doesn’t budge under the weight of his stare. he bends under hers, though; the floor is spotless, he has nothing left to do. he misses the visible tension in her face, misses the quick swipe of her tongue on her lower lip as she opens and closes her mouth. it’ll take two whole weeks to grow entranced by the sight. misses the polite smile, too, but hears it in her voice anyway, “night.”

her sneakers squeak and echo and the door shuts. silence settles heavy on his shoulders. he’s not sure if he’s more distraught by her sudden appearance or abrupt departure. both somehow feel bad. in less than half a year, he’ll come to realize that the latter is worse.

ch.2: thank you, love you

#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader #the bear imagine #imagine #imagines #reader #xreader #give him a moment he jacks off in chapter two #hes so pathetic i love him

[punkpandapatrixk]

🐶The Moon’s Message to Your Inner Child ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

This PAC is in collaboration with @faerytreealtars and her part of the PAC covers a message from the Sun🌞Check out her PAC to get a full circle reading~🍃😉

["Wisdom from the Sun" – how to reach your divine self]

‘Do you like to draw with crayons? I’m not very good at it. But it doesn’t matter. It’s the fun of doing it that’s important. Now, I wouldn’t have made that if I’d just thought about it. No matter how anybody says it is, it feels good to have made something. The best thing is that each person’s would be different. In a way, you’ve already won in this world. Because you’re the only one who can be you. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be.’ – Mr Rogers

SONG: Take Me by Miso

MOVIE: Finding Neverland (2004) & Goodbye Christopher Robin (2017)

[PAC Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings]

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Pile 1 – Kinder and Kinder to Your Younger Self

VIBE: BAD MODE by Utada Hikaru

your heart’s secret desires – XIX The Sun

You are actually somebody who believes deeply in world peace. You desperately want to see the world become a sweetly welcoming place for all, especially children and animals. You have a belief that children and animals are so deserving of gentleness and safety. But you often forget that all adults are just as deserving of the same kindness we bestow children and cute animals.

At some point if Life, you grew up and became tough. I think you thought that you needed to become so. I think your environment made you believe it was important to become so tough the world you wouldn’t beat you to it. You’ve experienced quite a bit of hardships, too, so it was rather easy to fall prey to this cruel notion that adults must all toughen up.

‘If you’re tough with yourself, the world will be gentle with you.’ ??

Though it may seem like those words contain so much practical wisdom, deep down, your heart is terribly disturbed by it. There’s just something that’s not quite right about it. If everybody is hard on themselves… how can anybody be gentle with someone else?

in your element – 2 of Swords

Irrespective of what your Moon Sign is or where in your natal chart it is placed, you’re technically not a person who wants to toughen up. I think you’re a deeply sensitive Soul who still believes that patience and compassion can solve many of the world’s problems. Because in fact, your Higher Heart knows this to be true. You’re somebody who can make real compromises to accommodate the needs of others and you’re genuinely capable of real charity because you’re the type that tries to understand wholeheartedly where somebody else is coming from.

When you help others, you do so with their best interest at heart and you don’t even expect anything in return. When you are useful to other people, when your existence can improve other people’s life situations, you feel most like yourself. All that you hope for is that people are at minimum grateful because when people are grateful, they’re really only increasing their own ability to manifest even more ease and abundance. You’re not even expecting them to be grateful to you. My goodness, you must be God🤩

But uhm… You sure, honey, you’re not compromising way too much because you’re also somewhat people pleasing for a lack of gentleness in your childhood?

making dreams a Reality – V The Hierophant

See, The Sun is no.19 in the Major Arcana; that reduces to 10. The Hierophant is no.5 and this is telling me that you’re about halfway to manifesting all your dreams of ease and world peace. The half of your manifestation is already stored in your Higher Heart and you have nothing to worry about it. What you do need to focus on is learning to be kinder and gentler with your own younger self. You’re so kind and accommodating to others but often forget that you need tender care yourself.

There’s a possibility that you grew up with stern adults who didn’t know how to be gentle with children. You grew up being a victim to this kind of behaviour so you overcompensate by being overly nice to others because you don’t want to become like them. But you’re still hard on yourself because this is like already programmed in your subconscious, and if you notice, you have a tendency to also be quite stern with those closest to you. And wow… that often kinda gets messy.

Can you imagine if you became a parent yourself? You could become a perpetrator of a cycle of old people pointing fingers at young people who are still trying to figure out their place in the world. I don’t think you’d be happy with yourself in your older years when you realise you haven’t broken this pattern yourself. I believe you’re someone who wants to leave a legacy of a more peaceful nature🍂It begins by creating a new world by creating a new you, after forgiving yourself for past mistakes you made when you didn’t yet know so much🍃

INNER ALCHEMY🔻❤️

balancing logic and emotions – Silver Astrologer (John Dee)

speaking with conviction – Priestess of Inspiration

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Baby Venus, You Came Here to Beautify This World

VIBE: Forever by aespa

your heart’s secret desires – Ace of Cups

You are for sure a Lightworker. Maybe even a Starseed. Or something of a cosmic mystic. Could also be from the faery or elven realm. The point is, your Soul is deeply connected to a realm other than this Earth we perceive consciously right now. That makes your heart EXTRA pure and sparkly because the essence of your being is more refined, baby!

What does it even mean to be Human? Often you don’t have an answer to that. Only thing is, a lot of things about common human conducts that seem to denote their humanness don’t seem all too humane for you. It’s like you’re wondering, ‘If these are the traits that make people Human… then what am I? Because I certainly am not that harsh, deceitful, destructive, or whatever else!’

You have a strong morality about you and you should damn well honour this. The Human world is ugly, indeed, and from your place of beauty, your Soul volunteered to be born here to teach Humans about beauty. Beauty is nice. Beauty is good. Beauty elevates the Human Spirit and if only more people would open themselves to the possibilities, surely everyone would be a lot happier than they are now.

That’s your philosophy, more or less✨🪷

in your element – VI The Lovers Rx

You may resonate to a large extent with being an activist of sort. Whether or not you call yourself an activist or are involved in any real activist project, you know deep down that you’ve always been an activist before even knowing such a term exists. You want to fight for something good in this world. You want to bring an end to all these uncomfortable things that you are witnessing being perpetuated in the Human world. Problem is…

It's been quite hard for you to find people who are on the same bandwidth of frequency as yourself. I think you have a lifelong mission to find your Soul Tribe whilst being incarnate on Earth. I mean, your kind is far and between, honey. It may take some time to find each other and unite for a good cause.

Although you may feel misunderstood and lonely from time to time, the way I see it, you could view this whole journey to finding kindred spirits as a wholesome adventure story. Like a fairy tale, you know. After all, you are a faery. Your Life Story has a purpose to beautify the human spirit later when all’s weaved together to create a grander story with your kindred spirits. It’s all written in the stars already, so might as well enjoy the story writing itself from now🧚🏻‍♀️

making dreams a Reality – II The High Priestess

For you really aren’t of this world, I sense that you actually possess some kind of a superpower. Sure, others might think you’re a weirdo (even a freak for some of you) and that your interests and hobbies are strange and taboo. But what do they know? These mortals are prisoners of their own fake realities.

Since you were a kid, you’ve always known there are holes within this perceived reality and somehow, you’ve always believed there are ways you can bend reality with thought alone. You kinda just didn’t know exactly how that works, you just know it. Like breathing—unless you’ve studied biology, you wouldn’t know how to explain how breathing works but you just know that it happens and how it feels. Something like that.

Your connection to your personal spirituality, your personal occult practices, and everything else of that nature, holds the key to making your Divine Dreams a part of this mortal reality. It’s a beautiful process that only you can experience in your own divine ways, so I can’t tell you what to do exactly to manifest your Destiny. You’ve just gotta keep going at what you know to be your truth🧜🏻‍♀️

And the truth is, you are a magical being who doesn’t even play in the same dimension as the mortals😉Keep doing your magical shit!

INNER ALCHEMY🔻💗

balancing logic and emotions – Silver Astronomer (Galileo Galilei)

speaking with conviction – Priestess of Illumination

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Pile 3 – Don’t Kill Your Dreams No Matter How Wild

VIBE: Anata (Darling) by Utada Hikaru

your heart’s secret desires – 5 of Cups

Hellow, wildchild. It seems you’ve been through quite a bit in Life. There was something in your childhood that erupted in ways your child mind couldn’t have anticipated and it broke you emotionally and spiritually. You’re a pretty logical person, actually, so there’s a part of you that’s been wishing you could get over this heartache. But it hasn’t been easy, at all.

The reason for that is that you care too much. Because you’re incredibly sensitive and kind, you couldn’t help but care. Your heart gets easily disturbed by any small distortion you perceive in this Matrix Reality. You have spidey senses for this kind of thing. Your inner world is so expansive and this is partly why you always feel like you want to help. You want justice to win over evil.

You tend to feel like you’re the one who has to be strong and prove everything to everyone. Not only are you helpful, but you’re truly heroic! That’s how I see it😎The problematic thing is… human beings are not exactly a grateful bunch, so… Maybe being so helpful and heroic isn’t always the best way to nurture your Soul whilst living in this human world?

in your element – Page of Wands Rx

I’m not saying you should stop caring and become a coldhearted bitch. But perhaps posing to be one is a good strategy to preserve your sanity?😜The truth of the matter is that you’re really too precious for this world. You know when people say, ‘We don’t deserve this man or woman or dog or cat.’ You’re exactly like that.

Your passion for making the world a better place is often used against you. I’m kind of thinking of someone like Elon Musk in your case. He was bullied badly at school, but look what he’s doing now. He’s making attempts to improve the lives of everybody that even those bullies are bound to benefit from his passionate work. The haters today are probably gonna benefit just the same, right?

Well, I’m a coldhearted bitch, so my petty view is that these losers don’t deserve to benefit from the works of Elon Musk LMAO But what do you think of yourself? I know that in this lifetime you are going to make great leaps that will improve the lives of those you care about. But what about your heart? Will you be able to forgive those who have made hell out of your Life? Or will you become a vengeful barbie bitch who shows them the door to hell of their own making?

It’s up to you and it should be a very exciting spectacle to anticipate👻

making dreams a Reality – XII The Hanged Man Rx

The Hanged Man is a card that has some relations to The Lovers (to think you even get the Priestess of Love for the bonus content🤯). The Hanged Man often talks about compromises and sacrifices. It’s like, when you love and care so much you’re bound to make sacrifices because the world is far from utopian. In an ideal world we wouldn’t have to hurt just to manifest blessings and abundance, for ourselves or everybody else. But… this is what we have, so…

But although this world is messy and hurtful, it wouldn’t be wise for you to reduce the brilliance of your dreams just to avoid heartache or disappointments. You’re avantgarde; not that many people can see the value of what you wish to achieve with your talents. Never kowtow to the convention. Although you’re helpful and a very pleasant person to be around, you’ve got your own big dreams that are needed by the community. I think you just haven’t allowed yourself to fully embrace this idea.

Know that you’re supported by the cosmos in pursuing to improve what you know to be your true talents. One day, the world will be so grateful that you never gave up on your Light. But when that day comes, what’s your care? Gratitude is the least of your concerns. Basically you just want to live on your own terms and create magical pathways for the world to enter into🌏Whilst at it, might as well do whatever you like🌞

INNER ALCHEMY🔻🧡

balancing logic and emotions – Gold Historian (Raphael Holinshed)

speaking with conviction – Priestess of Love

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

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#Punk Panda Pick A Pic #pick a card #pick a card reading #tarot pick a card #pac #pac reading #tarot pac #inner child #mental health #spiritualhealing #mindset #positivity #productivity #artists on tumblr #astroblr #tarotblr #writblr #witchblr #witchythings #future spouse

[chuuyrr]

I’ll actually like to request how the higher ups found out about how powerful baby! SW! Fushiguro is and how was their reaction

Papa Gojo’s protectiveness is going to Infinity!

how gojo reacted when the higher-ups found out how powerful scarlet witch! baby fushiguro! reader actually is

jujutsu kaisen x reader

masterlist of the series

╰➤ CW(s): spoilers for jujutsu kaisen, mentions of scarlet witch's abilities and powers, mentions of threat and violence

╰➤ PAIRING(s): platonic! jujutsu kaisen x child! reader (gojo)

before you read: hi, in case you're new, you're megumi's younger half-sibling, and while you don't have cursed energy, you do have scarlet witch's powers and abilities! aside from that, as a special scarlet witch variant, you also have the ability to travel across the multiverse. how chaotic! furthermore, like your half-brother megumi, you are being cared for by gojo satoru, who also serves as your adoptive father. for more info, please see the masterlist.

when gojo satoru first got you, he shamelessly brought you to jujutsu tech with him because he didn't want to leave you all alone at something like a daycare after discovering how you and the children back there don't really get along. he also needed an excuse to take a break from work and spend time with you, his child.

and when gojo wasn't around, it was either yaga-sensei, nanami, shoko, utahime, or his beloved students who looked after you when you met and warmed to them.

gojo used to bring you to his faculty meetings as well as his meetings with higher-ups, but then something happened—the event that changed everything.

the higher-ups didn't care about you at first. they simply saw you as another fushiguro toji, a person devoid of cursed energy, given that your half-brother, megumi, had already inherited the ten shadows technique. in fact, they have no idea why gojo decided to take you in when you "weren't" even special.

anyway, gojo took you to jujutsu tech as usual. you were holding his hand, munching on a mochi he had brought you for a snack, and he was telling you about this boring faculty meeting he was going to.

"i promise i'll try to make it quick, kikufuku," gojo says with a long sigh, "hopefully gakuganji won't make the meeting take long and just get on with what we're going to discuss."

"it's okay!" you nodded with a smile to which gojo chuckled softly and patted your head.

you both entered the faculty room, where you met shoko, yaga-sensei, utahime, the blue-haired lady, and that old guy gakuganji, whom gojo despised so much. you immediately bowed your head in respect and let gojo hold your hand as you ran up to yaga-sensei, clinging to his pant leg before embracing shoko and utahime.

however, just as you were talking to shoko and utahime, gakuganji interrupted, saying, "we're here for a meeting, not a chit chat."

yikes. well, to be fair, you didn't like that old guy gakuganji either, just as your adoptive father did. he was nothing like gojo's yaga-sensei. shoko, utahime, and even the blue-haired lady you didn't talk to much were kinder and gentler than yaga-sensei.

"oi gramps. it's not good for your age to rush," gojo said, clicking his tongue, "watch it."

with that, gojo turned his attention to you, softening his demeanor from sharp to calm, motioning you over with a smile, "come on, kikufuku."

the faculty meeting quickly followed. tou were fiddling with your fingers, and occasionally with gojo's, as he and everyone else in the room discussed taking in more new students, as well as the grades of gojo's first and second year students, and so on.

to be honest, it was a little boring, so you excused yourself to go outside for a few minutes, and that's when you ran into your older brother, megumi, and his friends, who had just returned from a mission.

"oh, [name]-chan!" yuuji exclaimed with a smile, as he noticed you instantly, "oi! we're back!"

"welcome back!" you exclaimed joyfully, wrapping your arms around yuuji before rushing over to megumi, who patted your head affectionately with a small smile.

"did you miss us, kiddo?" maki quipped, grinning as she placed her hands on her hip, which you nodded your head at in response, "mhm!"

"say, where's gojo-sensei?" nobara asked next.

"daddy has a meeting with everyone back inside," you explained, looking up at nobara.

"you must have gotten bored, huh?" nobara laughed, shaking her head.

it didn't take long for you to start following the first and second year students because the faculty meeting that gojo was having was boring and putting you off, especially with that old guy gakuganji who he despised so much.

you didn't want to hear his thoughts out loud, especially his comments of you being nothing more than gojo's adopted child but, as you were spending time with the students, following them to the grounds, you had an instinctive feeling.

you turned your head in the direction of where you felt a sense of dread. you creased your brows. could this be the cursed energy that gojo told you all about? it felt really strange and more powerful than megumi and his friends.

"[name]? is there something wrong?" megumi inquired, noticing your gaze was diverted elsewhere. he eventually sensed it before he could react further. the jujutsu sorcerers blinked. it wasn't just an ominous aura wafting in the amotsphere. it was a curse's.

megumi furrowed his brows at you, confused. he knew from gojo that you didn't have cursed energy, so how did you just sense that?

"stay behind us, [name]," megumi exclaimed, pulling you behind him as he and his classmates readied themselves for the stance and stood in front of you protectively, feeling the curse's immense energy draw closer and closer.

for some strange reason, stray curses have recently become prevalent. gojo had already expressed his concern about this to the higher-ups, but it was still happening.

you found yourself gulping nervously as the trees in front of you shook violently. the energy emanating from whatever was out there was foreboding. as the wind whipped up, you found yourself clinging to megumi's pant leg, closing your eyes shut in fear.

WHOOOSH!

when you finally had the courage to open your eyes and look up, you saw nobara and yuuji, as well as maki and panda, flinging from the immense raw cursed energy that had just sliced through the air. "it's an unregistered special grade," megumi exclaimed as he summoned his demon dogs, holding you protectively.

your eyes widened in fear. that was just raw energy right now, and yet half of megumi's friends had been blown away, and worse, they had been injured. your hands and lips trembled at the sight of blood dripping and wounds all over them.

"megumi! [name]!" you and your brother both directed your gaze to the opposite end of the grounds, where you discovered gojo and the rest of the faculty running towards you two. mei-mei, yaga, and utahime rushed to help the students who had been seriously injured.

however, before they could reach you and megumi, you both were blown away by the same tremendous raw cursed energy. as you became separated from him in mid-air,egumi screamed for you. gojo teleported towards you instinctively at first, but everything seemed to slow down. just as gojo was about to grab you, the special grade curse appeared, only a few inches away from you.

you weren't sure, but the same feeling you had, when you sensed the curse and saw how everyone else was injured, grew stronger.

within a split second, an explosive burst of sanguine red mixed with black streaks had washed the entire area, creating smoke from its collision with the curse. gojo and the rest of jujutsu sorcerers reacted in the same way that megumi and the others had to the special grade curse.

"w-what was that?!" nobara cried out.

maki's eyes widened, "...was that the curse?"

"that wasn't a curse," gojo muttered, his light blue six eyes widening at the sight of your small silhouette standing in the middle of the grounds. "that was [name]" he exclaimed, along with yaga, mei-mei, utahime, and, most notably, gakuganji.

you found yourself staring at the curse, which had nearly been obliterated by the red repulsive energy you had just released. your gaze was drawn to the red vapor-like hues seeping from your fingers.

"[name]? but, she doesn't have cursed energy.." utahime muttered in disbelief, "h-how?"

"this cannot be," gakuganji exclaimed, his closed fists trembling.

before gojo could respond, the curse flung its raw cursed energy towards you as you darted towards megumi, whipping up a violent wind intended to cleave you, but with a simple raise of your hands, the same red psionics from earlier came out and protected you, deflecting it like nothing. you found yourself softly gasping and eventually smiling. this power—it felt strange, but it felt right—so right.

this newfound power caused you to behave as if you were on autopilot. the jujutsu sorcerers looked on in awe as you subconsciously augmented your speed and made your way towards megumi and gojo.

the curse whipped more wind at you and lunged at you, gojo, and megumi with blinding speed. its sharp talons were meant to cut you down, but you stopped it with your red psionics. as the curse struggled against you and your power, you found yourself subconsciously smirking at it. your [color] eyes are now a menacing red.

your red psionics lacerated its limb without another word and in a split second, and the next thing you knew, you were unconsciously twitching your fingers as you raised your hand. you proceeded to lift the curse into the air, and it disintegrated into nothing as your red psionics tore it down, releasing a massive shockwave in the process.

both megumi and gojo immediately pulled you into their arms as the entire area trembled at the mercy of your power. that was how immense those red psionics of yours were. in fact, it felt even more dreadful than that curse.

"kikufuku! hey, are you okay?" gojo cupped your face in his larger hands, still stunned by the faint red glow in your [color] eyes, "kikufuku!"

gakuganji had intervened before you could respond to your adoptive father. as his heavy footsteps thumped across the ground, you instinctively held onto gojo and megumi.

"that child is a monster!" gakuganji exclaimed, waving a finger at you angrily.

you muttered, lips trembling, "w-what?"

"hey, watch your fucking mouth old man," gojo bit back, holding you protectively close to him as his unveiled six eyes glared darkly at him.

"that wasn't cursed energy, but it was far greater than a special grade's!" gakuganji continued, "all this time, you've been hiding that kind of power from the higher-ups when it poses a threat, an even bigger threat than sukuna's vessel and the queen of curses!"

as gakuganji stormed away, you couldn't help but let tears fall from your eyes. didn't you just save megumi and the rest from that curse? was that what you really were? a monster?

"[name]," megumi noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks as you bit your lip and hung your head low, "hey.. it's okay.." your older brother comforted you by rubbing your arm.

"that son of a bitch," gojo clicked his tongue and clenched his hands into fists, "who does he think he is, huh?"

"i-i'm.. sorry.." you sputtered out, now breaking down into a sob, "i'm so sorry.."

"no.. [name].. hey, now.." megumi patted your head, "it's not your fault. don't apologize."

"listen to megumi," gojo said, his gaze and tone of voice softening as he turned his attention to you, "you did nothing wrong. in fact, you were amazing. your papa was right about you being special." gojo smiled and caught your tears.

"but.. he said.. he said he was going to tell.. and i'm a.. t-threat.." you sniffled, rubbing your eyes.

"i'm going to protect you, kikufuku. it's going to be okay, i promise. daddy will take care of it," gojo embraced you tightly, rubbing your back before kissing and patting the top of your head.

the higher-ups were furious after you used your psionics for the first time. they felt the shockwave and the intensity of it despite being miles away from you. but either way, gojo remained true to his words. he made certain to leave you in the care of megumi, knowing how your older brother would be able to look after you as he presented himself to the higher-ups.

"we entrusted fushiguro [name] to you precisely, and you dared to keep her gift a secret, gojo satoru. if your child had remained uncontrollable, [name] could have wiped out an entire town, a city!" one of them exclaimed.

"if [name] had, i would have risked my life to prevent her from harming anyone, and mind you, [name] did not pose a threat to anyone. she protected our students from the stray special grade curse that all of you failed to keep out," gojo retorted back at the higher-ups.

"if the zenin clan had only taken custody of fushiguro [name], maybe she wouldn't have accidentally unleashed something devastating like that. we should execute that child!" said another, scoffing, suggesting to the others.

"if it comes to that decision, then i will just kill all of you right here and then," gojo said as he pulled his blindfold around his neck, revealing his crystalline blue eyes, which were now staring coldly at each of them who were hiding within their walls.

there was a spine-chilling tension in the air as gojo tilted his head and clenched his fist.

"[name] may not have my name, but she's my child, and she's under my custody."

[ author's notes ! hello there, i'm back :) ♡ sorry for not posting anything new, i've been busy with school and finals exams, and as soon as i was done—i got sick, not cool—but the good news is, i'm feeling better now so here's an update!

also just for context: gojo already knew about baby fushiguro's wiggly-woos magic, but he's been hiding it. tbh writing angry! protective! gojo made me think of taylor swift's bad blood. thank you for requesting dear anon :) ]

#— [☆] ; chaos #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jujutsu kaisen hcs #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #itadori yuji x reader #yuji x reader #yuji x y/n #yuji x you #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi x reader #megumi x y/n #megumi x you #nobara x reader #maki x reader #inumaki x reader #jjk x you platonic #jjk x reader platonic #jjk x y/n platonic #jjk #jjk x reader

[inlocusmads]

second languages ~ trystan thorne (crimes of passion) > part 1

series summary: How Trystan forgets his mother tongue - the trials and tribulations, the consequences and the guilt that follows and how he struggles to learn it back again.

chapter 1: "what's that song you sing for the dead?" chapter summary: a eulogy by trystan thorne.

wc: 2.4k / teen and up

read it on ao3 here

a/n: I spent like a good solid 5 minutes thinking if I should put it up only on Tumblr or only on ao3 and decided "f it, both is good.. i think". I apologise if you got spam-tagged for this fic! I had to go back, make a thousand edits until I was happy with it. Once again, super super sorry.

title from 'death with dignity' by sufjan stevens

 How does a language die on one’s tongue?

To begin, it must have a slow, weakened upbringing. Tongues differed and so did the sounds that came out of it. They were all kind at first, less venomous, reinforcing something positive. The language was gentler, a lot kinder, a lot more understanding. The words felt like honey as they went into a younger Trystan’s mind. Jovial then, regretful now that perhaps, he should have cherished it before the language left his mind. That he carried in himself the beating heart of a boy who once sought out words, only to be berated with the same yet again. 

Now, did that warrant a blatant disregard for a person’s mother tongue? The heart, too full with poison, reasoning and doubt that it somehow eradicated it entirely from memory? Not necessarily. Trystan could still conjugate his verbs in his sleep, except he avoided a few of them - their words forever associated with how swift it took him to lose that kindness. Yet, it didn’t make him forget. It weakened it.

Little by little, days passed. Trystan’s aspirations were to change every other weekend. Plans written down. Mind you, they were only ever plans. His duties changed by the hour. The husk of a child he had been -  glueing two things together to make a third, impressing relatives by reciting lines from memory - had passed him by. 

There was something different now, as the language turned more professional. There was no longer a reason for him to hold his mother’s hand anymore and up until then they had convinced him that a mother's direction was of utmost importance.  A mother would push past the nasal occlusive for her child to catch onto the word “mah”. 

A mother, with fear in her heart, would teach her child to attach a ‘please’ after every sentence. Such was the nature of his mother tongue. A drastic change from sitting in the gardens, begging the skies for some rain to thanking the local conglomerate for settling on an agreeable deal for another industry town. There was a difference now, as the language and its use cut through a new path. The word ‘prince’ in Drakovian that started as an endearing nickname for the lucky, lucky boy turned into a title too difficult to bear and too lonely to bear it all alone. 

The word ‘please’ had upwards of at least twenty synonyms all on its own and yet none of it was used. 

From Mah bore Mother. 

Responsibilities beget responsibilities. Sure, Trystan let himself be agreeable. Sure, he was willing to compromise. He stopped yearning for clear skies, stepping out of black cars to smog-filled towns as weak as paper. Sure, he pretended he understood as he was instructed to. 

The locals spoke a different tongue. One of dissent. The diplomats spoke a different tongue. One of scepticism. They used the same phrases but why did it seem that it demanded Trystan to take more of an effort trying to understand these entirely different languages on their own, than translating them into Kingspeak first? After all, it was commonplace for him to read something in an unfamiliar text, try to equate them to Drakovian ideas and absorb it.

 After all, Freddie Mercury breathing life into the microphone, belting into a stanza of Bohemian Rhapsody spoke to him more efficiently and effortlessly in his mother tongue. Of course it made sense to turn his head around, thereby inadvertently betraying his own faith. 

Of course it made sense to eclipse it. So Trystan pretended he understood. 

“It’s okay.” they’d tried to justify a broken reasoning. “Children, after all, learn languages faster than adults.” 

“It’s okay.” they’d given themselves a pat on the back for trying, “I don’t speak anything ill in front of my children. They are, after all, impressionable.”

An interesting choice of words there. Impressionable, even before Trystan could take his first steps from his gold-encrusted crib. Agreeable as a child- an anomaly right there. Children were the most uncooperative beings on the planet. Guarded, reserved as a teenager. Labelled an opportunist into adulthood. What has he got to gain from not speaking? Why doesn’t he speak our tongue anymore, neglectful of his roots? Is he drawn to the opposite crowd? Us versus them. It happened slowly and certainly. Trystan could only pretend he understood the language his family spoke, much as how he could only pretend to mean the verses he’d produced. Hellos meant permanent goodbyes, with no promise of return. Goodbyes quickly became a death sentence - synonymous with no recovery.

A language’s death is incomplete without its slow, cruel decay. It started with replacements. Trystan spoke a muddled mixture of Drakovian and English at home. Dranglish; where he could replace quintessential Drakovian words with loan words from other languages that didn’t require it in the first place. He led a silent rebellion - one combined with dissent he’d loaned from the locals and one of scepticism he’d taken from his family. Pubs took pride in their role in the culture, and yet they still purchased alcohol with English labels. 

The smokovača he once so loved, ordering it with a flick of his wrist and with such natural flair, was anglicised enough to turn into ‘fig liquor’ overnight. Nightlife; the kind he hadn’t bothered concerning with its trivialities, quickly evolved into a training ground. 

What started as inlaying his mother tongue  with nonchalance to better deal with his internal anger, turned into a deep-barbarous apathy unbecoming of a king. He would stare at glass ceilings, rose-tinted glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose while French house music blared from the speakers. He would spend hours in animosity listening to dissatisfied would-be immigrants, picking up conversational slang - a life perfectly halved. One holding up a life on top of carefully balanced roots. One threatening to destroy it all. 

Hours and hours, days and days of the same thing. 

A slow decay of one's mother tongue wasn't just due to an internal disconnect. A loyalty to one of the most important things in Trystan's life coupled by his dwindling faith. In those moments, he would ask himself wearily - an agnostic's question. Unwilling to commit to a concept because inherently, the answer is unknowable. Difficult to sort out and likely would never abide by his whims and fancies. A serpent could coil around one's throat and stick its fangs deep into their neck, whilst at the same time be tamed away from bloodlust. Such was this conundrum, Trystan had thought, unknowingly letting go of the weight his words carried. 

A stranger in a homeland. A tourist with a dictionary. A diplomat with a translator. 

“The unveiling of the new -- the -- erm-- the--”

Hundred cameras watched his every move. He fumbled through his words, skipping through most of the inauguration speech that a team of experts had carefully curated for him. A sacrilegious move - to thank in anything but Drakovian. The nod, the foreign second language that slipped out of his tongue, the horrified expression on his perfectionist of a mother, and his quick disappearance down a long hallway only heightened his anxieties. Every breath he pulled out of his lungs felt like excruciating pain. He held back the tears. 

How could he be a king now? How could he forget how to say “thank you” in a dialect that was ingrained in his birthright? How could he be as the poets had wanted? How could he be a commander of the soldiers, when he barely knew their war cries? At eighteen, he'd forgotten how to say thank you. At nineteen, he would forget how to say hello. 

An impolite “hi” would earn him his mother's endless chides. At twenty, he would meet his future spouse - entirely unsure how he should even talk to her. Fill up the middle between the hellos and goodbyes. At twenty one, it somehow became impossible to read a text. At twenty two, he would spend an entire trial - waiting it out. His lawyers spoke a different dialect of Drakovian entirely. 

He found himself at a pub in New York at twenty three. Bandanna wrapped tightly around his face. He never ordered drinks, he never asked for anything. Trystan would scour through the menu, attempting to read. Then he'd feed it into his translator app to learn back the Drakovian he'd forgotten. 

“Fig liquor.” he typed into it.

“Smokovača.” The translate app spat back at him. 

The Embassy for the United States in Drakkos sent him a letter every week. A weekly press release on the happenings. Every copy had a Drakovian and an English version. Trystan could barely read the one in his native tongue. He attempted to. He really did. He couldn't have forgotten his language entirely. It couldn't be possible. Languages couldn't just die out on his tongue - no it was something of an excuse. He would spell each letter out; his tongue had been rewired entirely to the point where even the familiar words made him take a pause for a moment. Walk outside. Breathe in the fresh air. 

He'd pull open the translator defeatedly, but he'd long gone past his saturation point with it. 

The next week he wrote an email to the Embassy to request him to be exempted from the press releases by post. Unfortunately, they didn't listen.  Mocking threads of unread messages from home, sat in stacks. Some on the dining table, some stuffed into a shoebox, some between books, some strewn on his bed that he didn't bother collecting  and tossing it out. 

A language usually dies when you slowly stop finding a use for it. A plant that needs nurturing, a child that requires utmost care, a stomach that is built to be a vessel to be fed, a rogue animal encoded in its genes to gnaw off the arm of a prey. It wasn't impossible to revive it, but damn near impossible to put it back together again. 

“Mr Thorne.”

“Hello?” Trystan unplugged his earphones, switching off his Spoken Drakovian audiobook. 

“We're here, sir.” 

“Right. Yes. Good. Thank you, Mileta.” he replied in English.

Sometimes you stopped nurturing for it simply because you didn't want to. Sometimes you stop caring out of the blue. Sometimes it was pertinent to don on an ‘upper class language’ even though everything had its fair share of the most disgusting words you'd have ever come across. Some of the most insulting language used came from inside the giant glass halls with their towering ceilings. “If a fuck-up and a fumble screwed each other.” he'd heard someone call out to an intern. He fought an irresistible need to pick up whatever that had to be picked up. Sometimes you wanted to see your language broken - a stark comparison to how they used it to raise you. 

Sometimes you stopped feeding it simply because you carried nothing in yourself anymore. A flute of champagne awaited his attention. He didn't say a word, only communicating with a small nod and a courteous handshake. When they asked you to make scripted speeches, you simply avoided the forthcoming nausea of a panic attack and simply declined it. When they asked you why, you didn't tell them a reason. You gave them some bullshit - “I would let my actions speak for themselves”. They didn't know that half of your actions stem from the kind of words you used alone. It's okay. A little praise never hurt anybody. A little jovial nod from the other end of the room told you you were doing something all right. 

Then again, nothing really mattered. Frustration, stress, doubt - the all-consuming holy trinity.

You scrubbed your podcasts out of existence, watched family letters burn in the heat that gave your home warmth, you stopped answering calls entirely, you purchased fewer books, watched fewer movies, listened to less of everything. You took lengthy strides, people assumed you were merely being tall. No, you didn't want to talk anymore. You'd sit at the same sandwich shop, prim and proper and read the menu over and over again - hesitant to speak up, fearing somehow that the bastard language might come back again; might touch his tongue one last time to say a painful goodbye. Trystan wasn't ready to let go just yet and he held onto it like an unsaid prayer of a theist’s who didn't believe in a higher power anymore. 

Over time the words that floated around you, itching a familiar part of your mind - bringing you back to the comfort of home, the heaviness of the crown on your forehead, the echoes of a deep hallway that ran round and round in an infinite loop - would stop. Trystan held onto the faint memory instead. Dazed, but something about the distance felt right. 

“You must remember something, right?”

Trystan gave her a playful shrug. “From what?”

“Drakovian poetry, song -- something.”

“Not - much, really - yeah I never really got around very much. It was all very quiet. Not much of an exposure.”

“You've listened to Queen then?” Nora's statement was more assertive, less uncertain.

“Never heard of it. What is it?” 

For a language to permanently die, it had to have a slow, painful death. You wouldn't just forget how to speak it, but to read it, think in it - you would forget every little intricate part of it. The things you made up as a kid, drawing two dissimilar things and smashing them up into a compound word. The stuff you couldn't really get back - a severe cost to pay if you truly wished to give it up entirely. 

Languages made up families, resuscitated broken friendships, breathed life into poetry and song and theatrics and dance and countless other beautiful things. It gave you the weight to express yourself, without the words choking at your throat because if you didn't let it die, if you nurtured it with just enough care, you wouldn't need to think about it to have the most beautiful, most important things be spoken into existence. 

But Trystan hadn't gotten there yet. He could read Drakovian up to a certain mark. He could speak Drakovian, but it was certainly bound to be a form of an awkward mix of languages. He could think in his native tongue, but he avoided it as much as possible. A mixture of different things. 

He had a long way to go. 

The prayer never left his lips. 

____

Tagging (from my old list):

I AM SO SORRY IF YOU GOT SPAM-TAGGED FOR THIS I APOLOGISE; literally had the worst form of writer self-sabotage and I ended up wanting to trash the work, went back, fixed some parts. I'm okay with it now. Hopefully it lasts.

perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls

crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter @dutifullynuttywitch

#second languages series #w:inlocusmads #trystan x nora #crimes of passion #trystan thorne x mc

[dcbbw]

Hazy Shades of Winter

Happy 2023, tumblrs! Or as I like to say, “Welcome to 2020-3,” which means Year 3 of the Year 2020. The FIRST DAY of the NEW YEAR, I tested positive for Covid. For the second time within a year. I’m grateful both cases have been relatively mild, and I remain (somewhat) functional.

My first fic for 2020-3 is a collection of drabbles comprised of the many Winter OTP asks sent to me by the lovely @neotericthemis​. I could’ve made it easy on myself and simply answered Person A/Person B, but I’m extra and frankly, I wondered if I could make coherent, cohesive stories from the asks … and here we are.

Not beta’d, and it’s mostly written, proofed and edited by Covid. You’ve been warned. MS Editor rates this story 99% error-free. Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors.

I hope all who read this enjoy it. THANK YOU to those who comment, like, and/or reblog; it is appreciated more than you will ever know.

Pairings in this story (these stories): Liam x Riley; Liam x Maxwell

Rating is M for Mature (it’s me, and better to err on the side of caution)

All characters (except Fric and Frac) belong to Pixelberry

Song Inspo: Silent Night, DRM

Word Count:4,779 

Discontent Liam x Riley

Who wants to cosy up to the fire?

Who wants a kiss under the mistletoe?

Who is bad at ice skating and keeps falling on their butt?

The doors to the monarchs’ private suite quietly shut behind the King as he entered the darkened quarters. A fire burned in the hearth, embers popping and hissing as the blaze consumed the logs. The heat warded off the chill from the snow and ice outside.

It was a centuries-old palace; windows were drafty despite upgrades to the heating units.

His eyes adjusted to the dimness, and his gaze found Mara dozing fitfully in a wingback armchair. As he silently padded across the carpet, he saw his wife’s prone form on the settee in his peripheral vision.

Her white satin sleeping gown was yellowed by the firelight; a blanket was bunched at her feet. Her soft snores reminded him of a kitten purring.

Mara started at feeling the gentle shove upon her shoulder; her eyes blinked open, and she looked sheepishly at her employer. Liam reassured her with a small smile.

“You’re fine,” he whispered. He tilted his head in his wife’s direction. “Did Riley eat tonight?”

The sentry nodded affirmatively. When she spoke, her tone was hushed. “Pasta. She made sure a plate was put aside for you. It’s in the refrigerator.”

“What did she … drink?” His voice tripped over the last word.

“Wine. Just one bottle tonight.”

Liam nodded slowly, staring at a sleeping Riley before speaking. “You go get some sleep, Mara. I’m here now.”

Mara stiffly rose from her seat. “I’ll put the alarm on my way out.”

“Thank you,” the King replied as he made his way to the sofa, removing shoes and jacket along the way.

He paused to pull the throw up over Riley’s body before settling into a corner of the divan, gently lifting his Queen’s head so it now rested in his lap. January moonlight eked through partially closed curtains as his gaze trained on the fire.

There was a time when Riley would be the first one awake, dressed, and ready to indulge in outdoor winter sports, particularly ice skating despite the fact she was terrible at it. She would hit Liam over his head with pillows until he grudgingly woke up and joined her and their friends at the pond on the North Lawn.

Her eyes would widen with fright as she wobbled and stumbled onto the ice; they would fill with rueful acceptance and laughter when she inevitably fell. But they would close in blessed relief when Liam’s strong arms wrapped around her, steadying her balance as he guided them around the lake.

Now, she fretted that all the falls contributed to her infertility, despite assurances from doctors and her husband that it wasn’t true.

Christmas was their favorite holiday. Riley liked to say winter was a time of rest and rejuvenation; that the world slowed down and people were kinder, gentler when the nights were the longest. Of all her duties as Queen, her favorite project was the annual holiday decorating of the Grand Foyers at both the Palace and Valtoria. She hung mistletoe beneath every doorway, and over their bed as not-so-subtle hints to her husband to kiss her.

As if he needed reminders.

On Christmas Eve, she would enter their bedchambers naked and covered in faux mistletoe; the sun would be rising before Liam removed all the green leaves from her body.

His fingers idly combed through her hair as he recalled that his Queen had not hung one mistletoe over the holiday season. Liam could not remember the last time he and his wife had touched each other intimately.

God, he missed her.

He sighed as his gaze shifted from the fire to Riley’s profile. She looked … peaceful in repose. There was no worry, no stress, no tension in sleep. He removed his fingers from her hair, pressed a kiss to the index and middle fingers, and lay the digits against her cheek.

At least she still enjoyed sitting by a fire. They could continue to share that, at least.

“Liam?” Riley stirred slightly.

“I’m here, love,” he answered quietly.

He expected her to leave; rise up, grab a bottle of gin, and sweep into her chambers in an effort to avoid the fact she had a husband, that they had a marriage.

But she didn’t.

“The fire’s lovely, isn’t it?” she murmured sleepily as she continued to lay her head in his lap.

“It is. Do you need another blanket?” he asked, the back of his fingers idly stroking her cheek.

She shook her head slightly. “No.”

“Do you wish to retire to your quarters?”

A pause. “Can we just stay here?”

Liam released a silent sigh of relief. “Of course, love.”

 Object of Affection Liam x Riley (Mermaids)

Who still believes in Santa?

Who is the best gift giver?

Who wants to go caroling?

“Lady Riley, why aren’t you ready?” Liam demanded indignantly.

He stood in her common area, wearing a tuxedo and a top hat. His hands were on his hips, and a frown downturned his lips.

“Ready for what? And why are you dressed that way?” Riley questioned as she rummaged in her refrigerator. She let out a triumphant cry as she pulled out a carton of Lythikos nog.

“Caroling! Every year, the reigning monarch, along with their family and closest friends, go caroling the week before Christmas along the Stormholt Historic District. I put it on your calendar!”

Riley drank her nog directly from the carton, wiping away the left-behind creamy mustache from her upper lip with the back of her hand. Her eyes went between Liam and looking down at her outfit: blue yoga pants, a sleeveless white tee shirt that read: Peace. Love. Bubblegum.; fuzzy pink slipper socks were on her feet. Her hair was a frizzy afro.

“I never got the calendar invite. You can check for yourself,” she shrugged.

Liam began to pace the rooms, clearly agitated. “This is TRADITION, and you are treating it so … so nonchalantly! As Queen, you will be expected to …”

“You forget, me marrying you was MY idea! NOT yours. I realize the expectations. I am telling you, I received nada from you or your people,” Riley retorted as she disappeared into her bedroom.

“Where are you going now?” Liam demanded angrily.

“To get ready!” Riley snapped.

Liam tossed his hat onto a nearby chair before picking up his betrothed’s phone. “May I check your calendar?” he called out.

“I don’t care,” Riley replied before the sound of the shower turning on filled the space.

Liam’s brow furrowed as he pulled up Riley’s outlook. Obviously, she stayed logged in as it opened immediately. His eyes quickly scanned the list of correspondence: Regina, Madeleine, himself, her assistant. He tapped the calendar icon; December 18 was empty.

The frown between his brows deepened. Liam had personally sent the invitation on December 1; he hadn’t had time to follow-up with Riley on her confirmation. End-of-year was a busy time for governance, and he had been busy meeting with duchy leaders regarding finances, trade agreements, and a military alliance amongst many pressing issues.

Did he somehow overlook her invitation?

“Do I need to carry a candle and a book, like Charles Dickens?” Riley’s question interrupted his wonderings.

He looked up, and his eyes widened in wonder and delight. His fiancée stood before him in a high-necked, green velvet maxi dress adorned with white sequined snowflakes. Her hair was an upsweep of glossy brown curls. Sensibly heeled dark brown boots adorned her feet and disappeared beneath the skirt of her frock.

“You look utterly gorgeous,” Liam praised as he bowed to kiss the back of her hand.

“Thank you,” Riley blushed.

“Is the car waiting downstairs?” Riley asked as Liam helped wrap a white, woolen cloak about her body.

“We’ll be arriving by horse-drawn carriage,” Liam corrected.

“You know what would be a better tradition? A live Christmas Eve concert at Bossina Cathedral broadcast to all Cordonia so no citizen is or feels left out.”

Liam paused to stare thoughtfully at Riley. “That is definitely something to consider.”

“I’m on the Holiday Planning Committee. I’ll bring it up at the next meeting.”

In the carriage, the couple made small talk.

“What were your plans this evening if not for caroling?” Liam inquired as he held Riley’s gloved hand in his.

“Hanging Christmas lights inside my rooms. Santa has to know where to find me now since I didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“I believe Santa knows where to find all the good boys and girls.”

“And we’re back to: I need him to know where to find me!” Riley chuckled.

“I’m happy to help you with the Christmas lights if you’d like,” Liam offered, his eyes glued on her profile.

Riley looked at him skeptically. “My people will call your people.”

They settled into comfortable silence, relishing in the scenery and each other’s company. Liam’s thoughts were focused on his Christmas present to Riley.

Her engagement ring. Her new one. One given out of want and respect, not duty and obligation.

The carriage slowed as they reached their destination, Stormholt Square.

“Will there be bathroom breaks?”

“Shopkeepers provide us with refreshments such as hot cider, hot cocoa, fudge, treats. We are also welcome to utilize their facilities.”

“Thank God,” Riley muttered as she prepared to open her door.

Before she could pull the handle, the door was swung open; before her was the Duchess of Lythikos, her red hair hidden beneath a black Russian fur hat, and her svelte figure encased in a chic red coat.  Her Grace’s expression swiftly changed from delight to one of bewildered confusion; Riley saw thinly veiled consternation creep into Olivia’s green eyes.

And in that moment, Riley knew exactly what had happened to her calendar invite.

SGL x Riley B. (DC AU)

Who makes the other hot chocolate?

Who listens to Christmas music way too early?

Who puts up the Christmas lights?

“Voila! Chocolate chip Belgian waffles and caramel hot chocolate!” Liam announced with a wink as he placed a plate and mug before Riley.

Riley’s brown eyes rolled as she took in Liam wearing a snowman onesie, complete with a jaunty red scarf around his neck and a black top hat on the hood, but grew appreciative when she saw the food.

“Why are we dressed this way for breakfast?” she questioned as she pushed the sleeves of her Grinch onesie further up her arms. Riley was messy with syrup, and she liked her waffles with lots of butter and syrup.

“Tis the SEASON!” Liam explained as if it were obvious, before blowing on his cup of cocoa.

Riley looked around as she chewed her waffle; it was delicious. Liam had made them with buttermilk and vanilla.

The sounds of Ella Fitzgerald singing Christmas carols filled the apartment. A six-foot-tall tree stood in a corner of the dining area, decorated with garland, balls, and various ornaments collected over the years. Every window in Liam’s apartment was framed with twinkling Christmas lights. An inflatable reindeer stood watch on the fire escape.

“Liam, you’ve done a great job decorating, but don’t you think it’s a little … much?” she asked.

Liam looked at Riley as if she had slapped him. “THAT right there is why you’re the Grinch, Riley B.! I never figured you to be a Scrooge!”

“And I never thought you were a psycho!”

“I like Christmas, okay?”

“IT’S VETERAN’S DAY! I get it … Christmas is special, for good reason. But celebrating early detracts from the holidays that precede it and makes Christmas less special when it arrives!”

Liam shoved a forkful of waffles into his mouth. “What’s wrong with invoking the spirit that Christmas brings a little earlier? People are kinder, more generous, and just BETTER human beings at Christmas!”

“Then become a Catholic and celebrate December 25 through January 6!”

Riley held out her empty plate. “More, please.”

Liam’s eyes widened in an almost comical manner. “You just called me a psycho and told me to join an organized religion simply because I LIKE CHRISTMAS!” He shook his head resolutely. “No more waffles for YOU!”

Riley set her empty plate down slowly. “I … I didn’t say THAT!”

“But you did!” Liam argued.

“Not LIKE THAT!” Riley protested.

“YES, like that! Those words were said with intent, Riley B. Whether it was specific or general can be debated. But you spoke them with a clear intent.”

He sliced more waffle, then glanced over at her mug. “Drink your cocoa before it gets cold.”

He watched Riley lift her cup before resuming the conversation.

“My wishing to celebrate Christmas earlier is no different than a person celebrating their birthday the entire birth month. Does that somehow lessen the significance of the actual birth date?”

Riley shook her head. “It isn’t the same!”

“Why isn’t it? Tell me HOW, using your own argument, that the person celebrating their birthday all month doesn’t detract from another’s actual birthday in the same month?”

“YOU are celebrating Christmas SIX WEEKS early! You aren’t even in the birthday month!”

Liam smirked. “Christmas is a SEASON, in addition to a day. Can you tell me when the season starts?”

Riley was nonplussed. She bit her lip as she thought.

“Christmas SEASON officially begins the day after Thanksgiving and ends January 2; therefore, I’m only two weeks early, not six. Even with that, I’m still a week behind the big-box retailers.”

“Did you … did you just go Lawyer Liam on me to defend decorating early for Christmas?” Riley asked as she sipped more hot chocolate. “While dressed as a snowman?”

Liam slid from his stool to turn the waffle maker on. He tossed the red scarf over his shoulder before looking back at Riley and giving her a big wink.

“Yup!”

UnRomance Liam x Riley (The 9 ½ Weeks AU)

Who is excited for trimming the Christmas Tree?

Who wraps the presents?

Who wants to build a snowman?

I stand naked before the plate glass window wall in my dining room, watching snow fall into the East River.

“Liam, wake up!” my mother excitedly shakes me awake.

I rub my eyes and scrunch my nose, trying to wake up. It’s Christmas morning, which normally means I would already be awake, but I had stayed up late wrapping mom’s presents.

“It’s snowing! On Christmas Day!” she exclaims in a hushed whisper.

My eyes fly open; my bare feet thump heavily across the wooden floor as I race to the window. My nose presses against cold glass as I watch thick, white flakes fall to join the inches already accumulated on the ground. Our neighborhood is a quiet sea of untouched white crystals.

I turn to look at her, happiness and excitement both in my face and voice. “Mama, can we go out in it?”

She giggles as she rakes her fingers through my sleep-tousled hair. “Of course! Why do you think I woke you up?”

“YAY!” I jump up and down. “We’ll build a snowman?”

She nods in agreement. “Get showered and dressed. Breakfast soon.”

I sip cautiously at the hot black coffee in my mug as I turn from the window and walk through the living room. There is a short Christmas tree standing in one of the corners, no more than four feet tall. Riley put it there. I don’t celebrate the holidays.

“There will be NO TREE, Riley! I have told you REPEATEDLY I DO.NOT.CELEBRATE. ANY. HOLIDAY! You are free to go home to decorate and celebrate as you see fit!”

“You put up that ceramic tabletop tree! A TREE IS A TREE!”

“You need to go home,” I respond quietly. “You have no idea how to respect wishes or boundaries.”

Fear leaps in her eyes at being told to go home. “It’s just a tree. I’ll make sure it’s a small one. PLEASE??”

“I will have nothing to do with it OR this Christmas bullshit you INSIST on bringing to MY house!

She nods sadly. “It’s just a tree,” she whispers.

It’s an artificial one, pre-lit. Lights of red, green, and white twinkle against silver tinsel and golden-colored balls. There are three gifts beneath it: two are in gift bags. They are to me from Riley.

The third is wrapped in comic paper. It’s my mother’s favorite perfume. I bought it for her every year when she was alive. I have brought it for her every year since.

I climb the stairs that lead to the upper floor; I enter the dark, quiet study and sit behind my desk, contemplating what I’m about to do. I don’t turn on the computer or the television. Instead, I place my mug on the desk and rise, making my way towards the closet.

I thrust my arm inside to pull out a shopping bag; it’s filled with wrapping paper and Riley’s gifts. They’re not Christmas gifts; I don’t celebrate the holiday. She’ll merely receive them on Christmas Day.

I carry it all to the desk and begin neatly cover the purchases with silver wrapping, carefully cutting paper, and folding and tucking in corners. The sky lightens as I work; the snow continues to fall. I place the boxes into the bag and return to the closet.

I rummage on the upper shelf, my hand finding what I seek: a newspaper-wrapped ceramic angel holding a sparkly star. I place her atop the gifts and carry bag and mug back downstairs with me. The bag goes beneath the tree, and I carefully unwrap and place my mother’s angel atop it.

I walk into the kitchen, pour the dregs of my coffee down the drain, and check the refrigerator for breakfast ingredients. I slowly head for my bedroom, enjoying the dimness and silence. When I enter, I see a robed Riley clutching a panel of blackout curtain in one hand, her face so close to the glass I’d wager her nose is pressed against it. She turns when she hears me, her face alight with a joyous smile.

“Liam! It’s snowing! On Christmas Day!” she gushes happily.

I stare at her, wanting to tell her to stop being such a child, and to get back in bed.

But I don’t.

She doesn’t know that there is a present for her beneath the Christmas tree. She doesn’t know that I am preparing one of her favorite breakfasts this morning: French crepes, bacon, and matcha latte.

All she knows is that it’s snowing on Christmas morning, and that she’s with me.

I allow her to be happy and enjoy this moment.

I see myself in her.

“Breakfast soon,” I promise as I climb beneath the covers, turning my back to her and the window.

 Riam

Who puts up the Christmas lights?

Who hits up Black Friday sales?

Who starts a snowball fight?

“Get back here, you little heathen!” Riley ordered, just before tripping over one of her sons’ toys and faceplanting into the plush carpeting of the boys’ nursery.

Her firstborn, Frac, stopped running when he heard her fall; he stopped and turned, then burst into laughter at seeing his mother felled like a tree.

He pointed a chubby finger at Riley, chanting, “Heevin”.

His mother closed her eyes and slowly counted to 10. It was too early for the emotional damage being inflicted upon her by the tiny humans she helped create.

“You cannot say ‘heathen’ around dada, do you understand?”

“Dada heevin! Dada heevin!” Frac laughed.

Fric, his identical twin and the youngest by three minutes, toddled around Riley and was repeatedly poking his finger into one of her butt cheeks, prominently outlined through her flannel nightgown due to a gigantic wedgie.

“Mama butt!”

“Oh, dear LORD! Stop touching it, little boy!” Riley huffed as she gently smacked Fric’s hand off her.

Frac hurriedly joined his brother, and the boys clambered onto Riley’s back, knocking her back to the floor before she could fully stand; the pair rocked back and forth and bounced up and down on their mother, tiny fingers gripping her gown while shrieking with laughter as they alternated between saying, “Horthee” and “Heevin butt.”

A brisk knock on the door preceded a freshly dressed Liam’s entry; his greeting died on his lips as he took in the scene before him:

His wife face down on the floor, flailing her legs and pounding her fists against the floor, yelling, “STOP THAT!”; a section of her nightgown was bunched between her butt cheeks.

His sons, naked except for diapers, using Riley for horseback rides, while yelling something that sounded suspiciously like horse’s heathen butt.

“Francis! Jonathan!” Liam addressed his sons by their Christian names in a firm tone as he strode towards his family.

The boys abruptly halted their movements, turning their heads almost guiltily. Bright, guileless smiles wreathed their faces when they saw their father.

“DADA!” They scrambled off their mother and ran to Liam.

The King squatted so he was eye-level with his sons. “What were you doing to your mother?” he demanded.

“Mama heevin,” Frac stated as if that explained everything.

“They tried to KILL ME, Liam.” Riley moaned dramatically as she rolled over onto her back. “They are implementing their plan of world domination, and I’m the test subject!”

Liam wagged an index finger before the twins’ faces. “Your mother is NOT a heathen, and we will continue this discussion,” he promised.

The twins looked at each other with startled eyes. “Oh, oh!” they said in unison before scampering off to their bedroom.

Liam chuckled as he stretched out beside his wife. “What did we do before those two came along?”

“Have peace, quiet, allll the food, and not live in fear for our lives.” Riley threw her forearm across her brow.

Liam turned his head so his eyes could take in Riley’s profile. “Do you want to try for another one?”

Riley turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Yes,” she answered softly.

Their hands reached for the other’s, and they lay in relative quiet for a few moments.

“We need to head to Valtoria before the storm comes,” Liam stated.

The royal family would be spending the Christmas/New Year holiday season at the Queen’s duchy as they did every year. This winter season, Valtoria was experiencing significant snowfall and with more accumulation expected all week, it appeared there would be a white Christmas.

“Gladys informed me yesterday that all the orphanages received their packages from “Santa”, so that’s good. And multiple deliveries were made to the Great House from online shippers, so guessing my Black Friday purchases arrived as well.”

“You weren’t the only one to take advantage of lower prices and free shipping, love,” Liam reminded her.

“Did you use my Prime account?” Riley demanded.

“Did you use my credit card?” her husband countered.

Silence. “Maybe.”

Liam laughed quietly as he moved closer to Riley. “Then we’re even.”

“We need to leave within the next hour if we’re going to arrive before more precipitation. Maybe we can take the boys out in the snow before it gets too heavy.”

“Judging by what I walked in on, it’s going to take you that long to get them clothed.”

“You dress them, I’ll order breakfast to go and get ready. Make sure to put them in their reindeer snowsuits.”

Liam’s brow knit. “Love, where did our children learn words like heathen and butt?”

Riley shook her head. “No idea. Maybe those Mickey Mouse cartoons they watch.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed. “I think you do know.”

“You can’t prove that!”

“But I can settle it. Snowball fight in Valtoria.”

“Heathens versus Butts? You’re on!” Riley accepted the challenge as Liam helped her from the floor. “Just so you know, I’m the heathen.”

Liam eyed her posterior admiringly as she made her way to the door. “It’s looking like a butt from here.”

The Queen stuck out her tongue before disappearing through the doorway.

Writer’s Choice (Laxwell)

Who wants to see the Christmas parade?

Who throws the Christmas party?

Who makes homemade gifts?

“This is going to be the BEST Christmas EVER!” Maxwell announced delightedly as he tucked into his lunch.

The Duke of Valtoria, Liam Rys, stared dubiously across the table at his lover before reaching for dressing to pour over his salad. “It’s going to be such a whirlwind! I much prefer a slower-paced, quieter holiday.”

“New Year’s will be quiet. Just us,” Maxwell promised.

“Thank goodness. I don’t want any wild parties, Max!”

“We got the Beaumont Bash, Holiday Edition scheduled on the 23rd. No one will have recuperated enough for another one so soon.”

“Then on Christmas Day, I’m Grand Marshal of the Valtorian Christmas Parade,” Liam added.

“I’ll be front row, and I’ll walk the entire parade route with you. You won’t be alone.”

Liam chuckled as he sliced into his grilled chicken. “With rumors of the entire duchy attending, I would hope not!”

“Your constituents love you.”

Liam shook his head. “They didn’t when I raised the tax rate.”

“Sales tax! By only 3%, and it’s still the lowest in all of Cordonia. Besides, if they don’t, I do,” Maxwell looked up from his plate to bat his eyes at Liam.

“And I love you more,” Liam smiled fondly at the young Lord.

“Y’know, I was thinking … since Christmas Day is going to be jam-packed with the Parade and family dinners, maybe we could exchange gifts Christmas Eve,” Maxwell suggested as he ladled gravy onto his mashed potatoes.

Liam’s eyes widened appreciatively over the rim of his wineglass. “Excellent idea, love!”

“I can’t wait for you to see your present!”

Liam’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is it a peacock?”

Maxwell raised an eyebrow, his expression giving away nothing. “I’m not telling.”

“Max, if you got me a PEACOCK … you KNOW I’m allergic!”

“Is that what you’re calling being a scaredy-cat nowadays?” Maxwell teased.

Liam bunched up his cloth napkin and lobbed it at his boyfriend. It harmlessly bounced off Maxwell’s hair and onto the carpet. “No peacocks!” Liam warned.

Maxwell grinned to himself. He most definitely had not gotten Liam a peacock, but there was a puppy. A Corgi, rescued from the local animal shelter. That was gift number one.

Gift number two spoke to Liam’s sentiment; it was a pinboard, handcrafted by Maxwell himself. With the help of the Great House’s staff.

It was made of cork, wood that had been painted in Cordonian blue, and macrame rope. Maxwell put a lot of thought into what would go onto the board: peacock feathers; a photo of Queen Eleanor and baby Liam; the ticket stubs from their first U2 concert; a copy of his letter to Liam on their second anniversary; glitter; a picture of Liam the day of his coronation as Duke of Valtoria, wearing his coronet and carrying a shield decorated with the Valtorian coat of arms; a stock photo of two clinking beer bottles, and a photo of their mothers at a tea party, grinning conspiratorially at each other over tea cups.

He hoped Liam liked it.

Liam, across the table, was finishing his meal debating if he should get a refund on Maxwell’s gift. The second-born to the throne was now absolutely convinced that he was getting a peacock for Christmas.

His gift to Maxwell was a two-week trip to France next summer. They would be attending the Peacock Society’s annual electronic dance music festival in Paris. Max would be upset that the Peacock Society had nothing to do with actual peafowl, but in-person attendance at an actual festival would make up for that.

After the three-day festival, the pair would be off to hike the Pyrenees Mountains.

The trip they never got to take.

“WHAT?” Maxwell exclaimed as he reached for more chicken and potatoes. “I feel you watching me!”

“Good! Because I am going to KEEP watching you, every day until Christmas Eve.”

“Well, let me make it worth your while, …” Maxwell pulled his sweater over his head, exposing his muscled bare chest, hippo tattoo, and rippled abs.

He winked at Liam before eating a forkful of chicken and salad.

The Duke audibly gulped before licking his suddenly dry lips. “Please, continue,” he urged.

“If I do that, I’m giving you your present early,” Maxwell protested with a sly grin.

Liam had risen from his seat and was pulling Maxwell from his. “I’ll still want it on Christmas Eve.”

“But the surprise!” Maxwell mock protested as he willingly let Liam lead him towards their bedroom.

“You’ll think of something between now and then.”

Tagging:  @jared2612​ @ao719​  @marietrinmimi​ @merridithsmiscellany-blog​ @queenjilian​ @indiacater​ @kingliam2019​ @bebepac​ @liamxs-world​ @mom2000aggie​ @liamrhysstalker2020​  @neotericthemis​ @twinkleallnight​ @umccall71​ @superharriet​  @busywoman​ @gabesmommie1130​ @tessa-liam​ @phoenixrising0308​ @beezm​ @gardeningourmet​ @lovingchoices14​ @foreverethereal123​ @mainstreetreader​ @angelasscribbles​ @lady-calypso​ @emkay512​ @jovialyouthmusic​ @princessleac1​ @charlotteg234​ @queenrileyrose​ @alj4890​ @yourfavaquarius111​ @motorcitymademadame​ @queenmiarys​  @choicesficwriterscreations​ @burnsoslow​

#dcbbw answers #winter otp ask #liam x riley #laxwell #writer on tumblr #writeblr

[maverickcalf]

Felt inspired by one of my friend's @ruztyryan real genius fic, so i wrote a bit more of the ship Chris x Vince (color of money). It deals with Vince's worries about meeting two of Chris's friends, but it will have more of a bittersweet vibe about it. Anyway since it is their birthday, I decided to post what I have so far.

Fic snippet under the cut!

Vince had spent far too much time fixing his hair. Far more than usual. But he really couldn't help it. Nerves had taken hold of him harder than they had before.

When he dated Carmen it was simple. It was just them. He didn't have to impress anyone else just to be with her.

Not that he had impressed Chris’s friends to stay with him… right? Sure Chris’s friends meant a lot to him but it wasn't like if he failed to please them he would break up with him…

Vince shook his head, damn, he just repeated his own thoughts. He was in a downward spiral, part of him knew that. The other part… well, remained in the spiral.

That being said he was quickly brought back to reality by a gentle kiss on his neck, followed by hands circling around his waist.

“If you use any more of that hairspray you are gonna get a headache not hungover.”

Chris's voice was smooth as ever and even if he was teasing Vince knew it wasn't any ill intentions behind it. 

Mostly because Chris told him that if he took this tone, that's what he meant.

Vince's hand gripping the hairspray fell to his side, only to lift it slightly, setting it down on the dresser.

“What if they don't like me?”

Chris sighed as he moved from breathing against Vince's neck to leaning his head against the other man's.

“They will.”

This time he sounded much more serious. Like he wanted to leave no room for doubt.

But it was still there, stewing in his stomach.

The lack of response got Chris to speak again, “We don't have to go.”

A lie. Vince knew Chris wouldn't back down from a promise. And that's what he had promised to his friends Ick and Mitch. That they would get to meet his new partner… partner.

“Do they… do they even know my name?”

Chris breathed in and out. Then hummed, “I haven't told them much of anything.”

Ah. That could be bad, what if they didn't know their friend liked men… or would accept a guy like him? Vince tried his best to keep his breathing steady, “So they don't know-?” 

“No. I figured you would tell them in your own time.” Chris spun Vince around to face him, now Vince could see the smile on his face, “Like you did with me.”

Vince found his face turning hot, his cheeks burning, and then he chuckled, “It was hard to hide it from you with you grinding against me.”

Chris smirked, kissing him on the cheek, seemingly unbothered by the heat, “So. It's not like they are gonna do that.”

“Sure…” Vince rolled his eyes, “They might be too busy being pissed at you for not telling them you have a boyfriend.”

He meant to keep the sharpness out of his voice, but sometimes fear makes it impossible. As much as that was attempted to have been drummed out of him… it just happens.

Chris frowned slightly at the tone, but it was only there for a moment, “They always knew I was a bit… eccentric. It won't be too much of a shock.”

“Eccentric?” Vince huffed, “Is that what we are calling it these days?” It was kinder than faggot, but not by much.

“It's what my mother calls it,” Chris said in a tone far too casual for Vince's liking. Vince tried to read the expression on Chris's face but if there was hurt behind it, he couldn't find it.

“Chris…” Vince sighed. Was this how the whole night was gonna be, him struggling to understand what was going on? And suddenly finding his words missing? Indeed he opened his mouth and nothing came out.

There was a moment's pause before Chris sighed, and his expression finally became gentler, “Ick already knows. And even if Brian doesn't take it well, we can handle it.”

Another deep breath from Vince, “... I guess I can't really argue with you about that.”

“You can.” Chris replied back simply, “If that's what you want.”

Something about the way Chris said that put him at ease, just the fact he could fight back if he wanted to. If he wanted to bail he could. 

Not that he was going to.

“Hey, you know me, I don't like to lose.”

Chris smiled and leaned down for a kiss, lifting him up slightly.

#real genius #color of money #vince lauria #chris knight #blu's writing

[rahorak]

# 𝗥𝗔𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗔𝗞, a study into : loving and being loved, being the chosen one, the fight for a better future, and martyrdom. / A private and selective, canon divergent Leona from Riot Games' League of Legends. First established April 15th, 2020 under the url Sunszenith. Re-established July 9th, 2022 with the current url.

Headcanon based, and putting special effort into making the muse a multi-dimensional person with flaws and virtues both. Above all, this Leona is kinder, gentler, and she does not wish to hunt the Lunari ━ on the contrary, she wishes to make peace with them. She is a defender, not an attacker.

Somewhat trigger heavy  (  Violence, war, death, possession, religion, blood and gore, corruption, sexual content and more applies.  ) 𝘽𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙎𝙀 𝙊𝙉𝙇𝙔 𝙄𝙁 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝘼𝙂𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙏𝘼𝘽𝙇𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙀𝘿. Minors, dni.

Cherished by 🌿𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗔  /  26  / She/her / Scandinavian. Please read my rules before following and my dossier before interacting, both can be found on my carrd. Any important notes on my portrayal can also be found below the cut.

Pinned graphics + carrd header was made by the lovely Lune.

➤ㅤㅤ𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗗ㅤㅤ𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧ㅤㅤ𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗥ㅤㅤ𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗟

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ sworn to protect : evelicious / lun4ri, starthieve, vulpesse

✧ ✦ Personals are welcome here, but do not reblog my posts please. ✦ ✧

➤ ㅤPSA on Leona's canon divergence. ➤ ㅤPersonalized design. ➤ ㅤArt tag. ➤ ㅤHeadcanons tag. ㅤ ㅤ✦ Scars, bruises & martyr syndrome. ㅤ ㅤ✦ Major flaws. ㅤ ㅤ✦ Solar power & extended. ㅤ ㅤ✦ Anger & exhaustion. ㅤ ㅤ✦ Polyamory. ➤ ㅤCharacter meme tag. ➤ ㅤPrompts tag.

If you're here for my eons old threads with Moon, you can find them in my tags :

➤ ㅤSo Close ➤ ㅤReunion ➤ ㅤIn Her Light ( SFW ver. ) ➤ ㅤPath To Eternity

You can also find them all on my AO3 page ( NSFW ver. ) for a more comfy read.

More stuff will be added soon!

#* PINNED.

[homotron69]

There is just something about people cutting off others just because they find someone else it's so fucked up, like okay I understand you found someone who makes you feel like you who makes you feel better who you love spending time with someone irl but what about the person you met earlier who gave you all those beautiful memories all the times when you didn't feel yourself when they stood with you helped you provided a judgement free environment? Was it all a hallucination to you? Was everything just a mere thing to you? Did it mean nothing to you? Friendships fucking suck especially when you label them as your "best friend" it kind of jinxes it (if anyone actually truly has one im happy for you lol this is not targetted to people who have best friends) i just feel so pathetic about myself that why am I the one making all the moves do they not miss me? Do they not feel the emptiness of a person leaving? Or was it all toxic and nothing for them? I have so many questions to ask them but they just rest there it's so funny how most of the friendships I've had are all one sided it sucks man it sucks so much.

IDC if you read all of the above shit but read this please.

You deserve better people, you deserve people who make you feel seen, heard, accepted, cherished, wanted, and not neglected because of others you're very much valid to feel the need to cut off such friendships and please do, you don't have to hang onto any of such friendships which drain you mentally and emotionally, I hope people are kinder, gentler, empathetic, compassionate, understanding to others it's not that hard :)

[awlumii]

what do you think mean!zuha’s reaction would be to someone who plays a game similar to his, someone who pursues you, but never crosses that line of a relationship and likes you too? someone who is an asshole to you and teases you, and plans to do more since they’re aware that you two aren’t in a relationship?

(my original thought process was that this mean someone was a woman [since then they’d be so similar, yet so different], but i genuinely am interested in your opinion so ignore this if you need to)

i think that when kazuha treats you that way, there's still some underlying attraction between the two of you that you both notice but say nothing about. like there's a deep connection that neither of you want to admit that you have. with the other person though, i think because kazuha's numbed you to asshole-ish behavior, you take their advances very well — maybe a little too well.

unlike kazuha, whose advances take a little bit of reading into (excluding the times he physically corners you and gives you marks here and there), this person is pretty straightforward in their approach, and they're pretty smooth about it too. you probably come to respect it a lot — at least they have the guts to admit that they like you, unlike some people.

in this case i feel like the second kazuha catches wind of your attraction to this other person, he throws caution to the wind and approaches you a bit gentler than usual — little by little, he becomes vulnerable with you and it's confusing as fuck but... not unwelcome. he'd do things like lean on your shoulder and shush you when you try to tell him to get off and you, knowing a losing battle when you see one, just let him do as he pleases. after that, you'd just... sit in a comfortable silence. he's warm, you realize, and much kinder than he lets himself be.

your bond changes and becomes a little more intimate. and while both of you can tell that kazuha is struggling to keep this up — he's stiff and hesitant at times and chooses silence whenever presented with a non-confrontational topic — you love the effort that he's putting in. so much so, in fact, that you circle back around to being annoyed by the other person who approaches you with such rude behavior.

(whether they give up or confront kazuha or anything like that is purely up to you 😁)

#[ 📭 — incoming! ] #[ 💭 — thinking! ] #asshole with a heart of gold trope WHEEEEE

[luveline]

I’ve been noodling on this for a bit bc I don’t want to overwhelm you (being on anon is so much easier! but that might be the antithesis of my point!) but I really just want to say that you and your writing make me want to be like, better. Softer, kinder, more open to love in my life. And I know that you’re a person! A complex 3D person with icks and messy days and fears and all that! And I am too! We all are! But Jade, the way you choose to be so kind and to write such warmth and comfort just makes me want to be gentler with myself. It makes me want to love life more and slow down and just try to love better and louder especially when I don’t feel good. finding your blog and reading your work and having you read (and enjoy!) some of mine has been such an unexpected turn this year that I am so grateful for. anyway, I hope you feel loved! here is my heart for you: <3

you’re giving me too much credit lovely girl, but I’m really happy to make you happy! i feel more loved than I can deserve, you’re really such an angel please accept my heart in return ♥️

#jade's asks #ily

[nflsundayticket]

The Changing Face of Football and the Quest for Safety

News Summary: The banning of the hip drop tackle in football has sparked controversy and raised questions about player safety. As leagues revise tackling rules, fans and players seek clarity and adaptation to the evolving landscape of the sport. Football, it's a game of excitement, glories untold, and wonders of the mind and spirit. However, there's controversy surrounding it; many fans and players are unsure of what constitutes a legal tackle in this fine league. The hip drop tackle is being banned because of injury concerns, and many in the football world ask, what is the proper way to tackle? Like the beloved body weight and rule, there are a lot of questions as to the step-by-step protocol, and today they will be answered. Consider this man to be the average offensive player. Hey there, look at how confident he is.' 'And here's your bug standard defender, sir, notice his surly and hostile demeanor.' 'Am I getting paid for this?' Now, the normal situation would be for the defendant to destroy everything dear to the world, but this isn't 1970 anymore; we are a kinder and gentler league. To begin the new process of tackling, the offensive player must first consent. 'Can I tackle you?' 'Uh, uh-uh, you never said the magic word.' 'Can I please have permission to take you to the ground?' No, I do not consent to your action.' 'This is what constitutes a broken tackle.' 'This is a joke, but let's suppose that he does agree to be stopped. Then the defender will carry the offensive player to a minimum queen-size bed of his choosing, pending league approval.' 'I'll walk myself, thank you.' 'Yes, your majesty, that's 15 yards for taunting.' 'We have now entered the room of choice. For speed purposes, the bed has already been set to the offensive player's liking, but defenders should be aware of any personal whims and requests that they prefer.' Oh, is there any chance I can get some ice cream? I prefer cookie dough.' 'I don't have any.' 'We'll let the defender off with a $110,000 fine.' 'Always remember, you're .' 'Is this an anagram?' 'No, it just means you're .' Begin the next step of the process, happy ending.' 'What happy ending?' 'Well, G-crack.' 'What, no, that's unsportsmanlike conduct.' 'We will assume that the action has taken place.' 'Now, as we can see, our two test patients are ready for the final stage of taking down a player. You must gently let him slip into slumber.' 'May I recommend a bedtime story?' 'Alright, "The quarterback who won it all".' 'Oh, I love this one.' 'And in a triumph for eternity, the greatest quarterback in football history threw for over 400 yards and three touchdowns in the high school championship game. The crowd on hand lifted him on their shoulders, chanting his name forevermore throughout the end of time. He had white horses and ladies by the score, all dressed in satin, waiting by the door. Oh, what a lucky man he was. Good night, offensive player.' (As the offensive player sleeps in his comfy bed, the loss of down is complete.) 'There's one problem with the defender's execution, he never fully shut the door.' 'Roughing the passer.' Oh God, thank you for watching this horrible pile of cringe. I wanted to do something different because this is a special occasion. This is apparently my thousandth video. Yeah, I can't believe it either, like a birthday cake or something. I wish to never do this again, dead for the sake of society. Read the full article

#ConsentinSports #Football #FootballControversy #GameEvolution #InjuryPrevention #Playersafety #RuleChanges #Sportsmanship #Tackling

[unicornbeck]

I wanted to send you a message as we head into 2024 to let you know how happy I am that we connected- first on AO3 and now here- because you have made a pretty crappy year infinitely better through your amazing, wonderful comments you left on DFAFM.

You were the first (but not last, haha) reader to call me brutal, and I think maybe you were the one who awarded me the title of Queen of the Cliffhangers too, I can't remember - but I feel SEEN as a writer when you comment. I feel as though, out of all the readers I have, you are the one who gets the depth of it all, the boundaries I am willing to push, the trauma it comes from... every time you comment I giggle and feel on a high for hours because I know what I'm writing is making a difference. And it means so much.

So, sorry, long winded, but thank you for being you, for making a really shitty year a bit better, for making me smile whilst in hospital, for giving me a reason to keep writing.

You are amazing and I am so glad to know you, and I hope 2024 brings so so many amazing things your way.

Phoenix Rose 🌹

I was so moved to read this message from you-- I love your work and I am always blown away by it. You take a lot of risks that other authors I read just aren't taking. And there's nothing wrong with that-- different authors have different strengths. But I really admire your risk-taking. Your willingness to put even main characters in serious mortal peril is nothing short of George RR Martin. It's very high-stakes, and I am there for it.

Even though I know it could well break my heart, at least in the short term.

I am not nearly so fearless in that regard, in my own writing. There're other things I write, other risks I take, but I could never have been brave enough to make Muriel Fall. Never could have killed off Nina or made Maggie one of the Nephilim. You have this way of seeking out those walls, those lines that are marked 'do not cross,' and you look your readers in the eye and step right on over. You make me want to cross my own fences, my own imaginary lines. Reading your story gives me the feeling of boundless freedom, the feeling that anything is possible. (And yes, there is a bit of trauma in that-- shedding protections is always scary, can be painful. But it's good, too. Freeing, as I said.)

I'm glad that you feel seen, are pleased with my comments; I have lots of big opinions about the fics I enjoy, and it would be very hard for me to shut up about them.

I hope that 2024 will be a kinder, gentler year for us all. From what little I know of your life, you could certainly use a break, and definitely deserve one. I live in the US, and it's an election year here for us. I will be avoiding most national news like the plague to preserve my own mental health and sanity. The truth is, I already know there will be nobody on the ballot as progressive and bleeding-heart liberal, tree-hugging feminist, LGBTQIA friendly as I am, but then, there never is. I'm always and forever voting for the candidates who will do the least harm to the greatest number of people. Sigh

I hope that your health challenges will be resolved in a healthy and favorable way, and that you will find lots of time to do lovely things with your family-- you said you have 2 kids, yes?

I've got 3 offspring-- Xander, age 22, Atticus, age 21, and Harper, age 19. The older 2 are boys, and Harper is non-binary. I think I remembered you saying you were happily single (sorry if I'm misremembering). I'm married to Kevin, who's a computer programmer geek. We have 4 cats because Kevin is relatively sane and has quashed my crazy-cat-lady instincts to a number we can afford to feed.

You thought you were "long-winded," but as you can see, I have a bottomless supply of chatty when writing to other writers. In RL I'm pretty introverted and a bit... strange? I guess. I just always have been. I'm supposedly neurotypical, but I think maybe they just didn't ask the right follow-up questions on the medically dubious online assessment I took a while back.

In any event, I've been working on a Good Omens AU of my own and doing a bit of beta reading for Foul F13nd on her very lovely fic, A Social Construct. She reads mine too. It's the best writing relationship I've had in almost a decade. The last writers' group I was a part of disbanded maybe 8? 10? years ago. I'm still friends with the members, but too many of us had life changes and went our separate ways, so a lot of those connections are internet-only now. The friendships that I've made with other people who write are some of the deepest and most-affecting connections in my life. There is something about the act of writing and workshopping and reading for each other that is so life-affirming, so viscerally constructive. It's such an absolute pleasure to write to you about your work. It makes me feel seen and connected and not alone.

Anyway. My name is Rebecca, I think I said. I'm not very good at tumblr and can't see the message I wrote you here... Have to work on that a bit. If you're comfortable with it, let me know if there's a name other than Phoenix Rose that you'd like me to call you. Otherwise, may I shorten it to Rose?

Happy New Year. Cheers!

[astroexaminer]

Astro-Inspiration for July 17, 2023 ~ We are the World, We are the Children

Today due to your confident and grander mindset, your faith, and your depth of emotional engagement, you can feel a real sense of belonging to the world family. You’re also eager to embrace your sense of possibility and progressive ideas and work with others to create a more abundant, kinder, and gentler world. The Cancer New Moon reminds you that the world is your home and family, home is where your heart is, and it’s time to start giving.

The Sabian Symbol for this Cancer New Moon is “Dark Shadow or mantle thrown over the right shoulder.” Official meaning ... The Sabian Symbols in Astrology, written by Marc Edmund Jones, says: “This is a symbol of the irrevocability of man’s obligation to the reality of which he is a part, with the emphasis on his capacities of leadership as a revelation of racial stewardship on the more personal or spiritual side. Self-expression here is a release of his inner potentialities, and it becomes both an individual gratification and an expanding responsibility to all other individuals making up the social complex.”

Note: In case you don’t know, the Sabian Symbols are metaphors that spark imagery. They were derived by clairvoyant Elsie Wheeler in 1925 at the request of astrologer Marc Edmund Jones to trigger his understanding of the 360 degrees of the zodiac. The Sabian Symbols add imagery and meaning that's specific to the degree of any planet or point in a horoscope.

Today’s Quote

“Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts. It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness and without any dread of ridicule.” ~ Frederick William Robertson

Today’s Sky

Mercury in Leo Square Jupiter in Taurus. Cancer Moon Sextile Uranus in Taurus, Conjunct Sun in Cancer, Trine Neptune in Pisces, Opposite Pluto in Capricorn. The Cancer New Moon occurs at 2:31 pm ET today.

The sky speaks to you if you will let it. Every day it delivers a message that each person hears in a uniquely different way. This is not personal or predictive astrology; it's creative astrology meant to help you understand and align your mind, body, and spirit with the unique soul vibration of each passing day.

To quote Joseph Campbell: “The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.”

I hope you enjoy and your life is enriched by these Astro-inspirations.

Thanks for reading. Please like and follow Patricia Lantz, Astrologer

#astrology #daily astrology #inspiration #daily inspiration #daily quotes #cancer new moon

[rahorak-a]

© / # 𝗥𝗔𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗔𝗞, a study into : loving and being loved, being the chosen one, the fight for a better future, and martyrdom. / A private and selective, canon divergent Leona from Riot Games' League of Legends. First established April 15th, 2020 under the url Sunszenith. Re-established July 9th, 2022 with the current url.

Headcanon based, and putting special effort into making the muse a multi-dimensional person with flaws and virtues both. Above all, this Leona is kinder, gentler, and she does not wish to hunt the Lunari ━ on the contrary, she wishes to make peace with them. She is a defender, not an attacker.

Somewhat trigger heavy  (  Violence, war, death, possession, religion, blood and gore, sexual content and more applies.  ) 𝘽𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙎𝙀 𝙊𝙉𝙇𝙔 𝙄𝙁 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝘼𝙂𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙏𝘼𝘽𝙇𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙀𝘿. Minors, dni.

Cherished by 🌿𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗔  /  25  / She/her / Scandinavian. Please read my rules before following and my dossier before interacting, both can be found on my carrd.

➤ㅤㅤ𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗗ㅤㅤ𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗦ㅤㅤ𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗞ㅤㅤ𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗟

✧ ✦ Personals are welcome here, but do not reblog my posts please. ✦ ✧

#* pinned. #* ━ beta post editor + xkit rewritten user

[9jahitbase]

Trump Rips Enemies, Ignores Melania in Mother’s Day Post

TOPSHOT-US-vote-ELECTION-POLITICS-TRUMP - Credit: AFP via Getty ImagesIt appears that Donald Trump has left Melania Trump, his current wife and mother of his youngest child, unnamed in his Mother’s Day greetings. Instead, the former president chose to wish a “Happy Mother’s Day” to the mothers of the “complete Lunatics and Maniacs” who are part of “the Radical Left.” How sweet.Trump shared his Mother’s Day well wishes on Truth Social, the social media platform he launched in the wake of his pre-Elon Musk exile from Twitter. Within an hour of going live, the post accumulated more than 2,000 shares, aka “ReTruths.”More from Rolling Stone“Happy Mother’s Day to ALL, in particular the Mothers, Wives and Lovers of the Radical Left Fascists, Marxists, and Communists who are doing everything within their power to destroy and obliterate our once great Country,” he wrote.Trump continued, “Please make these complete Lunatics and Maniacs Kinder, Gentler, Softer and, most importantly, Smarter, so that we can, quickly, MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!!!”Just minutes later, the former president was back to posting his usual drivel about politics — this time bashing his rival, Ron DeSantis, with Trump’s pet name for him, “Rob DeSanctimonious.”Trump is fond of using holidays to shout out his detractors. On Easter in 2021, he released a statement very similar to his Mother’s Day post, declaring, “Happy Easter to ALL, including the Radical Left CRAZIES who rigged our Presidential Election, and want to destroy our Country!” On July 4, 2014, he tweeted, “Happy 4th of July to everyone, including the haters and losers!” Less than a year earlier, he tweeted about Sept. 11, writing, “I would like to extend my best wishes to all, even the haters and losers, on this special date, September 11th.”With all these gems, Trump should abandon his White House plans and instead start his own greeting card company.Story continuesBest of Rolling StoneClick here to read the full article. Source link Read the full article