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#thanks for playing!
toasthaste · 1 year
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Been 4 days but I am still laughing about these tags. We have to go to war against Omelas to prevent the suffering of the innocent children! Hm? You think there will be innocent children who suffer and die as a result of the invasion of their homeland? Well... it's sad of course, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.
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cinamun · 6 days
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Wrapping up the anniversary week of the story I've been flooding your dashes with for 9 years. And want to share a few things.
If you're just starting on a storytelling journey, don't give up. Especially if its what you want to do. Don't let anyone discourage you (including yourself). You are allowed to change your mind about the direction of your story, the path of your characters and anything else you choose. Its dope to be inspired by other storytellers however be careful not to copy/paste (it happens more than you think). Instead, use that inspo to create something uniquely yours. I get inspired by others all the time but will remix what I see to work for me (and always give credit where its due). Hype up your story! Ask questions, make posters, do update reblogs if there's been a long gap, talk mad shit about your characters and have fun. You don't need a certain aesthetic or follower count, all you need is an active imagination, an OC or two or three, time and a little energy.
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curiouslittleprincess · 2 months
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Peanut m&ms
You win ! 🎉🎉🎉🤩
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navybrat817 · 9 months
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What would Stud!Bucky do if Smartie playfully smacked his ass when he was doing the dishes?
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Bahaha. 😂
SMACK
Bucky stood up straight, the dish in his hand forgotten when he heard you giggle. "Did you just smack my ass?"
"Yep!" you declared, playfully hitting the other side. "Gonna play your cheeks like bongos."
He looked over his shoulder to give you a stern stare, but couldn't keep a straight face. "My ass is not an instrument."
"You're right," you said, repeatedly smacking it as if it was. "Doesn't mean I can't play with it."
This is my future wife.
"This is harassment," he joked, making no move to stop you. He liked having your hands on him.
"You hit my ass when I did the dishes yesterday! So what was that?"
"It was encouragement," he smiled. "Like 'good game'."
"...Good game?"
"What? You compared mine to bongos," he argued, turning to smile at you. "But I'll be happy to play your pussy like a guitar."
"Bucky!"
*****
Love and thanks! ❤️
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theamazingian · 1 year
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insane 😭
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ladywaffles · 2 months
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From the prompt list: icemav + 6. patting the other’s head?? If it inspires
icemav + patting the other’s head
i do not know the meaning of brevity. send me a pairing and a prompt!
To be a fighter pilot, you have to have ego.
It’s not just a requirement, it’s an immutable law. It’s on the checklist of fighter pilot eligibility. One: candidate must be a United States citizen of sound mind and body. Two: candidate must have a four-year degree from an accredited educational institution. Three: candidate must have ego the size of the Grand Canyon and the guts to back it up.
Fighter pilots are young, good-looking guys who grow into stately, well-tailored men. Elegant. Gentlemanly. Airs of class that have since ebbed away in the general population, but which find a home in the handful of officers who call themselves naval aviators, and they wear them damn well.
Ice has always been particular about his appearance; it’s hard not to be painfully aware of it, with twelve years of detentions earned for uniform infractions at elite private schools and four years of the Naval Academy bearing down on him. He holds it together through the six months of hellish diagnoses it takes for the doctors to figure out what’s making him sick (cancer), where the cancer is (his lungs), and where it metastasized to (his throat). There’s never a hair out of goddamn place through the whole endeavor. But when they finally figure it out and get him on a chemotherapy plan, the pristine picture of the Iceman falls apart.
His tan is the first to go; if he’s being honest, it was already on its way out. It’s been nigh on ten years since he was last in a cockpit, and trading his F-14 for another stripe on his sleeve meant he hardly saw the sun in his cramped offices. Maverick used to tease that he looked like a vampire, losing the California bronze that’s been embedded in his skin since he was old enough to walk. Jokes like that are far and few between now that it’s no longer the job that’s draining his color, but his own body.
In the end, it’s easy to let the tan go. What really gets him, what really hurts, is when his hair starts falling out. Iceman has impeccable hair. The sun rises in the east. The facts of life. He puts off shaving it as long as he can, because yes, it’s just hair, and yes, it should grow back—the doctors assured him it would probably grow back—but dammit, he’s a fighter pilot, and he has his pride.
He sulks about it for weeks: gently combing his hair, putting as little product into it as possible so as to prolong the life of the strands that remain, taking shorter showers to reduce the likelihood of tufts of blonde falling out and running down the drain.
Maverick is solid at his side, his own hair dark as the day they met. In the deepest parts of his heart, he hates Maverick just a little bit for it. The asshole doesn’t even have the decency to be going gray yet, and here Ice is losing it all.
But then Maverick will tell him he passed his driving test and got a proper driver’s license so he could drive Ice back and forth from his appointments so Ice wouldn’t have to ride in a smelly taxi on the way home when he’s already starting to feel nauseous, or he’ll smile at Ice when he gets home and say, “Hey, I called up Wolf and he found that baked potato soup recipe from that place we ate at in ’96,” or he’ll sit at Ice’s side at two in the morning on the bathroom floor when the vertigo has Ice kneeling at the altar of the porcelain throne, even though he has to be at the base at five-thirty to do briefings and pre-flight checks, and Ice can’t remember why he was annoyed about Maverick’s hair at all.
Maverick drives him to his next chemo appointment. He sits in the waiting room, perusing the latest copy of People Magazine. Maverick hates People Magazine, but there’s not much else the hospital waiting room can offer in terms of salient literature, so People Magazine it is.
Ice goes back for his chemo treatment. Phil, his technician, doesn’t say much as he putters around the room, hanging IV drip bags here and flipping switches on medical equipment there. When Ice is all hooked up, they chat about inane things. Phil recounts his daughter’s swim meet. Ice responds with tales of his own swim meets, back at the Naval Academy. Phil says his son signed up for flag football, but God bless him, he’s shit at the sport. Ice promises that he’s not going to get much better at it, if he sucks this much at it now; he’s got his own scars from high school to prove it.
Phil unhooks him from the infernal treatment and books him for an appointment in two weeks. Maverick puts down People Magazine—a different issue than he was reading before, Ice notes—and drives them both home. He helps Ice into the living room and lays him down on the couch with the quilt that Carole made for their sort-of-fifteenth-anniversary. He kisses Ice on the forehead and goes to the kitchen to start dinner, and Ice is out like a light.
When he wakes up again, the sky is a dusky gray. It’s just past sundown. Maverick let him sleep for hours.
“Mav?” he calls out. Ice pushes himself up off the couch, his elbows creaking as he goes. “Maverick?”
“In here!” Maverick replies from the guest bathroom. “I’ll be just a second!”
Ice hums and goes into the kitchen. There’s a pot on the counter, but it’s not one of theirs. He lifts the lid; savory chicken congee, with ginger root and scallions. The Reyes’ must have dropped something off while he was asleep.
“Oh, yeah, Martin came by with some soup,” Maverick says behind him. “He says there’s no better cure than his wife’s arroz caldo, not even your mama’s chicken noodle soup.”
Ice puts the lid back on the pot. He turns to Maverick, ready to bear all of his weight down on his partner, because chemo is a bitch and he feels exhausted just standing here in his own kitchen—
—And flinches.
“What the fuck did you do to your hair?” Ice cries. Maverick cracks a grin, his signature Colgate smile.
“Do ya like it?” he asks.
Like it? Ice reaches out for his head, and Maverick leans in. He runs his hand over Maverick’s scalp, feeling the smoothness of his skin. He passes over the whole landscape once, twice, his fingers tripping over the tips of Maverick’s ears and the nape of his neck, as if he’d find something there like a magician performing a sleight of hand, but there’s nothing there.
“It’s all gone,” Ice laughs, somewhat hysterical. “It’s gone, it’s gone! What did you do? What the fuck did you do!”
Maverick shaved all of his thick, dark hair off. All of it is gone. All of Maverick’s damnable, doesn’t-have-the-decency-to-go-even-a-little-salt-and-pepper hair has disappeared.
Maverick smiles, teary himself. “Yeah, babe, it’s all gone.” He takes Ice’s hands in his and holds them tight. Ice tries to fight his own tears, but they’re doing what they please.
“Mitchell, what the hell?”
Maverick laughs. “C’mon, Kazansky, give me some credit. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you worrying about your hair falling out.” He cups Ice’s chin with one hand, looking straight into his eyes. “I thought you’d be less scared of it if we did it together.”
“Maverick,” Ice starts.
He doesn’t know where to go. It’s a grand gesture, that’s for sure, and if fifteen-odd years of knowing Maverick have taught him anything, it’s that you cannot always listen to what Maverick Mitchell says, you must only listen to what he does.
“Maverick,” he says again.
“Ice,” Maverick replies. “Let’s eat. And when we’re done, we’ll call Slider up and tell him what I did, and you can make as much fun of me as you want—for tonight only!—and we can talk about what you want to do next.”
They end up eating dinner in the bathroom. Maverick takes bites of his congee in between bouts of shaving off Ice’s hair as Ice huddles in the tub, ducking his head keep anything from falling into his own bowl. When they’re finished, they cram next to each other in Ice’s office and call Slider on Skype. His laughter is piercing through the laptop speakers and echoes down the hall.
And when Slider arrives ten days later, to, “Make sure Mitchell isn’t leaving you to fend all for yourself, I mean does he even know how to make a proper chicken noodle soup,” he knocks on Ice and Maverick’s front door sporting a grin and a freshly-shaved head.
Fighter pilots might have egos, but they’re a fiercely loyal bunch, too.
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cyber-corp · 7 months
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Gecko Boy's final thoughts on Homestuck
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God fucking damn.
I'm not exactly sure what I expected from this webcomic when I downloaded the Unofficial Collection. I maybe expected a couple of bonanza moments here and there, but nothing more.
ohmygoditwasallbonanzas.
I think from Page 137 when I watched the SBURB loading screen did I think "This might be something special.", but it wasn't until "[S] Enter.", when John jumped through that portal and Sburban Jungle kicked into gear that I went "This is more than just a webcomic, isn't it?"
From there it snowballed into a spiral of craziness that I don't think I've ever seen from any webcomic, or any piece of media for that matter.
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From the ectobiology bullshit, to Con Air being an essential plot thread, to Andrew Hussie's self-insert being a character, to John Egbert being teleported into a bizarro parody of his own life written by the main antagonist, to motherfuckin Trickster Mode, Homestuck never ceased from whacking me in the hemidick with surprises.
So to answer why I originally started reading Homestuck; do I understand why everyone on Tumblr went feral over it a decade ago?
Hell yeah dude. This shit's bangin.
I really enjoyed it. The music (lookin at u toby!!!!!), the art, the writing, the small bits of gameplay, everything adds up to create an experience that can only be understood through the internet. If we were to send one piece of media to represent the internet, put Homestuck on a fucking thumbdrive or something and launch it.
It definitely isn't perfect (glaring at that word count), but if you're real far into the internet, then go read Homestuck. An absolute blast from beginning to end.
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Kinda want more though. Maybe I should check out what happens after the ending. Sorta like...maybe something that serves as a conclusion for what happened?
like an
epilogue? ;)
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norcumii · 3 months
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Fic title: Non-compliant Weapon (Rexobi, Murderbot AU)
(regarding this fic title meme prompt)
Ok, there’s two ways this could go. One, the slightly more predictable path of some flavor of reincarnation AU where the Jedi Organization (some kind of meddling well-intentioned doctors-without-borders type group) has gotten neck deep into several volatile disputes and need help, so they’ve gotten a generous donation of sec-units from, I dunno, Palpatine Industries (Insidious Industries is more fun, but a little too on the nose). Of course, these sec-units come with pre-programmed sabotage routines up to and including Order 66, and of course sec-unit Rex manages to wriggle around those.
The more interesting idea I had was a bit...messier.
The plunnie starts with the notion that for a full three hot seconds, some megacorp in the galaxy decided that clones were the next big thing and just mass-produced a whole bunch of them. There was enough outcry that the project was scrapped, the company went broke, and the clones were shoved in cryostorage to become someone else’s problem when all the lawsuits were done. Shortly thereafter, sec-units became a thing because that skirted some all the nasty ethical issues.
Decades if not centuries later (...I have no idea when the Murderbot books are supposed to be other than The Future), whatever megacorp bought up various assets discovers they have a bunch of illegal product sitting around frozen in a warehouse. It turns out that the cheapest method of disposal is actually to thaw them and toss them a small agro planet to colonize (the potential fallout if they just space the clones or keep them in a basement somewhere is just too high for profit margins, much to the relief of everyone else).
And that’s how Rex and his brothers end up thawed, with some nice genetic repair work, on a brand new planet all their own, and no idea wtf to do now since they aren’t expected to just fight something. Since Rex is one of the more restless clones, he ends up doing resource management, taking surplus out for trade and scrounging interesting stuff to bring back. And one day he walks into some space!army surplus store to discover in the back there’s an old sec-unit and its cubicle. Rex starts off feeling weird but wildly sympathetic to this deactivated fighting unit, only to become REALLY creeped out when he asks in passing about it – and learns its being kept around for eventual spare parts.
Rex is not okay with this. He dithers a bit, but ends up purchasing the whole unit and brings it home.
Cody gives him a bit of hell, but he gets where Rex was coming from, so he sort of resignedly welcomes their new sec-unit: [some clever punning/l337 speak version of Obi-Wan Kenobi].
So it turns out that this sec-unit is defective. It’s good at fighting, but it doesn’t like to fight. It talks. It talks a LOT. It’s astonishingly good at negotiating.
It also flirts with everyone except for Rex, which Rex is absolutely not put out about in the least. Really. He’s not irked. It’s a good thing. This damn thing comes out of the box flirting, that’s disconcerting so it’s kinda nice that Rex doesn’t have to put up with that – especially since it’s quickly decided that since the sec-unit does talk anything in circles, it’s most useful going with him to help him barter. And hopefully keep him out of trouble, though Cody is the only one to say that, the bastard.
Since this is a Murderbot AU, that means it turns out that there’s actually something Very Valuable on the clones’ new homeplanet, and at some point they’re actively defending themselves and/or having to diplomat with hostile bodies who are Not Impressed that a sec-unit is one of the main negotiators.
(It helps when things go pear-shaped, of course, since said main negotiator can dish out and take some extreme damage. So that's not too different from canon.)
Things finally settle down, Rex and Obi-Wan return to venturing out on the regular, until one day – probably after some spectacularly vicious flirtation with someone trying to kill them – Rex just blurts out, “I have never been able to figure it out. You will flirt with anyone and anything, the more hostile the better.”
“It’s a wonderful distraction tactic.”
“Oh, I’m aware. You specifically pick out pet names to enrage people.”
“It’s hardly my fault the Duchess didn’t like to be addressed as ‘my dear’!”
“It kind of is, but…” Rex hesitates, then shrugs, still not looking at Kenobi. “You have never once flirted with me.”
Silence. Rex sneaks a few glances, and Obi-Wan is refusing to look back at him. Finally, when it’s clear Rex will play the waiting game, Obi-Wan just shrugs right back. “I don’t know how to do it sincerely. Flirt for real with someone I like.”
Rex goes through several stages of oh with embarrassing speed. He twists around to stare. “What – but – even from the very beginning?”
Obi-Wan continues to not look at him. “I might have been...less unaware than my prior owner believed.”
Rex blanches, well recalling his own long time in stasis – a cold, mostly dreamless state of unconsciousness. The notion of being even somewhat lucid across those long decades is nightmare fuel even before considering the indifferent way the guy at the store had talked about spare parts in a box.
Then there are super-awkward cuddles, eventually leading to some kind of queer platonic aro and/or ace ship happily ever after. ^_^
Thank you, this was a fun challenge!
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bnesszai · 22 days
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"I wouldn't expect to see you in a town like this one"
hi!
"I wouldn't expect to see you in a town like this."
Kunikida looks up and immediately feels a headache come on. In front of him is Chuuya, a smirk on his lips and glinting eyes, with Dazai next to him, all bandaged up with tousled hair and eyes that speak of horrors.
"I got promoted," Kunikida says with a sigh.
"Promoted to shit town?"
"You're so insensitive, Chuuya, clearly Kunikida wanted to see more action." Dazai waggles their eyebrows.
Chuuya catches on and does the same. "Oh, well, we could have shown him that."
"Why are you two here?"
"To annoy you," Dazai says at the same moment Chuuya replies, "What? Are we not allowed to miss you?"
"You're both a thorn in my side."
"Hmm?" Dazai muses, stepping into Kunikida's personal space and leaning in close. "Is that so?" His lips twist into a grin, eyes far more knowing than Kunikida likes.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Chuuya's smirk sharpen, feral. He comes close too, lifting a loose strand of Kunikida's hair. "Where would you rather we be, then?" Chuuya asks, warm breath circling Kunikida's ear.
Kunikida hates them both.
Kunikida hates that he wants to pull them both closer and never let them leave again.
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hood-ex · 9 months
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🎲
Dick gets Tim a Christmas present and refers to himself as Tim's big brother.
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DCU Holiday Special
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nicnavarrocage · 3 months
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dog, this upday SUCKS so bad
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i-am-church-the-cat · 29 days
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i wish you could write a fic where Logan and Oscar teach eachother american/aussie slang
see that's so interesting bc before australia last year, logan did a video where he was judged on aussie slang and he thought he was gonna do really bad but he actually did pretty decently and i think he just doesn't realize how many words he's picked up from oscar/benny and vice versa.
so i think if i was to write it, it wouldn't be like them sitting down and doing it yk? it would more be like, little snippets of their life and how their vocabularies slowly merge with each other. especially bc logan is around a lot more aussies than oscar is around americans.
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horror--kiss · 9 months
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♡♡♡
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aphroditestummyrolls · 3 months
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27 and wesper for the prompt meme 💕
Hiiiii! Thanks for playing ❤️ I was aiming to make these cute little drabbles, about the same length as the WIP game, BUT. That didn’t happen here.
So, enjoy what is essentially a oneshot missing scene from Only Way Out (is through).
27. Accidentally Sleeping In
The kitchen was still cast in deep blue shadow. The night clung to the corners of the room, and the furniture in the adjacent den was nothing but dark silhouettes as the windows gradually lightened. Blinking out over the fields with bleary eyes, it looked like another clear summer’s day on the horizon. A breeze made the jurda dance; the last stars glittered above; and the first fingers of sunlight were going pink as they chased away the darkness.
The house felt still in a way that it hadn’t since the boys came to stay. There was no glow of light under Jesper’s bedroom door, and there was no squeak of mattress springs as they restlessly shifted around and around. Wylan’s usual beleaguered whisper was absent, leaving nothing but the slumbering silence of pre-dawn.
He hoped Jesper had gotten that poor lad to go to sleep and stay asleep. And that he’d still gotten a good night’s rest for himself.
Colm looked at the wall clock— scarcely 5 bells.
He’d give them till the half chime.
He took the coffee pot down from its cupboard as quietly as he could manage, and set the kettle on the fire. He would give them until breakfast was ready. Usually, Jesper was stumbling down the corridor by the time he smelled griddlebreads, anyway. Even after all these years away, it was still like a summoning ritual for even the most exhausted of sons.
Even this exhausted, though? Addy’s voice chimed in from the back of his mind. You’ve never seen him this tired. You know that.
Colm sprinkled flour across the countertop, and unwrapped their breakfast dough from where he’d left it to rise in the hearth’s embers overnight. Perhaps he kneaded into the soft puff of it with more feeling than usual, but he couldn’t help it. He was worried.
He had never been able to hide from his wife— especially not now. And, as usual, she was right.
It had been just over a week since Jesper and his young councilman had docked in Shriftport. They brought with them two haphazardly packed cases of clothes, but Colm considered them lucky that their ship didn’t charge them extra for the bags under their eyes. There was a weight on Wylan’s skinny frame so broad and crushing, it almost surprised the Kaelishman to see the lad walking.
Jesper helped shoulder that weight with all the grace of a man anticipating an explosion, but Colm glowed with pride all the same. They were good partners, those two. He watched them give and take throughout that long, sleepless week— he caught the tail end of long talks and brief check ins. Every morning after they came in from the jurda fields, Colm brought in the post; and every night, he walked past their bedroom door to see the lamps still lit as they worked steadily through the passing hours.
And, he saw the circles under their eyes grow darker with each morning, over griddlebreads and coffee. In the pre-dawn, they seemed as deep as any shadow in the house.
Colm was finally beginning to understand the extent of what Jesper was trying to say in his letter, all those days ago.
Dear Da, it read, I hope you’re well. Good to hear the harvest is coming in strong, and the buyers are already lining up.
Things here are fine— I’m worried about Wylan. This house is starting to feel bloody haunted, and the noses of the council constantly poking in aren’t doing much to help. Everything is piling up. He thinks I don’t know how much this is grating on him, and I don’t know how to tell him he’s scaring me.
I know I’m not much of a communicator—
I understand if you’re still mad, but I’m trying to—
Did you ever have to talk to Ma— that one was so blotted with ink, that Colm had to hold it up to the midday sun to find the words underneath.
I don’t know what to do. You told me to tell you next time I didn’t know what to do, so I’m doing that. He’s not sleeping, he forgets to eat, we spend all day pushing through this damned paperwork, and getting him down to the club can only distract him from the worst of it for so long.
I’m so tired, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Help? I suppose?
He signed it with love from the both of them, and Colm had reread it until the parchment feathered at the corners. It was still tucked into the bookshelf in the shadowy den, used as a place marker in a half-interesting novel he gave up on.
The kettle whistled. With floured hands, the Kaelishman turned in the time-honoured route from counter to stove, and then to the coffee maker. He didn’t need to think about it. The motions were as natural as breathing, and he had other things on his mind.
The night before, the three of them spent a few short hours in the den before retiring for the day.
Colm couldn’t even remember what was being said, when Jesper suddenly went very still, and quiet. His grey eyes blinked, wide and sparkling, and he looked over to his young councilman as if he wasn’t sure what he’d see. And then he smiled.
No, he beamed.
Because Wylan Van Eck was deep asleep, his cheek smushed up into Jesper’s shoulder. His thick lashes tickled along his cheek, chapped red lips just a little bit open. He took slow, even breaths against Jesper’s chest, and Colm couldn’t help the clench of emotion that snuck up around his heart.
He looked like a little boy.
And Jesper looked like he’d been given an absolute treasure of a gift.
He kissed his forehead— gently, so gently, as if he’d bolt upright at any second— and didn’t dare to wake him up to shuffle him off to bed.
Colm held open the bedroom door so Jes could fit Wylan and himself through the narrow opening. The smaller lad was laid out in the center of the bed while Jesper fluttered around the room, unlacing Wylan’s boots and slipping his braces from his shoulders. For once, Colm found himself glad that his son was so allergic to making his bed— it made it much easier to slip back in at night.
And that was the last he had seen of either of them. The Kaelishman bid his son goodnight in a whisper, and Jesper smiled. He looked so exhausted,and so relieved.
Oh, he hoped they’d managed some good rest.
By the time the half chime rang through the little farmhouse, each bread had been cooked to golden brown, steaming perfection. Coffee was ready. Plates were on the counter— not that Jesper would use one. Not when there was the option to leave crumbs on the kitchen floor.
But, Jesper wasn’t here. There were no creaking bed springs, or sleepy grumbling voices coming down the corridor. Colm craned his head to peek at the lad’s door, and the glow of the lamp wasn’t there, like it had been so reliably for so many days.
The sun was rising, painting the kitchen and the den with the wash of warm pink, yellow and Zemeni blue sky. Yet, even with the shadows chased away, the house was still heavy with a sleeping hush.
He sighed.
At least when Jesper was awake all night, he didn’t oversleep.
Rolling his eyes, he poured himself a coffee and took a long sip. He stared at the door, willing the light to turn on, and to hear his son roll out of bed and curse at the clock.
They were meant to start the second round of the harvest that morning. The first of the drying blooms were out in the silos, but the growing things of the earth weren’t just going to wait for them to be ready to pick them. The time frame was limited. How many times had he told Jesper that? How many times had he walked the short path from the kitchen to that bedroom door, and given him the wake up call he missed?
This time, though, he raised his hand to knock, and… paused.
Instead, he dared to open the door and poke his head into the room.
The sunrise was a little slower to reach Jesper’s room, turning the peachy dawn into a warm lavender haze through the drapes. The bedside table was stacked with the last of the letters to be sent— signed and sealed with a splatter of red wax. But, on the bed itself, there wasn’t nearly as much formality… or urgency.
The covers had been kicked around. Only a sheet was draped across Jesper’s skinny hips, his gangly limbs starfished out across the mattress. He was utterly dead to the world. His ribs rose and fell in deep pulls of breath, and Colm wished he could see his boy’s sleeping face better. He always looked so sweet and young, finally at rest for once in his wild life.
But, this time, his nose was buried in a nest of wild curls.
While Jesper had sprawled, Wylan had curled up under his arm, cuddled in between his body and the wall. His cheeks were flushed with the warmth of sleep, even in the low light, and he looked just the same as he had when he fell asleep the evening before. He had a cheek squished up against Jesper, lashes fanning his cheeks, and chapped lips slack. Now, though, his fingers twitched and flexed over Jesper’s chest, and he was burrowing impossibly closer to him. A tiny little sigh passed Jesper’s lips— he could see it as it ruffled the red curls obscuring his mouth. Maybe he smeared an unconscious kiss to his forehead. Colm couldn’t tell.
Oh Saints. Colm couldn’t bring himself to wake them.
“Da?”
Grey eyes blinked at him for a long, sleepy moment, not processing much of anything at first. And then, it hit.
“Fuck—!”
“Shh, shh— no.” Colm crossed the small room to stop his son before he moved and woke the both of them. “No, no. It’s alright, Jes.”
Jesper blinked. Wylan made a sleepy little sound, but didn’t wake.
Colm pulled the covers back up over them, and Jesper finally seemed to understand what was happening. His eyes went half lidded. He sighed.
“Get some sleep, son.” He murmured.
Jes just hummed.
They were both asleep again by the time Colm closed the door behind them.
❤️❤️❤️
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navybrat817 · 9 months
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Navy, what would mafia!Bucky do if, while you’re moving in with him, he found a picture of you and your ex lost in your belongings?
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Oh, nonnie!
"What the fuck is this?"
Bucky didn't raise his voice when he asked the question. That had you trembling and you weren't exactly sure why. It wasn't like you kept any secrets from him.
But you felt your throat go dry when he held up an old photo, his steel eyes staring into yours.
One you thought you got rid of.
"I know you're not going to make me repeat myself, are you, doll?"
"That's an old photo that I thought I threw away," you said quickly. You didn't need to defend yourself though, did you? He was an ex. You were with Bucky.
"What's his name?" he asked, the photo still in hand as he took deliberate slow steps toward you.
"It's-"
He put a finger on your lips before you could finish. "Don't you dare finish that. Because by the time I'm done fucking you, you're going to forget all about him."
Lifting your chin, you decided to give him a little push.
"Prove it."
*****
Love and thanks! ❤️
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idreamofticklehugs · 4 months
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🥞🍭🌶️🍟
🥞 If you could make one spot more/less ticklish, which would it be and why?
I’d make my feet feather ticklish
🍭 If you could choose one spot to be magically continuously tickled, which spot would it be and for how long?
Are we talking like, continuously? Cause if it’s constant, maybe my palms? I feel like that would be just ticklish enough to keep me smiling without stopping me from my responsibilities
🌶 Think of the crazy wacky way you can think of to tickle/be tickled that you wish you could experience. No logical constraints. What is it?
All of my community friends in one place. Just a GIANT tickle fight with team ups and betrayals and the Lers just targeting anyone who was doing too well😂
🍟 If you're feeling brave.. which friends, mutuals, and/or other tickle blogs would you want to tickle and/or be tickled by?
Oooo there’s gonna be a lot 😂
So to just be tickled by, that would be my Ler friends, @silly-panic, @aberdamo4, @applesyaboi, @the-shy-ler @avg-tummy-enjoyer
And to start (and then lose) a tickle fight with, in no particular order, @sensitivemarie, @yourgigglebugmaya, @mike-the-switch, @kasey-writes-stuff, @gigglesis, @ticklishthoughts1, @softleesam, @devious-bliss, @simplee-giggles, @switchyglitch
Thanks for asking anon!
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