Ok sorry if ive been quiet this week but since I have fallen out of sorts with the direction I was taking Eggs I am working on drawing out or finishing my other massive ideas before I concentrate fully on developing the Eggs!Ennard story i really want to do.
Basically i cant work on things like Sonictrap or twisted fnaf designs or the big ass sonic painting on my floor and my springtrap cosplay AND plan eggs themed stories and RP
I go far too invested in eggs and it feels wrong for me to split my focus onto too many things at once.
So I am chilling finishing things and enjoying myself before i do some artist studies and drawing experiments in how to make eggs as terrifying as a concept as possible.
I will mostly on magicalhedgehogs for a spell as i try and churn out non fnaf stuff to 😎
Okay, so, I'd love to read a little something by you set in a world where Lavender made it out of the Battle of Hogwarts. Maybe not okay, but alive?
Once upon a time, Lavender had wanted everyone to look at her. She had been the kind of kid who put on dramatic plays for her stuffed animals, for any visitors to the house, and for any neighbor or passersby she could snag from the front yard.
Dating Ron in sixth year had been fun, most of all because everyone had kept sneaking glances at her. She had heard her name in curious whispers and she had grinned and giggled into Parvati’s shoulder.
Everyone was looking now, or pretending not to. She heard the whispers– oh it’s that poor Brown girl. Can you imagine, if it was your daughter, if it was you? Oh and she was so pretty before, too–what a pity–almost makes it worse, doesn’t it?
“You know Professor Lupin was a werewolf?” Hermione said, ten minutes into a very awkward lunch she had asked for in an equally awkward letter.
Lavender pushed a sauteed carrot through a little puddle of pasta sauce. “I think everyone heard about that one. Someone told the papers, or something, right?”
“Er, yes,” said Hermione. “Snape did. Which is what I– I mean, it’s related. Oh, I wish you’d gotten to talk to Remus about this. He was a lovely man.”
“Not as lovely as Lockhart,” Lavender said and she and Hermione spent a moment in wistful remembrance. “God, I feel old,” Lavender said.
“Anyway, Snape,” said Hermione. “Snape and Lupin. When Lupin was at school, Snape would make him a potion that would… tame him, on full moons. He could just curl up in his office and sleep by the fire. If you’re interested, I’m trying to learn how to brew it myself.”
Lavender shook her head. “We’re not friends,” she said. “Never have been. So why are you doing all this?”
Hermione looked like she was trying to say “we’re friends,” but she couldn’t get it out. “I was there, once, when Lupin turned without the potion. I was so scared. I thought we were going to die.”
“Afraid I’ll sniff you out on a dark night?” Lavender said, face twisting as she sank back into her wicker chair.
“No, I–” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, and all the hesitation was making Lavender more and more uncomfortable. Even at eleven, Hermione had bulldozed through things. She didn’t waver. “I was so scared, but I think it was even worse for him. It hurt, but he looked so scared, too, I–”
“I know how it feels,” said Lavender, very quietly, and Hermione snapped her mouth shut. Lavender took a big sip from her tea. It was still steaming– it had not taken long to exhaust small talk, between the two of them.
Hermione cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to make amends. I’m trying to– make things better. Do you want this?”
Lavender put her mug back down, shaking out scalded fingers, and said, “Yes.” Then, because her mother had raised her right, she said, “Thank you.”
“That sounds like a weird conversation,” said Parvati, whose door Lavender went and knocked on after she and Hermione had split the bill with the precise-to-the-Knut math of the vaguely acquainted and recently employed.
Lavender kicked through the fall of autumn leaves that had collected in front of the porch swing. “She was trying to be nice, I think.”
“She’s not very good at it,” said Parvati.
Her father wept. He tried not to but he was a crier, always had been.
“You were so brave,” said Lavender’s mother, cupping her cheeks in her warm hands and not even flinching at the scar tissue under her palms. “We are so proud.”
Lavender’s mother was a Muggleborn, daughter of a math teacher and a door-to-door salesman (“now there is a profession that requires some magic,” her grandfather used to tell her).
Her father was a wizard and he was trying hard not to cry, bending down to pet the dogs weaving between all their ankles. Lavender bent down, too, scratching behind Fiddlestick’s floppy ears while Mopsy cleaned her cheek forcefully. “Hey,” she said, and her father looked up, trying to firm his wobbly chin.
“You know I’m proud of you, too,” he said, trying not to tremble on it. “I just…” He reached out to squeeze her knee gently. “You did everything right. You did everything good. I’m so proud of you, chickadee.”
“I know,” she said, and she did. He was a Gryffindor, too.
It took Hermione more than a month to figure out the potion sufficiently well enough that she’d let Lavender try it. She was founding a non-profit for nonhuman rights, too, after all, as well as doing a fair few local speaking gigs, petitioning the Wizenagamot on a half dozen issues, getting an advanced degree, and supposedly, at some point, sleeping.
It took more than a month, so Lavender spent another night locked in her parents’ newly fortified cellar. She didn’t remember much, but she woke up with her throat sore and her nails ragged. The door was gouged from the inside. She wondered if she had been screaming. She wondered if that’s what the howls were. She felt like screaming, maybe, a little.
The door cracked open the moment the moon had dropped down below the horizon, outside. Her mother came in with a tray of her favorite breakfast foods– danishes and boiled eggs, steaming hot cocoa with the barest splash of bitter coffee in it.
Parvati came stomping down the stairs after her. “Graceful,” said Lavender. She winced at the roughness of her voice.
“Look who’s talking,” said Parvati. “Up, c'mon, eat your breakfast. We’re doing midnight manicures. Your dad says he’ll let us doll up his nails, too.”
The next full moon night, Lavender locked herself in the cellar again. “It should be safe,” Hermione had said. “It should. I mean, I’ve done all the tests. I followed all the instructions. It should work.”
Lavender didn’t remember, because she never remembered– she didn’t recall the cellar door unlocking and opening after ten minutes of post-moonrise silence. She didn’t recall Parvati Wingardium Leviosa-ing a comfy chair down the stairs, or her sitting down and pulling out a stack of Witch Weeklys, nor did she remember curling up on Parvati’s fuzzy button slippers and going to sleep.
But she did remember waking up in the morning, her cheek pressed into a soft pillow. She was tattered under a thick blanket, but she was human and looking upward at Parvati’s slack, sleeping face. Her dark plaits tumbled, curling, over the soft pink polka dots of her pajamas.
Lavender pulled herself up to sitting, stole the open Witch Weekly, and waited for Parvati to wake up.
“You’re going to be alright,” Professor Trelawney said and she wasn’t even looking at Lavender’s palm, just holding her hand tight in her cold fingers. “You’re going to be happy. You’re going to be fine. People are going to love you and stand by you and we will be there.”
The tower room was just the same as Lavender remembered it, down to the spicy-sweet tea and Trelawney’s big blinking eyes. Lavender squeezed her hands back. “I love you, too, professor.”
“You know, I think you can call me Sybil. It seems the time for it.”
Dean and Seamas’s housewarming for their ugly little first flat was a crowded mess, but the afterparty wasn’t. Lavender and Parvati came by with paint swatches, opinions, and hangover remedies. They ate greasy Chinese food on the floor, because it was about as comfortable as the couch.
They came back the next week, and the next. Parvati conjured a crackling fire in a big fruit bowl Dean’s mother had given him and they all sat around it like they were back at Gryffindor Tower’s hearths, procrastinating on homework.
On nights like that they sometimes talked about Hogwarts, but most of the time they didn’t. Dean had started drawing again and he walked them through his notebooks– his sisters, caricatures of the customers he dealt with in Ollivander’s wand shop, the snarky little comics he’d always scrawled in the edges of his notes. Parvati told them about the Auror trainees’ antics, going ut on their first field missions with their mentors. “All bravado and caffeine,” she said. “Bunch of show-offs.”
“So you fit in well, then?” Dean said.
“Nah, that’s Lav,” Parvati said. Dean and Seamas glanced warily at Lavender, but she just giggled and reached for another potsticker.
Seamas was considering going back to school. “Hermione’s been badgering me about it,” he said. “Says I have a talent for pyrotechnics, and there’s a whole major for fire magics at Brinxley.”
“What about you, Lav?” said Dean. “You still thinking about vet school?”
“Oh, uh, that’s the Muggle word. Veterinarian– a medimagizoologist?”
“The schools aren’t too interested in a werewolf as a student,” Lavender said, shrugging.
“Not that that stops Hermione from showing up on the doorstep with half-penned anti-discrimination lawsuits she wants Lav to star in,” Parvati said.
“When does she sleep?” said Dean.
Little children asked about it in the street sometimes. “Mum, why’s her face like that?” “How come she’s walking all funny?”
Sometimes their parents turned to Lavender with eager bright eyes in the grocery store line, expecting her to answer. (“I got hurt, but I’m okay now.”) Sometimes they shushed their kids and gave her little apologetic half-smiles, glancing away from the raised lines of scar tissue. Sometimes they pulled their children closer to them and crossed to the other side of the street.
Harry Potter had a godson. Teddy Lupin was four the first time Lavender met him, just outside Gringotts. Teddy clung to Harry’s pants leg, peeking past his godfather’s hanging robe. “Why’d her face do that?” he said and Harry dropped a hand down into Teddy’s hair, which was bright green.
“She’s just like your dad,” said Harry.
“Puppy,” Teddy whispered, eyes wide with joy, and his skin shifted until scars stood out stark on his smiling chubby cheeks.
Lavender bit her lip and sank down to her knees in the street, holding out a hand. “Why aren’t you handsome, chickadee. What’s your name?”
Once, Lavender had wanted everyone to look at her.
She hated stories that told you to be careful what you wished for. Were you not supposed to want things? Was that the answer? She was nearly twenty two and she could make things fly with a few whispered words. She had lived through her seventh year at Hogwarts, had stepped out into that battle with her wand out and her eyes open. She had woken up–hurting, wounds tended, poison in her veins–to Parvati sleeping on Sybil’s shoulder at her bedside.
She had cried when they told her about the lycanthropy. She had cried over her bunny because a fox had gotten to it. Both times it had been with her face buried in Parvati’s shoulder and Parvati’s hands stroking her hair. She wished and she wanted– animals that never left you, bodies that never betrayed you.
Once, Lavender had wished that everyone would look at her, and now they were. Everyone was looking– so Lavender held Parvati’s hand in the grocery store at midnight, because they had both been craving green apples. Everyone was looking– so Lavender curled her hair and pinned it up, wore tank tops and little skirts on any day hot enough that she could get away with it, laughed aloud in public spaces. Everyone was looking– so Lavender knocked on Hermione Granger’s door one evening and asked, “What would it take to get me into magical vet school?”
Hermione had her bushy hair all tied back and a quill behind each ear. “A lot. There’s some statutes we’ve got to fight, and even if we can handle that you’ll still be under intense scrutiny for years.”
“I can work with that,” said Lavender, and Hermione grinned.
When Teddy marched down the aisle with the rings, his hair was a shimmering swirl of pink and purple to match the flowers woven into Parvati’s braids and Lavender’s curls.
The honeymoon would be short–a week in magical Paris in the townhouse of a Beauxbaton girl they’d befriended fourth year. Lavender had more medical textbooks packed into her luggage than anything else. Parvati’s bags were lined with half-finished reports that she’d owl to Auror headquarters from a rumpled Parisian morning, getting croissant crumbs in the bedsheets.
But for now the hall was filled with pink and purple blooms, white candles, familiar faces. Hermione stood in a violet bridesmaid’s dress, and Dean and Seamus in matching ties at Parvati and Lavender’s respective backs. Padma was luminescent with joy over Parvati’s shoulder. She had taken Lavender aside that morning for a short quiet walk in the mist and told her, “I know tonight’s what makes it official, but I’ve thought of you as my sister for years.”
When Lavender leaned forward and kissed her wife, her father burst into proud tears in the front row. He was a crier, always had been. Lavender buried her face in Parvati’s shoulder, smiling so hard she thought she might come apart. Her scars creased and puckered in her dimples, and she was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
At first, Lance had thought they were beautiful. He wasn’t exactly sure when they got there or even how they got there, all he knew was that they were lovely.
The first time he noticed them was when he was changing out of his pajamas and saw a sprinkle of blue gracing his stomach in the mirror. Amazed, he had glanced down and stare at the light blue freckles that dusted his stomach, like a sky full of stars. He remembered how they seemed to glint under the soft lighting in his room like jewels.
He also remembered the pain that came soon afterwards.
As soon as his fingertips touched the marks, they began to glow harshly and that was when the stinging began. It felt as if someone was stabbing him with a million thumbtacks, which was not a fun feeling. Yelping, Lance immediately stopped touching his stomach, dulling the sting of the marks. For a second Lance thought he was still asleep because when did freckles stab you? He was pretty sure that was not normal.
“Paladins! You are needed in the control room, immediately! I repeat, you are needed in the control room immediately!”
Sparing one last look at the blue marks on his skin, Lance quickly pushed away thoughts on the freckles and focused on the task at hand, getting his paladin gear on in two seconds. After all, it was just a little pain right? And it wasn’t like his hand was going to be on his stomach anyway, so what’s the problem?
It only took a week for the freckles to span across his entire abdomen. Which presented a problem as they team didn’t exactly have time to deal with the marks, especially with the big diplomatic mission they were embarking on soon. Not like the marks cared, they just seemed to cause more trouble.
Ever since he first noticed them, there’s always been this dull sting in the back of his mind, just barely noticeable but always there. Not only that, Lance seemed to be… freezing things now? Of course he wasn’t turning anything to solid ice but if his hand lingered to long in a certain area, tendrils of frost would begin to dance across the surface (The first time that happened freaked him out just a tad). The freckles also began to glow more often, mostly at random times. He would just be chilling on the couch and BAM, his chest was now a light up display (yet another thing that freaked him out).
The logical decision would be to tell the team, but how could he? Sure the diplomatic mission was a huge deal, but that wasn’t the only reason Lance wasn’t coming clean about the strange things that were happening. This was his chance to prove his worth to his team, that he was more than just Lance-the-jokester or Lance-the-screwup. That he was worthy of being the Blue Paladin and of Blue herself.
He could live with a little pain and some weird ice magic if it meant he finally had a thing.
It took a matter of days before the freckles spread to his arms, stopping a few inches short of his wrists. They were currently on the planet Eyena, a relatively peaceful planet that were known for their mines and the valuable ores within them. Lance couldn’t mess up this meeting, this alliance with a species that could help the team immensely. He wasn’t that selfish.
It wasn’t like the marks would listen to him though. The pain only worsened and suddenly everything he touched with his hands froze. He was forced to wear gloves constantly to hide the power he now had, the delicate loops of blue that now covered them. The pain was constant and even Blue began to worry at this point. However, Lance put up his brave face and pushed through it all, the pain, the ache, the emptiness…
It felt like only hours before Lance could feel the chill of ice spreading across his body, practically crawling up his throat. There was a ringing in his ears now and he somehow managed to freeze the gloves he wore as well. The only good thing was that the meetings were almost over and soon Lance could be back on the castle, away from prying eyes to finally fix whatever was happening.
Until then, he nodded along with whatever one of the Eyenians were saying, playing his part as the Blue Paladin and knowing he was slowly, finally becoming worthy of actually being the Blue Paladin.
How minutes had flown by? Lance couldn’t recall what had happened in the past few moments, as he was now in his room back at the castle. It had only been a few minutes right? Lance could feel his breath quickening as he glanced wildly around, how did he get here in just a few minutes? The room seemed to grow colder with each sharp intake he took, the bed beginning to freeze beneath him. Had it been more than just a few minutes? The ringing was now a roaring storm in his ears. It couldn’t have been than just a few? Lance could feel his hands shaking, the marks glowing a bright blue as the ice spread farther, faster around the room. It had been just a few minutes. Maybe two or three? Lance felt like tearing his hair out, he felt so confused at the moment, so out of place, out of time.
Was it only seconds now? How many seconds had flown by? He knew his room wasn’t always this cold and shiny, and it certainly hadn’t been a second ago. The marks burned harshly, and was that someone calling his name? It couldn’t have been. Because only a second ago he had been fine, he is fine, is he fine?
This is the Bop. The Bop is a type of social dance. Dance is a language, and social dance is an expression that emerges from a community. A social dance isn’t choreographed by any one person. It can’t be traced to any one moment. Each dance has steps that everyone can agree on, but it’s about the individual and their creative identity Because of that, social dances bubble up, they change, and they spread like wildfire. They are as old as our remembered history.
In African-American social dances, we see over 200 years of how African and African-American traditions influenced our history. The present always contains the past. And the past shapes who we are and who we will be.
Now, social dance is about community and connection; if you knew the steps, it meant you belonged to a group. But what if it becomes a worldwide craze? Enter the Twist.
It’s no surprise that the Twist can be traced back to the 19th century, brought to America from the Congo during slavery. But in the late ‘50s, right before the Civil Rights Movement, the Twist is popularized by Chubby Checker and Dick Clark. Suddenly, everybody’s doing the Twist: white teenagers, kids in Latin America, making its way into songs and movies. Through social dance, the boundaries between groups become blurred.
The story continues in the 1980s and '90s. Along with the emergence of hip-hop, African-American social dance took on even more visibility, borrowing from its long past, shaping culture and being shaped by it. Today, these dances continue to evolve, grow and spread.
Why do we dance? To move, to let loose, to express.
Why do we dance together? To heal, to remember, to say: “We speak a common language. We exist and we are free.”
Chirrut was inside the bulk of the squad in two strides. His staff was suddenly in motion, sweeping behind legs and twisting arms back unnaturally. Jyn felt clumsy and graceless—where she had thrown her whole body into every strike with her truncheons, Chirrut dropped stormtroopers with a delicate whirl, a flick of his wrist.
People will always believe what they want to believe, about you. This is due to the fact that people wish to create their own truths; anything but the truth that’s real. My creed is simple: Let them! Their beliefs don’t alter your truth. Moreover, your attempt at altering them won’t do any good for you.
Over a 22-hour period (May 2-3, 2017), strands of plasma at the sun’s edge shifted and twisted back and forth. In this close-up, the strands are being manipulated by strong magnetic forces associated with active regions on the sun.
To give a sense of scale, the strands hover above the sun more than several times the size of Earth! The images were taken in a wavelength of extreme ultraviolet light.
A/N. JEFF DESERVES BETTER! And because of this, and because I am trash, I rewrote the ending of episode 9 - Clay doesn’t leave, Hannah and Sheri don’t knock over the stop sign, and everyone is safe. I hope you guys like it, and I am more than willing to take requests. Feel free to message me guys. Let’s cry together.
WORD COUNT: 3,420
The music was blasting, the beer was flowing, and Jessica and Justin were on the verge of procreating on the couch. (Y/n) rolled her eyes at the two sophomores and squeezed through the crowd, balancing the two drinks in her hands as she weaved around the drunk teenagers. She finally made it outside, sucking in a breath of the cooling autumn air and sighing. She was pretty sure Monty had brushed up against her ass. Horny asshole.
She looked around the far less populated, but still crowded, front yard, picking out her boyfriend from the way his poofy hair stood out above everyone else. He was talking to Clay, and as she approached she saw him roll his eyes violently, his whole body swaying with the force of it.
Damn Jensen, she thought with a laugh, you’re gonna break my boyfriend of you and Hannah don’t bang soon.
Summary: Midnight strikes, officially marking Bucky’s 100th birthday. You surprise the super-soldier with a small treat and a gift that has potential to change everything.
A/N: ending the last few hours of the day by wishing a happy 100th to our sweet plum, bucky barnes! // i wrote this in 7 minutes (i timed myself, hurrah) so it’s an incoherent mess. i’ll probably delete this sometime next week xx
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Bucky leans against the headboard of his bed, bringing the covers closer to his body before crossing his arms against his chest. He watches as the second hand of the clock make its way around, hypnotically ticking away.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
In a few minutes, he’ll be 100-years-old, and it baffles him that he’s been on this planet for a century. He’s outlived his parents, his contemporaries, and everything he considered to be home. His age isn’t something he’s too keen on, especially since he’s spent over half of those “one hundred years of life” as a brainwashed weapon for a terrorist organization.
Birthdays are still a weird concept, and he prefers to not make a big deal out of them. He’s requested his teammates to treat it like any other day, and he doesn’t want any special attention. Lucky for him, the Avengers members with a flare for surprises and events are on a mission, and hopefully the rest of the team will oblige to his request.
dark rc would you please consider writing about how victor (and the rest of the Russian skate team) had a feud with the Russian hockey team bc of their constant flirting and attentions towards yuuri (who was completely oblivious at the war waging for his heart)??
This has been sitting in my inbox for over a month and I apologize for that, nonny! I wanted to try my hand at breaking through this writer’s block and this prompt was ripe for the taking. It’s not my best work by any stretch, but it’s something at least! I hope you enjoy.
There are few things that give Yuri pleasure—the taste of accomplishment like cinnamon sugar on the back of his tongue after landing a quad; having a comeback so cutting that he practically draws blood; that soft murrf a cat makes when it decides it trusts him; the little green screenshot arrow appearing next to Otabek’s name in Snapchat—but they all pale in comparison to whenever the Russian hockey team visits the rink.
“What did you say Kitty?” she asked, her face still pressed into his back from where they were cuddling in her bed.
“Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said, rolling over and giving her a cheeky smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Are… are you talking about Ladybug?” she asked softly, feeling the knot of guilt that had steadily been building over the last few months of this strange friendship they had fallen into.
He didn’t bring up her alter ego very often. The subject of romance in general always seeming to carry some sort of bizarre taboo whenever he stopped by for his increasingly frequent visits. Not that Marinette had minded. She had Alya to cry to about her lack-luster love life after all, and given how unwaveringly supportive he was about all of her other problems, it seemed silly to hold it against him that he was uncomfortable talking to a girl about crushes and the like.
His eyes flashed guiltily and he rolled back over, staring out into the darkness of the room.
“Really it’s nothing,” he said again, but he couldn’t quite mask the defeated tone that colored his words.
It was a sound she was all too used to. The same defeated cadence that had echoed from her own lips after her disastrous attempt at confessing to Adrien 5 months and 27 days earlier that no amount of Rom-coms or Alya suggested poster-burning had been able to cure.
“Chat, it isn’t nothing,” she said, sitting up and gently trying to pull him back around. He didn’t budge, still keeping his gaze obstinately fixed at something that she couldn’t see. “If it matters to you… it isn’t nothing. Not to me.”
“It’s not appropriate,” he said softly, “and it’s not fair to you.”
“Shouldn’t I get to be the judge of that?”
“It would be selfish-“
“So be selfish!” she said with a slightly forced laugh. “Trust me, you have a long way to go before you catch up to my level of selfish so I am hardly one to judge.” She teased her fingers through his hair, letting her nails scratch delicately against his scalp and felt him relax in spite of himself.
“Yeah right,” he scoffed lightly, “your strange phone kleptomania aside, you’re a pretty stand-up person.”
“Hey, I will have you know I have been working very hard to reform my phone-napping ways,” she teased, hoping to draw out a real smile from him.
“You stole Alya’s phone just last week!”
“That was a special circumstance. I told you so,” she pouted. “Besides, Adrien doesn’t deserve to be taunted like that no matter what Alya might say about it,” she added softly.
She felt Chat stiffen slightly, his cat ear twitching at her words, and she was once again suspicious that he knew all about her romantic trouble regardless of their lack of conversation on the subject. She flushed at the thought.
“You are one of the most selfless people I know,” he said, reaching up to grasp her hand in his own and give it a brief reassuring squeeze.
The guilt Marinette was feeling was almost overpowering as the thought of the secrets she was keeping from him weighed on her like a stone. He had never questioned how they had fallen into such an easy friendship, and she had become too attached to having him as a part of her life- her normal everyday life- to be willing to admit the one-sidedness of it all. Here she was getting mopey over someone she had sworn she was done chasing after in front of a guy whose heart she routinely seemed to trample into the dust. Talk about selfish.
“Please just tell me,” she whispered, her fingers resuming their seductive strokes that she knew full well would reduce him to a compliant puddle in her lap.
He was silent for a few more moments before finally letting out a small defeated sigh.
“I was just thinking about everything and I guess I just…” he hesitated. “She’ll never love me. I know that. I think on some level I always suspected as much.”
His voice wasn’t bitter or angry, and that calm resignation shattered her own heart into a million pieces more than the actual words he was saying.
“I think,” he continued, “I think I will be ok with it. She loves someone else. She doesn’t really say much about it, maybe to preserve our identities or maybe because she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, but every once in a while she lets something slip and it’s not that hard to put the pieces together. I always thought it was so cheesy in the movies when people would say things like I just want her to be happy, but I think I get it now. She’s incredible and I am always going to love her, but she doesn’t need me to make her happy.”
Marinette could feel the tears pooling behind her eyes as the words poured out of him in his soft, even tone. Her fingers were frozen, buried in his lush golden hair, her breaths turning shallow and frantic as the words reverberated through her like an electric current.
She stared down at the boy beside her. Her precious, irreplaceable kitten, who loved her so fiercely and believed in her so much. Who was willing to call her out for her faults and yet somehow still believed her capable of rising above them.
“She’s smart,” Chat continued, his voice seeming to echo in the near silence of the night, “and I know that whoever she does choose is going to be someone who can make her happy. Somebody good and funny and able to keep up with her when she is at her best and keep her grounded when she’s at her worst. So I think I can be ok with that.”
She tried to imagine what her future would be with some potential lover. Her heart lurched slightly at the thought of Adrien, her own love that was apparently not to be. She brushed that thought aside and instead tried to picture a world where she was curled up beside some new face, running her fingers through hair that wasn’t blonde.
She had to choke back a sob.
The slight twinge of pain she had felt at the momentary reminder that she and Adrien would never be more than friends was nothing to the soul rendering terror she felt at the sudden realization that finding a new love would inevitably mean losing Chat.
They would still be friends. Of course, it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be like this. He would never impose like that. Not her Chat. Her partner who was good, and funny, and who had seen her at her best and her worst, who knew her better than anyone, and who still had never made her feel anything less than precious. Her dearest friend who just the momentary thought of a life without him made her feel like she was dying.
Chat let out a small self-deprecating laugh and Marinette wondered how she had ever been so blind.
“So yeah,” he said finally twisting back around to look up at her, “I think I’ll be ok. Even if she doesn’t love me.”
She gazed down at him, his brilliant green eyes glowing in the near darkness of the night, a tired smile on his face that she longed to see transformed into his usual infectious grin, as the truth hit her like a bolt of lightning.
“I do,” she said breathlessly, before leaning down to capture his lips in a long overdue kiss.
Anonymous requested: Hey! Can I request a smutty Wanda x Natasha x Reader threesome? Like maybe they’re having a girls night out at the club and it gets hot, so they head back to the reader’s place? Thank you xx Sure thing sweet cakes! This my first attempt at a smutty threesome, but I am going to try my hardest for you.
Summary: Normally ‘Girls Night’ consisted of staying at yours and eating junk food and watching movies, but this time Natasha wants to do something different. Besides, clubs are always fun, right?
Warnings: This is pure filth. Face-sitting, eating out, fingering, tribbing, ménage à trois, dirty talk, hair-pulling, choking, masturbation, swearing, alcohol consumption, semi-public foreplay.
“Tonight, ladies, we are doing something different!” Natasha exclaimed as she burst into the room, making you and Wanda jump.
“Like what?” You asked, worried about what she had in mind. Her kind of different could be anything from going out to leading an interrogation. She smirked and held up three dresses and make up.
“We are going to a club.” She stated, making both you and Wanda grin. It had been so long since you’d been to a club, and what better way to celebrate the end of one of the toughest missions yet than going out with your best friends.