#-t or things that have to do with directions

[svgarseason]

 𖹭 cw: suggestive, edgy, mdni

part one | two ‹soon›

You can't say you weren't warned about your big brother's friend sukuna, but nothing could have truly prepared you for him.

"Funny looking how?" You ask, arching an eyebrow.

"Just go to your room while he's here," your brother Toji urges. "Don't need you feeding his ego, goddamnit."

"He's funny looking and somehow my presence will feed his ego?" You deadpan, with zero inclination to forfeit your comfy spot on the couch. "Make it make sense, Toji. Or better yet, fuck off so I can finish this cover letter," you gesture at the open laptop sitting on your thighs. "Faster I can get out of this shithole, the better," you grumble.

Although, your brother's place is far from a shithole, in truth. You know better than to ask how he affords it doing nothing but fucking around with the sinister assortment of thugs he calls friends. In turn, he doesn't ask you about the unfortunate circumstances that landed you in one of his spare rooms... again.

Toji groans. "Yeah he gets off on scaring people. Especially girls. Especially hot girls. And, I suspect, especially girls who are related to me."

"Gross," you say, directing you attention back to the screen. "I'm not scared of your asshole friend and I'm not moving."

Toji opens his mouth to protest further, but too late. There is a loud knock on the door followed by it crashing open and thunderous footsteps coming down the hall.

Despite more than a little curiosity regarding your brother's funny looking friend, you manage to keep your eyes on your work.

Toji is grumbling some weak attempt to direct the visitor toward the "stuff" in the garage when a shadow falls over you. Still, you continue typing.

"Who's this?" A deep voice growls. "Not gonna introduce me?"

"Just my little sister. Leave her alone, Sukuna. She's a bitch anyway."

"Fuck you, Toji. And a preemptive fuck you to you, too, whoever you a- hey, ow!" You exclaim as the newcomer slams the laptop closed on your fingers. "What the h-" the exclamation dies on your lips when you finally raise your eyes to see the largest man you have ever seen looming over you.

He is a lot to take in. You silently curse Toji for not warning you properly. "Kind of funny looking" does not even begin to describe the thing standing before you. Four crimson eyes stare back at you, two of which are set in a twisted mass of keloid scar tissue that takes up most of one side of his tattoed face. Eyes aren't the only anatomical feature he has extra of, you notice. Two sets of muscular arms protrude from the cut off sleeves of his t-shirt.

It takes a lot to render you speechless, but the sight of him does the trick. Although, you can't help but think that the smirking bastard somehow makes the odd look work for him. Yeah. 'Circus sideshow level freak but kinda hot' would've been a better descriptor. Although you manage to hold the man's gaze, you're sure your eyes are as wide as saucers. To your horror, you feel heat creeping up your neck as your lip twitches in search of something - anything - to say that might lessen the humiliation you feel. And Toji was right, this jerk is eating it up.

"Toj said you were ugly, but jesus..." you say, when you finally regain your composure.

Sukuna laughs, flashing a set of pointed canines before he abruptly turns to follow your brother towards the garage.

"I like her," he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in your general direction, which, for some reason, makes your heart beat a little too hard.

"No, man." Toji groans. "Just no."

[wonysugar]

g!p sugar mommy giselle🫦🫦🫦

g!p.... sugar mommy...... giselle..... ANON. holds you by the neck dearly thank you for this. also! it’s barely even mentioned at all but just know giselle is like 37ish and reader is in her mid-twenties. :]

cw : age-gap!

giselle as the sugar mommy you randomly met on your day to day minimum wage job at a fast food place MHMMM LET ME COOKKK..... having her be a regular who always comes in like once a week, always wearing something super fancy.. like a black prada trenchcoat or sometimes even a dolce & gabbana blazer. point is, she immediately stuck out like a sore thumb among the rest of the crowd.

plus, you found her undeniably gorgeous as soon as you laid eyes on her, so it's not like she'd go unnoticed otherwise, either.

she often approached you at the register and made small talk, as stupid as it often was. she'd find some stupid excuse not to use the self checkout machine and would find a lame conversation starter while you're watching her pull out a dior purse, proceeding with the payment of her order. that often lead to you asking her questions of your own.

"why do you eat here? you look like you have other.... better places to be eating at."

she'd chuckle at your words, finding them amusing, before answering in a gentle tone, "trust me, i do. my niece doesn't seem to think the same way i do, however, as she seems to really like this place. i appear to be the only one indulging her."

soon enough, you'd warm up to her with each visit of hers and the conversations would get much, much longer. so much so that, often times, your manager would have to step in and remind you to get back to work prompty. it got annoying quickly, as the conversations were just getting good; chatting about studies, travel plans, ambitions and goals, etc.

so, wanting to have these incredibly interesting exchanges in a more comfortable and relaxed setting, aeri asked for your number.

naturally.

who cares that she was like, ten years older than you. it wouldn’t hurt to make a friend… right?

numerous nights of friendly-texting-turned-flirty later, you two quickly agreed on a set date and location, which turned out to be a friday evening spent in the very expensive restaurant right across the block from your workplace. it was a date! she informed you to come in 'appropriate' attire, whatever that meant. how would you know? your closet consisted of hoodies, sweaters and some t-shirts as well as your work uniform. that being said, you showed up to the date wearing a low cute dark blue dress you found laying around in the darkest depths of your drawer for probably more than seven years. saying you were nervous would be nothing but a huge understatement.

she, on the other hand, came wearing a creamy white turtleneck under the black trench-coat she was usually seen wearing when ordering food at your job, the look topped off by wide legged black pants and really expensive looking black leather heels.

what the fuck are you doing.

getting cold feet, you nervously sat down at the table and bowed your head in her direction. intimidated by the light yet impacting amount of makeup she had on her face, you avoided eye contact as much as possible. she was breathtaking.

she told you to choose whatever you’d like on the menu and to not look at the price, as she insisted you not to worry at all about the bill. you, of course, felt guilty so you proceeded to pick the least expensive thing on the menu and attempted to convince her that you genuinely loved the dish, hence why you’d pick it among everything else.

who were you kidding though, you couldn’t even pronounce whatever fuckass french name it was that you picked to the waiter. she smiled at you as you finished ordering, making you turn red in embarrassment.

“you know y/n, i couldn’t bring myself to mention it in a place as unflattering as your workplace, no offence,” she started as you shook off the statement, practically agreeing with her before she continued, “but i must say that i think you are absolutely adorable.”

it gets to a point. and at this point you’re just short-circuiting at her words and intense eye contact, finding it difficult to even act properly in front of her!

she noticed that, of course, especially in times during the conversation where she called you endearing names such as “darling”, “love” and “honey”.

that wasn’t much different in bed, either.

as it turns out, you really did want her to fuck you at the end of the night! honestly, how could you not when she’d been opening every single door for you, insisting on paying for the entirety of the bill at the restaurant and offering to drive you home despite it only being a 10 minute walk?

she’d done nothing but drive you crazy all evening with her sexy and gentle manners, it’s only natural you gave her a sloppy handjob whilst she drove her grey lexus lx back to her own house with the pure intention of fucking the shit out of you.

…and she did! very well, at that!

two of her fingers deep into you, she circled your clit with her thumb and left gentle kisses on your jaw down to your collarbone. slow and steady pumps of the digits, she thrived in hearing your soft whimpers.

that didn’t last long, however. she was getting impatient, and her dick was aching to feel you.

ass up face down, you’re getting pounded relentlessly into the mattress before you know it. getting treated like nothing but a queen all night only to be later fucked like a depraved slut… it had to be the best thing you’d ever felt in a while. of course, you let her know of that with guttural moans that left your body with each thrust of her cock. she didn’t care, her house was big enough to muffle your screams, after all.

she whispered obscenities into your ear whilst you did so, gripping a fistful of your hair and humming at each sound that came out of your mouth. talking about how tight your cunt was for her, about how good it felt, how she couldn’t wait to use it every other day, about how she would kill to take care of a pretty little thing like you.

gripping onto your sides and ramming into you shamelessly as she drove you to your climax, you bit your lip until you felt like it was bleeding. her breathier heavier and each of her moans slightly higher than the previous, you both orgasmed together, a wave of euphoria washing over the two of you immediately.

oh and, you know what she said about ‘taking care of a pretty little thing like you?’ yeah, she meant every word.

soon enough, she’s taking you on dates every other weekend, referring you to a slightly better paying, less agonizing job thanks to the connections she possesses, sending you excessive amounts of money she labels as your ��monthly allowance’ and overall spoiling you with whatever your heart desires. hell. she even payed your university tuition! she finds it endearing to see you always so shy and embarrassed to accept the money she gives you; you always go on about how ‘you don’t give her anything back’ and how it isn’t fair.

but to her, you do give back. your happiness and joy is what aeri does it for, and you give her great amounts of that. not only that, but you also give back by whoring yourself out and looking pretty for her. giving her unwarranted boners by sending her risky pictures and videos while she’s at work, having you wear the lingerie she buys you, knowing you use the toys she got you whenever she’s too busy to take care of you, etc. aeri could name nothing better than having you be the beautiful doll she gets to play with every now and then. :]

[runninriot]

Another Love

written for the @corrodedcoffinfest pop-up event It's Complicated

wc: 1.966 | rated: M | tags: past friends with benefits Eddie/Jeff, newly established Steddie, unrequited love, complicated feelings, mild hurt/comfort, friendship | also on ao3

   “Guys, this is Steve. Steve, these are the guys. My best friends, who will not embarrass me today. Right?”

Eddie laughs, tries not to let his nerves show by making a silly grimace in the direction of Gareth, who lovingly scoffs and rolls his eyes, says ‘You don’t need us for that, you’re pretty good at embarrassing yourself‘, just to be a little shit. And maybe that’s good, because it means they’re not pretending to be something they’re not. There’s no need to mask who they are in front of Steve, Eddie knows that.

He knows that, once they’ve warmed up to each other, they’ll get along just fine. But still, he can’t shake the funny feeling in his gut.

This is a big deal for him, finally introducing his boyfriend to the people who, apart from Wayne, mean most to him in this world. He wants, no, needs them to accept this new person in his life, because there is one thing he’s absolutely certain of – Steve is here to stay.

Gareth and Doug, being the lifesavers they are, immediately start wrapping Steve up in a conversation and it helps ease Eddie’s nerves a bit. But out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the tension in Jeff’s shoulders. Can sense his resentment of the situation even if Jeff is obviously trying his best not to show it.

He stands off to the side, pretending to tune his guitar which he’s definitely not. Eddie knows he’s already done that before even coming to the venue. Out of all of them, Jeff’s always been the closest to a professional.

It’s something Eddie admires, one of those things he loves about him.

Jeff and Eddie go way back, met long before Gareth and Doug entered the picture. They’ve been friends forever, through thick and thin, always together against the rest of the world.

He’d never admit it out loud but Jeff’s opinion matters most. And that’s not only because he’s his best best friend. It’s also because he doesn’t know what he’d do if Jeff didn’t give him his blessing. There’s so much at stake here, so much to possibly end in ruins. This is so much more complicated than just wanting his friend's approval - there's more to consider. More to fight for. So that's what Eddie is willing to do.

   “Hey, man,” Eddie claps Jeff on the back trying to act casual, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach. “Can we talk?”

   “If it’s about your boyfriend, then no.”

Jeff takes a big swig from his beer, the look in his eyes unusually cold and distant.

   “Come on, man. I thought we agreed that-”

   “Well, I’ve changed my mind. Look, Eddie. I’m happy for you, I really am. But you cannot expect me to put on a brave face and pretend that this doesn’t fuck me up.”

His words slice through Eddie like a knife, sharp and quick, no mercy on his heart.

Eddie probably deserves it for thinking he could ignore the giant ass elephant in the room and simply wait it out. Wait for the problem to solve itself, for everything to go back to normal, back to easy. Because truth is, there is nothing easy about this.

Eddie knew from the start that this would be complicated, no matter how much he wished it wasn’t. He knew and yet, stupid as he is, he still hoped they could just... move on. Not forget but maybe lock up the memories of a different time and go back to how things were before. When they were just friends, no feelings involved. At least not those kind of feelings.

   “I’m sorry, Jeff,” he says, head tilted down to avoid his friend’s piercing gaze, “I know it’s-“

It’s what? Hard? Unfair? Well, yeah, obviously. At least from Jeff’s point of view. But what is Eddie supposed to do? He didn’t choose to fall in love with someone else, it just happened. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have feelings for Jeff, only they’re different now. Not that he ever-

It’s a cruel thought, even though it’s true. They both know it because Eddie never pretended to be in love when he wasn’t. Was he attracted to Jeff? Oh, absolutely. Otherwise they wouldn’t have ended up in bed together. More than once. And it wasn't just the prospect of easy sex that had Eddie coming back for more - it was the thought of falling asleep in Jeff's arms. To be held by someone who makes you feel safe and cared for. He loved the kisses and giggles and how okay it was to be vulnerable and open because there's nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide because Jeff already knows everything about him.

The problem is, while it had all started out as casual fun between mates, something changed over time. Something Eddie noticed too late or he would’ve ended it sooner. Jeff never told him about his feelings, so that’s on him, but it is just as much Eddie’s fault because- he should’ve known anyway. Should’ve noticed the shift. But he hadn’t. Or maybe he simply refused to acknowledge it. Selfishly ignored it until he couldn’t anymore.

When he met Steve, he instantly knew he needed to put his cards on the table and come clean about what this would mean for him and Jeff. Told him about this guy he likes – ‘Don’t know if it’s mutual but I’d like to give it a shot, see where it’s going. Maybe it’s nothing but maybe- I think he could be the one.’

And at first, Jeff seemed to be fine with that. Said he understood that they couldn’t hook up anymore. Said he’d miss the fucking but ‘Eh, whatever.’

Only it wasn’t whatever.

But Eddie was so lost in his own head, so caught up on Steve, Steve, Steve that he didn’t see what it was doing to Jeff. Didn’t notice him pulling away more and more until Gareth mentioned it. Asked if something had happened between the two because they were acting weird.

So, when he finally confronted Jeff, things seemed... okay. Better. At least that’s what he thought when Jeff told him he’d get over it, that he just needed some time to adjust. Promised Eddie that nothing had changed when it came to their friendship but right now, Eddie isn’t so sure about that anymore.

And it kills him.

Makes him lie awake at night because he can’t stop thinking about all the worst possible outcomes. What if this breaks up the band? What if Eddie loses his best friend?

   “I don’t want to lose you, Jeff.”

    You’re up in five, someone calls from the side of the stage and Eddie knows this is the worst possible timing for a heart-to-heart. They should be getting ready, he should be talking to his boyfriend who he abandoned and left with people he doesn’t really know, in a place he’s never been to before. But he can’t step away, can’t leave it like that, not when Jeff still hasn’t said anything.

   “I need you. You’re my best friend and I- I love you.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, to use this word, this feeling that is the cause for this mess and the reason for Jeff’s pain. But it’s the right word nonetheless, because it’s the truth. Eddie loves him. Maybe not like he loves Steve but different from the way he loves Gareth and Doug. This love goes deeper than friendship, soul-deep.

   “I love you. You’re important to me and I know- I know you're hurt and I am sorry but I can’t change that my heart belongs to Steve.”

Eddie can’t stop, knows he should because right now, he’s only talking himself deeper into the hole he dug for himself. But he refuses to lie, refuses to try to appease Jeff with false hope – he needs to know where they stand. And if that means Jeff will tell him to fuck off, if that will be the end of their friendship, then-

   “I hate you.”

Eddie’s heart stops at Jeff's words, eyes filling with tears as he braces himself for the biggest regret he'll ever have in his life.

   “I hate you so much for even thinking you could ever lose me!”

They’ve got eyes on them now, Eddie can feel it, but he doesn’t care. Can’t, not when Jeff moves closer, taking one of Eddie’s hands to place it on his chest, right above his heart.

   “It hurts. It fucking hurts. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to say, just sniffs and blinks away the tears blurring his vision.

   “It’ll take some time for me to... get over this. But you and me, we’re bound for life, man. So don’t you ever think you’re getting rid of me. You hear me, asshole?”

Jeff smiles at him and even though there’s still sadness in his eyes, Eddie can feel that he means it.

   “Uh... sorry to interrupt but, um, they said you’re up next so I-“

When Eddie turns to the voice coming from behind, he finds Steve standing there, hands in his pocket, nervously looking to the side.

   “I’ll be down there somewhere. Have- have fun.”

Steve’s about to turn around, ready to step away but Eddie can't let him go like that, so he stops him.

   “Baby, wait!”

He looks back at Jeff, hoping, praying to find what he’s searching for in the other man’s eyes.

   “Go on, your boyfriend looks like he’s waiting for a kiss. Would be rude to leave him hanging.”

   “Are you gonna be mad at me if I do?” Eddie’s not asking for permission to kiss his boyfriend, not really. But he’s willing to tone it down around Jeff if that’s what it takes.

Jeff scoffs, lets go of Eddie’s hand and takes a step back.

   “So mad. But I’ll get to have you all to myself for the next 40 minutes so I guess it’s fine,” he jokes and it feels like a peace offering. Like maybe it’s the first step to better, before hopefully they can go back to how things were when everything was good, not complicated.

   “I love you,” Eddie says again just because.

   “Love you too, man. Now go take care of your man and then let’s get this fucking show started.”

Eddie nods, taking another moment to look at his best friend before walking over to Steve.

   “Everything good with you and Jeff?” Steve asks quietly as Eddie wraps his arms around his middle to pull him close.

   “I think it will be, yeah.”

Eddie's glad he never made a secret out of his past with Jeff, couldn’t bear withholding something so crucial from Steve. He needed him to know that no matter what, Jeff will always play an important role in his life. That if Steve wanted to be with him, he’d have to accept that there will always be a place in his heart that’s occupied by someone else.

Steve throws a look over Eddie’s shoulder and smiles to himself before leaning in to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

   “Is that all?” Eddie asks when his boyfriend pulls away, leaving him longing for more.

   “For now,” Steve confirms with a wink, “Your friends are waiting.”

With that, he wanders off into the crowd and Eddie, for the first time in weeks, feels a weight lift off his shoulders and heart.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated.

Maybe it just needs time and trust and mutual understanding.

He’s willing to try, willing to do everything to make this work

Because what he’s definitely not willing to do, is to give up one love for another.

[piracytheorist]

In Life, And in Death (1/11)

Fandom: Spy x Family Word count: 4.1k for this chapter | 32.4k in total Rating: T Warnings: Temporary character death, graphic violence, horror imagery, body horror, mild gore, whump, language Cover art by @buf309

Summary: Anya is kidnapped, and Twilight is thrown into the horrors of a mysterious, deadly village. Forced and then choosing to survive its trials - physical and mental - he's brought to figure out who he truly is. (A Resident Evil Village fusion)

AO3

~

Author's Note: Probably my most insane fanfic project yet. After I successfully probed SOMEONE, aka @spencer-is-someone, into watching a Resident Evil Village gameplay, they fell in love with Ethan Winters but felt he went through too much in the game, prompting the idea "What if Loid went through all that stuff instead". And well, 32 thousand words later, here I am, inflicting this literal horror upon y'all.

I made a post about it, and the absolutely wonderful @buf309 went and made this amazing cover art, and I literally couldn't be more thankful for that. I was so amazed when I saw the first draft sketch that I went like I'M GONNA WAIT TILL IT'S READY TO POST THE FIC. Seriously, words cannot describe how grateful I am, I sincerely hope the fic feels satisfying enough for the work you've done <3

If you know how the Resident Evil Village story goes, this is pretty much the same... yes, in all of its "parts-in-jars" glory (if you know you know, if you don't you will soon), just with Twilight taking the place of Ethan Winters. There will be a few changes from the original story to fit Twilight's character, some to facilitate the adaptation from game narrative to fanfic narrative, some to fit my own tastes, and an actually hopeful ending because we were all left heartbroken after the ending of RE Village so might as well pour some healing juice to put our hearts back together same way Ethan puts his limbs back together and hope for the best.

Do take note of the warnings, please. There is one part of the story I actually had chills while writing (yes, that part for those of you who know, it will be slightly changed but the essence will be the same) and it is based on the story of a horror/survival game, so make sure you're okay to read something as intense as this.

The story is written in full, though I'm still doing small bits of editing here and there. I don't have a posting schedule, but I'm thinking of updating twice a week, or once if I see the editing is taking longer. Chapter titles are taken from track titles of the game's original soundtrack.

So yeah, long intro over, take not of the warnings, I hope you enjoy if you read on!

~

Chapter 1: Bloodthirsty

~

“Anya, don’t sit so close to the TV,” Loid said, not looking up from the counter.

Unsurprisingly, there was no response. He wouldn’t doubt that she hadn’t even heard him, let alone acknowledged his request.

He picked up a handful of minced meat to mould into a burger steak, deciding to give her another reminder in two minutes from now. Yor had just left to walk Bond, so it was only his direction she had to follow – and she was starting to make clear whose directions she preferred to follow nowadays.

He placed the burger on the pan as his body tensed. A split second later, the door burst open.

He jumped through the opening between the kitchen and the living room, but even that seemed a pointless blessing as thick smoke quickly covered the apartment.

He rushed through it to grab Anya, who trembled against him, but he didn’t have the time to move away from the shots.

Two silenced shots, piercing through his clothes and reaching into the skin of his back.

No blood. But they were pinching his skin, and he immediately felt groggy…

He dropped to his side, unable to move as figures approached him. One of them took Anya.

“PAPA!” she screamed at him.

He feebly raised his hand. “Wait,” was the only thing he could say, before his hand dropped.

More figures approached him, and then his vision went dark.

~

Focus, Twilight.

Don’t open your eyes yet. Don’t alert the enemy yet.

He held his breath for a moment.

He was somewhere cold, outside.

He could feel something soft but freezing underneath him. Snow?

His hair didn’t feel wet, so he mustn’t have been lying there long.

It was quiet. He could only hear distant sounds of wind and crows flying somewhere close.

He couldn’t feel anyone’s presence, so he decided to open one single eye to check.

But then both his eyes shot wide open.

In front of him stood a magnificent gothic mansion. It could be a mansion, or it could be a damn castle. It was surrounded by a thick wall, like a fortress.

He sat up. He was indeed lying on the snow, but it was the least of his concerns right now.

He had apparently been placed on the castle’s garden. Right in the middle of the winter, it was only decorated by a few naked trees as well as three scarecrows.

Those didn’t seem to do their job well enough, he thought, as crows still flew around, some even sitting on them.

He got up, checking himself for injuries. He couldn’t feel any pain or any indication of pierced skin. How had they drugged him?

It was then he realized he was now wearing his jacket.

Had they dressed him for the cold? While taking off his apron and the gloves he wore while preparing food?

What the hell?

Where even was this place?

Why was he brought here?

Where was Anya?

His attention was drawn back to the apparently useless scarecrows, and a chill ran down his spine – unrelated to the cold – when he noticed something eerie about them.

Carefully, he took a few steps towards them.

His breath caught in his throat when he was close enough to notice.

Those weren’t plain scarecrows.

Those were actual, human bodies hanging on wooden crosses.

His breath finally came out shaky, forming a cloud.

What the hell was this place?

Unable to quell his curiosity, he stepped closer, trying to notice for any details on the bodies, in case he recognized them.

All three seemed to be men, of ages between thirty and fifty, and they couldn’t have been dead for longer than a week or so. The cold might have preserved their bodies, but exposure to the outside would do as much more damage.

He couldn’t recognize any of their faces – or what was left of them.

Well, he didn’t even know where he was, how far away from Berlint or even in Ostania for that matter.

He clenched his hands into fists and turned around, looking around the walls surrounding the castle.

There was a huge metal door blocking the path outside. No climbing the wall; it was too smooth and covered in even more slippery ice. Climbing the trees wouldn’t give him enough height to swing himself out.

Which meant, his only way of getting answers was through the castle.

He must have been placed there for a reason, after all, and if they’d wanted to kill him they would have already done so.

He reached the entrance, and the door swung open easily.

The entrance hall was as luxuriously decorated as the outside hinted at. A lush burgundy carpet went up the few steps, leading to a wall where a painting of three young women hung.

The door closed behind him, and he didn’t miss the definitive clang as metal bars started descending right in front of it.

He turned, and for a few seconds he weighed his options.

He could break the door quickly enough before the bars descended too low, and slip outside.

But then again, they obviously wanted him in there, and again, it didn’t seem that killing him was their priority.

He faced forward, ignoring the sound of the bars trapping him in there.

He might as well play their game.

He walked to the painting. Underneath it was an inscription that wrote “Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra.”

Which one was which?

The women on the painting didn’t seem too different from each other. The painting itself didn’t seem all too enlightening, either; it looked like any common Romantic-style oil painting.

Well, it wasn’t going to give him any answers, would it?

He turned around, walking down a corridor and out into another, larger hall. He noticed how warm the whole building was, despite the freezing weather outside and the apparently old construction of the place.

This hall had hanging, lit candles all over the walls, though they couldn’t be the source of the heating. The lighting was low, but lucky for him, he’d been trained enough in low lighting for that not to be an issue.

He jerked back at the sound of a swarm of flies coming his way, then he sensed someone’s presence.

Flies, he could handle.

But then the flies started gathering together, and within seconds they morphed into three women, dressed in black hooded cloaks.

“Wha—?” he whispered.

“Looking for Anya?” a voice said, and he assumed it’d come from one of the women. Who had just formed from flies.

The absurdity of his situation almost made him forget that she had just mentioned Anya.

Which meant they probably knew where she was.

However, he was too shocked by the sight that he couldn’t move when one of the women, all of whom were cackling, approached him and pushed him backwards.

She swung the scythe she held in her hand, and he pulled his legs away just before she could bury it in his calf.

“Oh, he’s feisty!” the woman said with a wide smile.

Her arm then almost zapped through the air, and his left leg was exploding in pain before he could even register the movement.

He yelped in pain as she leaned closer to him and took a long sniff.

Her mouth and jaw were covered in blood, though her blond hair looked pristine clean.

“Mmm, man-blood,” she said.

She then leaned back and started dragging him, by the scythe embedded in his leg, as he still lay helplessly on the ground.

She was too fast. He flailed around, trying to grab at anything they passed by to make her stop, even though that would mean the scythe would rip his entire leg open, but then another woman reached his other side and buried her scythe in his right leg.

He threw his head back, biting down another yell of pain.

Could he just have one moment?!

The women dragged him down another corridor and into what he quickly realized was a bedroom. They removed their scythes, and he quickly reached to assess the damage, when he heard the blond woman say “Mother, I bring you fresh prey,” as she pointed at him with her hand.

“You are so kind to me, daughters,” came a voice of a woman who sounded older than them.

Older, and bigger.

She was sitting on a massive chair, holding an equally massive glass of red wine. She took a sip from it, then stood up and turned to him, saying, “Now, lets take a look at him.”

He raised his head to look at her.

And then raised it higher.

She had the build of a muscular woman, with curves proportionate to her height, which must have been about three meters tall. She wore a black wide-brimmed hat over her chin-length black hair, and a long white dress that reached down to her feet, though she moved comfortably in it.

“Well, well. Loid Forger,” she said. “Came looking for your daughter, I presume?”

He sat there, frozen.

They knew who he was – or at least pretended to be? And they knew Anya was also taken?

She walked closer to him, smiling as she put her hands on her hips. “For you to think you can waltz right in here—let’s see how special you are,” she nearly purred.

She threw her hands up in a sign for something, and two of the younger women said “Yes, mother,” as they grabbed his arms and pulled him up.

His first thought was that he was standing up surprisingly well for just having had two scythes ran through his legs.

His second thought was terror as one woman grabbed his hand, and the other produced a very sharp-looking knife.

Before he could jerk back, she sliced his palm open.

He bit back a grunt; it wasn’t a deep cut, but it would be annoying…

His last thought trailed off as the tall woman reached down, grabbed his hand, brought it to her lips… and started sucking.

Now he really was frozen in terror.

What the hell was this nightmare?

The woman pulled her head back, licking at her lips with a blood-soaked tongue.

She threw his hand away. “Hmm,” she said. “Still fresh, but only barely.”

He wrapped his hand into a fist, keeping it close to his chest.

��Then let’s devour his man-flesh quickly, mother!” one of the women said, handing a handkerchief to her.

“But I’m the one who captured him!” the blond woman protested.

“Now, now, daughters,” the tall woman said, patting at her lips with the handkerchief. “First, I must inform Mother Miranda. But later, well, there will be enough for everyone.” She threw the handkerchief aside, smiling down at him. “Put him up!”

The young women surrounded him, and though he struggled, they were too strong for him as they put heavy manacles on his wrists.

A thick build, but he could break out of them with little effort.

But then, they secured a chain to them, and the chain started going up. He was lifted off his feet, and started grunting as the full force of his weight fell on his wrists.

Don’t say anything. Don’t let them take a hold of any weaknesses.

He clenched his jaw, keeping his voice from making any sounds as they headed out of the room. The tall woman had to bend to get through that door, and one of the young women – the second one who had stabbed his leg – bent down and picked up the discarded handkerchief, smelling the blood on it and laughing, as she followed them.

Breathing hard, he looked up at the manacles.

The pain was intense but manageable, though he already felt the tingling of numbness in his fingers. By his calculations, he had about fifteen or so minutes before cut blood circulation would start causing permanent damage.

Escape, first. Then you can freak out.

He grabbed the chain and dragged his body up. Though his legs were still bleeding, he brought them up so he could hold the chain between his feet.

He was gasping by the time he managed that, but at least he had less pain on his hands and a better view of the manacles.

They were old and rusty, but seemed to have a fairly standard locking mechanism. Bringing his body closer, he fished the lockpick out from a hidden pocket of his jacket.

Biting his lip, he worked through the lock of the right manacle. Just as it opened, his feet slipped from the chain and dropped down, causing all of his weight to drop onto his injured left hand.

The pain knocked the air out of his lungs.

Think! Think! Pull yourself together!

Taking in a laboured breath, he looked back up.

The lockpick had slipped from his hand and was now too far down for him to get it. His right hand was free, but he didn’t have any other options left.

Reaching up, he wrapped his free hand around his left thumb, and with a sharp pull, he dislocated it.

As his other hand was coated in blood from the cut, his wrist slipped through the manacle as soon as his thumb wasn’t in the way.

He dropped to the ground clumsily, not managing to balance his landing.

Wheezing, he looked at his left hand.

Bleeding, and a dislocated thumb.

He gave himself ten seconds.

Ten seconds to wonder where the hell he had gotten himself into, what that tall woman even was, standing at three meters tall and drinking blood, and what her “daughters” were, emerging from flies and also participating in… blood drinking? Cannibalism?

Ten seconds, and he was back to himself.

Focus, Twilight.

He looked at his legs – they were still bleeding, but he felt confident he could stand on them. Though those scythes looked sharp, they must have split a tendon or two apart.

At the corner of the room stood a vanity table, and on top of it, along with various cosmetics, lay a small green bottle with a cross on the label.

He stood up carefully, glad that his legs weren’t trembling. He picked up the bottle, carefully reading the label.

Medical alcohol.

Not one to trust this place that much, he opened the lid, and sure enough, it smelled like ethyl alcohol.

He sat down with a grunt, pulling his right trouser up. He didn’t have any clean gauze, so his only option was to pour liquid right over the wound.

He braced himself for the sting of pain, but instead, the liquid brought a cool, numbing sensation.

And then, right in front of his eyes, his wound closed then disappeared completely.

He stared at it.

Ten more seconds.

What the hell.

He looked at the bottle again. Medical alcohol, it said. It smelled like it too.

He looked back at his leg, raising his other trouser where the other wound still stood.

What the hell?!

Uncertain, he poured a little less liquid over that wound.

The wound immediately stopped bleeding as new skin seemed to form, though it didn’t heal completely.

He let out a breath. If he were honest with himself, this wasn’t really the weirdest thing to happen in the last few minutes, was it?

He turned to his mangled hand. Just how much could that liquid heal?

He poured an equal dosage to it, and was still surprised to see his thumb painlessly slide into its place, as well as the cut close completely.

Well, at least it could be useful.

He didn’t have time to worry over the supernatural. He had to get out of there, and find out where Anya was.

He took the path of unlocked doors, as he didn’t want to waste time and noise trying to break the lock of every locked door he found. Breaking the windows wouldn’t lead him anywhere – each one was sealed shut, and though he wasn’t averse to turning into a hooligan for the sake of escaping, the entire castle seemed to be surrounded by that wall.

He needed to get to a higher floor, but the safest and most silent path led him to the basement, where he found himself walking along piles and piles of dead bodies.

He had to hold his breath as he passed them by; apparently the occupants of the castle had the habit of feasting on the blood of humans, and did it so often that the amount of bodies was too big to act as decoration for their garden.

It was all men, however. As young as twenty-three, from what he could gather with a quick look.

The fly-women seemed to be confident enough in their hunting that they didn’t take away the handgun from one of the more fresh bodies. Twilight couldn’t tell if that was a police officer, a soldier, or a man aware of what he’d been dealing with, but it didn’t matter to him. He undid the holster, as gently as he could out of respect of the deceased man, and he put it on under his jacket.

He checked the magazine. Ten bullets out of sixteen.

He looked at the man. Had he shot those first six bullets right before he was killed?

The man had a shoulder bag on him, and inside was a box of bullets, a total of forty. He slid that too over his own shoulder.

He kept the safety on the gun on, but held it in his hand. He picked up a hunting knife from one of the other bodies and walked on.

As the bodies thinned out, he found a lone skeletal figure draped in a plain canvas cloak. The limbs stood out, bare, emaciated, and rotting. While other bodies were in a similar state of decomposition, they were fully clothed, at most with a few rips in their clothes. This one was the only one so bare.

And it was holding a scythe in its hand, old and rusty in comparison to the women’s scythes, but still sharp enough to do harm.

He approached it carefully, keeping both hands on the gun.

He thanked his training for that, as the figure moved when he passed right by it.

He yelped in shock, moving away from it and raising his gun at it.

“Stop!” he said. “Don’t move!”

The creature, whatever that was, didn’t seem like it listened let alone register his words. It stood up, hunched over, then lunged at him with the scythe.

Not finding any alternatives, he shot right at its head.

The creature jerked back as a screech left its mouth.

Twilight held his breath.

His blood froze when he saw it still stand on its legs and try to swing at him again.

He shot again. He was perfectly certain the bullet got through its head.

Yet the creature moved again.

And he shot again.

Only now did the creature finally drop to its knees, but it was still screeching and growling.

Desperate, Twilight took the knife and drove it through the creature’s skull, three times, until he felt it stop moving.

It collapsed on the floor.

Hell knew if it would rise again. It was supposed to be dead already, wasn’t it?

He turned around and ran.

There were more creatures on the way. Some he slashed at with the knife, some he shot at, some he simply ran away from. A few managed to nick him with their scythes, and if he were honest, he was more worried about infections than the injuries themselves.

As he found a quiet corner, he pulled out the alcohol – or whatever that was. It seemed to work on the nicks too, making them close quickly and painlessly.

He supported himself on the wall, forcing his breath to calm down.

He had to get out. Now.

Holding the gun tight to his hand, he moved to leave, but then a buzzing and a voice sounded from behind him.

“Hmm. Warm, bright, red blood.”

He didn’t turn to look at her. He knew it was the blond woman.

He made a run for it as flies swarmed around him, until he found a staircase going up, reaching into what looked like a kitchen area.

“Where are you going, little one?”

The woman appeared right in front of him, cutting off his path. She was smiling at him, surrounded by flies, her face still stained with blood.

“I just want to find Anya,” he managed.

“Aw,” she said. She then pushed him back and he fell on the ground. She lay over him, reaching at his neck and biting.

Yelling, he took the gun and fired twice at her stomach.

She reached up, laughing as fresh blood ran from her lips.

He shot at her head.

“Your bullets cannot harm m—”

Her voice cut off when another of his shots passed through her and hit the window behind her.

The glass cracked, and it quickly shattered as a cold gust of wind blew into the room.

The gust threw the woman’s hood off her head. Twilight tightened his hold on the gun when he spotted a massive, fleshy scar on her temple, a bald spot from her long hair.

The woman shrieked, then growled. Her skin, already pale as it was, seemed to start cracking and turn grey. She looked at her hands, still gasping in pain, and then turned to him, yelling, “You stupid man-thing!”

His mind finally picked up the pace. The cold made her weak?

He stood up, raising his gun at her.

“How dare you bare your teeth at us!” she shouted, then lunged at him with her scythe.

He managed to block her attack, pushing her back, and he shot at her face.

She groaned, still standing, but she said, “What? My body—it’s breaking…”

He kept his gun up. “Just let me go,” he said.

A wild rumble came from her mouth as she turned to attack him again. She reached him, and he could only block her at the last moment, his arms taking the full blow of her scythe. “Give up!” she said, reaching back for another swing of her weapon.

He shot twice at her head, and she yelled again.

The flies seemed to drop in numbers, and her skin cracked more and more. He barely managed to avoid two more of her attacks, and then she fell on him, ready to bite his head off, he supposed in the split second it took him to kick her off of him.

He shot two more times.

“This can’t be,” she said, weakly now, her body swaying.

“Let me go!” he repeated, taking two steps back.

She screamed and reached back with her scythe, and he shot again.

And then a sizzling sound came from her body, as she started swinging wildly, not reaching anything. She groaned and groaned, and her body transformed.

It seemed to calcify into gravel, as she slowly stopped moving, her hand still up in a pose of attack.

And then it broke down.

Whatever it was, it cracked into small pieces, and what started as the form of a woman was now a pile of something on the ground.

Breathing hard, he leaned his back on the wall behind him and slid down to the floor.

His hands were trembling, his feet felt like water.

What the hell was all that?

Were was he?

Why was he brought here?

And where was Anya?

What were those creatures…?

He closed his eyes. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds to freak out.

He just had to get out. Find Anya and…

He opened his eyes, his throat tensing.

Did he really have to find her?

As far as he was concerned, right now she was a liability to him. He had to prioritize his safety first.

It wasn’t like there were piles of bodies of dead girls around, was it?

Letting out a deep sigh, he stood back up. The woman had managed to hurt him a little, but the healing liquid was in short supply and he could handle those injuries up to a point.

The woman. Who was now a pile of ash.

Calm down, Twilight. Get yourself in order and find a way out.

The castle proved massive, and he couldn’t find any viable exit paths even as he seemed to reach what looked like hallways reaching into bedrooms.

Then, a mournful scream sounded from a floor below.

“What have you done to my daughter?!”

His blood chilled. If the “daughter” had been that vicious, he didn’t want to face whatever her mother had in store for him.

[lmaowhatt]

𝐣𝐣 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐲.

— this entire blurb is inspired by @rafescokewhore's tit obsessed rafe and is not meant to copy their work in the slightest!

—sfw! (?)

jj maybank, as we all know him, is a guy who thrives off of words of affirmation. that being said, the thought of sweet nothings whispered into each other's ears, soft "i love you's" shared throughout the day when no one else is around, and small expressions of adoration that serve to remind him of how deeply you care is one of the things hes most grateful for in your relationship.

but something he perfers above this? physical touch. while the thought of holding each others hands while at a party at the boneyard, or the times when youd wrap his arm around your shoulders as you took a stroll on the beach after a date was a good memory to have, that was all recognized as a form of affection infront of others. and while he loved showing you off like a trophy, the thing that really got him going was your ass. plain and simple.

on the worst of worse days, your ass you being there was the cure.

and there was no way hed share that with anyone else.

he would, however, show off what others couldnt have.

➯ every hug, no matter where the two of you were, his hands would always find their way around your waist, where they eventually travel to your ass, sometimes to be left placed there, other times theyd give it a soft squeeze.

almost always, youd groan as you pulled away, "stop doing that, jj." he would only smirk, catching the way your cheeks would flush a soft pink color when he patted your ass in retaliation as you walked away.

➯ when the two of you found yourselves cuddling either really late at night or early in the morning, he would always prefer to be the big spoon. most of the time, a hand would be placed over your stomach, the other draped over your thighs, pulling you flush against him, trying to hold back a lazy smirk at the way your breath would hitch when you felt his hard on against the swell of our ass.

➯ of course, his absolute favortie. clothes on you would be his t-shirts with or without, he wasnt picky your panties on under. a close secon would be any other piece of his clothing, even his boxers. when this happened, he complained the slightest. no matter how apart the two of you were, a selfie of your daily fit check would have practically having at his knees, realization dawning on his that you were his and his only.

➯ as a man who thrives off physical touch, a simple gesture jj loves performing is wrapping an arm around your waist and placing his hand in your pants pocket. or shorts, depending on the day. while above the surface it way seem like a loving gesture a boyfriend would do on his girlfriend on a random day, to jj, it served to send a warning to any thirsty guys that are defnitely might be looking in your direction.

—soft of sfw!

➯ in times when the two of you finally got some well deserved alone time, youd find yourselves in jjs designated bedroom at john bs house. youd be chest to chest, your head resting against his shoulder, fingers tracing small shapes on his clothed chest. all the while hed have a tight grip on your ass, slowly rutting your hips against his, the arousal that coated your bottoms slowly stainign his sweats.

➯ hed wrap an arm around your waist, toying with the waistband of whatever bottoms youd be wearing, tucking the other one on the underside of your thigh. "you need to stop movin', a'ight?" hed take a gentle hold of your hand, your eyes following his every movement, eliciting a small laugh to come from you. "seriously?" you would raise an eyebrow at him as he cupped himself with your hand, just barely pressing down as if to relieve himself.

➯ hed furrow his eyebrows with a pleading look, struggling to hold back. "please baby... ill make you feel s'good mamas, swear." the whisper would come out as a gentle promise, his breath fanning your neck. nine times out of ten, this situation would end up with both of you either rushing off to the chateau, almost tearing each others clothes off or resting against the seats of the twinkie. hell, sometimes youd risk everything by slyly (not slyly) finding each other in a more private area of the beach. heavy, ragged breaths would leave your mouths as you came down from your highs.

➯ sometimes, when in a less that appropriate outfit around him, hed hug you from behind, rubbing his growing erection against your ass. "baby, youre killing me." you would then roll your eyes, supressing a giggle from his earshot. as you turned in his arms, his hands would travel to your ass, pulling you impossibly closer towards him. "cmon mamas, five minutes. s'all i need."

—nsfw!

➯ the tight grip hed have on your ass never faltered, whimpering shamelessly against your lips as you rutted your hips against his, even when fully clothed. he would move to place sloppy, rushed kisses against your neck, eventually moving to your collarbone and back up to your lips. "this is torture, beautiful.."

➯ your mascara stained face would rub against the mattress, makeup residue staining the sheets. youd turn your head to the side, a tear sliding down your cheek as you watched him from your peripheral, right in time for him to land yet another harsh smack against your already red and very swollen ass, his thrusts timed perfectly with the action. kneading the plush flesh and he muttered a half assed apology he probably didnt mean.

"h– holy shit baby.." hed hunch over, pressing his chest against your back, a sheen layer of sweat coating both of your bodies. "all mine, right? this ass is all mine baby. cmon say it.. yknow it is.." he would wrap his forearm around your neck, pulling you back up so the him, your back flush against his chest as you threw your head back onto his shoulder, a hand wrapped around the back of his neck as your release neared.

a/n: im back!! school was taking over my entire life but i finally caught with all my work so here's this!

psa: as of now, if say i own this only because i haven't seen this concept before. but, if it is owned by a nobody else, i wont hesitate in giving credit just let me know!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

But at night I'd have these wonderful dreams (Dean x female reader)

Dean tells you about his retirement plan: "a beach somewhere, toes in the sand. Couple of little umbrella drinks, Hawaiian shirts, obviously."

Find it on AO3

Rated T. 948 words. Dean x female reader. Fluff. Dean being a dork. Retirement. Beach holidays. Bikinis. Cuddling. Flirting. Cheeseburgers (it'll make sense, promise).

Dean Winchester puts his arm around you as you’re lying in bed, and he tells you about his retirement plan.

“So we’re on the beach, right, and you’re wearing a bikini.”

So far, you like this plan.

“It’s a tiny bikini,” Dean clarifies, like you weren’t imagining that already.

“I mean I’m talking skimpy. Like there’s barely any fabric on that thing. Lots of strappy stuff but the fabric, I mean, you couldn’t dress a rat in the amount of fabric this thing has.”

“What a sexy image,” you chuckle.

Dean isn’t deterred.

“And it’s see-through, or lacy or whatever, so it’s really, like, even the fabric that is there isn’t doing much--“

You poke him in the ribs and he twitches.

“I think I got the idea,” you say. “Tell me about the drinks.”

“Oooh, the drinks,” he says and thinks for a second. “They come in those weird looking belly-glasses. No, no, they come in coconuts. Umbrellas, like I said, and a stripey straw.”

You make a face. “I don’t really like coconut.”

He turns his head, frowns. “You don’t?”

“No,” you say. “The taste is fine but something about the texture…”

He thinks again, summoning all of his exotic beach holiday knowledge. “Pineapple then?”

You pretend to think about it but the truth is you would drink ocean water for even five seconds of what Dean is describing.

“I guess pineapple’s fine. But, you know, about that bikini-“  

Dean grins, glad the conversation is going back in that direction.

“Skimpy,” he repeats.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say and roll your eyes. “You know I’m gonna have sand everywhere, right?”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, and his tone sounds flirty. He nudges you with his nose.

“Not sexy, Dean,” you reply. “Have you ever worn a thong at the beach?”

He pulls you a little closer, does the nose thing again.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” he whispers, and it shouldn’t do the things it does to you.

You clear your throat, continuing your act that none of this is affecting you at all.

“And you, Sam and Cas are wearing Hawaiian shirts?” you clarify.

He goes mmh-hmm.

“Color-coded, of course,” you clarify further.

Dean pouts in thought, and it takes everything in you to not grab his face and turn it toward you, kiss him til you’re breathless.

“Sure, we can do color-coded,” he says finally.

“Cause I really like you in blue,” you tell him, your hand that is resting on his chest doing little circles. “You don’t wear it enough.”

“Thanks, babe,” he says.

You’re both quiet for a while. 

"Can't really see Cas wearing a Hawaiian shirt," you say, looking up at Dean.

He nods. "I was thinking the exact same thing just now."

"Maybe a Hawaiian trenchcoat? Is that a thing?" you suggest.

Dean makes a face.

"If it is, it shouldn't be."

You lay your head back on his chest.

"And would you take a machete with you and get us fruit that we eat off a big palm leaf?" you ask, hoping he'll tell you more.

"No machete," he says. "No weapons. It's a no-weapons-allowed-kinda-beach."

"Ah, one of those," you nod.

"Besides," he adds after a second, lifting his head a little to look at you. "You just said you don't like coconut."

"There's other fruit in the wild, Dean," you tell him, like duh.

"Nah," he says, drops his head again. "Sounds like too much work. We're here to relax, remember?"

"Ah," you say. "Of course. Silly me. But then what will we eat, Dean?"

He thinks for a while.

"Well, I couldn't just eat plants," he says. "That's a Sam thing. I need more sustenance."

He grins suddenly, then adds: "I've tried to amend by carnivorous habits."

You frown. "When?"  

He puts his hand over yours on his chest, does a little tapping thing with his fingers.

"But I needed some kind of sensuous treat," he says, not answering your question.

"Dean, are you losing your mind?" you ask. "Is this it?"

His arm that's around you goes down to your butt. 

"Like a big warm bun," he says.

You move up on your elbow and look at him, and he has the most shit-eating grin you have ever seen on him on his face, and that's saying something.

"Dean, are you quoting Jimmy Buffet!?"

And then he belts: "Cheeseburgers in paradise!"

"Oh my god," you drop your head back on his chest but you can't help but laugh.

He keeps singing, a little softer, a little off-key, and you are shocked at how well he knows the lyrics.

You join in on the second chorus but you don't know the lyrics as well so you're mostly mumbling, but it's enough to make Dean pull you closer.

"That's so stupid," you say when the song is done, but you're still grinning.

"You love it," he replies.

He's stroking your arm gently, lulling you in.

"And when the sun goes down," he says, softly, "we're lying in the sand just like this. It's still hot but there's a cool breeze, but don't worry, cause I'm gonna keep you warm. And we can hear the ocean and it's pretty goddamn magical."

How could you every worry about anything with him around?

"Only the ocean?" you ask. "No more Jimmy?"

His chest vibrates with his chuckle. "I got a rendition of Margaritaville that'll blow your mind."

"You're on, Winchester," you say, but your own voice sounds farther away and your eyes have closed.

Dean pats your hair, moves so he can plant a kiss on the top of your head.

"It'll be so good," he says and then you're asleep.

[moonshynecybin]

any humble updates on airport au...

context. SURE man what the hell. i actually have a good ass chunk written after this but hey. this is right after vale shows up at PI post sex dream and marc nearly crashes his scooter. happy birthday to these two filthy animals

Vale, like a mosquito, shows up at his box later that day, just before Marc is about to head out of the paddock. Probably because it’s a flyaway and he can’t show up at Marc’s motorhome to plague him there, and because he doesn’t know what house Marc and Álex are renting on the island.

He also, as a man put on the planet to consternate Marc, brings a good bottle of Merlot. And what with all of the recently healed very public animosity, it’s not like Marc can turn him away.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“What was that about, this afternoon?” Vale asks immediately, rummaging around in the cabinets in Marc’s rider’s room and conjuring two cups without asking Marc if he even wants a glass. He’s pretty sure that the mug that Vale is eyeballing to see if it’s dirty is Jose’s.

He folds his knees up on the little couch in his rider’s room, a small act of self protection. He’s directly post-shower, and his hair is wet, his skin overheated. It's all a little — exposed. Like Vale might happen across his guts if their conversation winds down the wrong path. “I have a race tomorrow, quali, too— maybe I don’t want any wine.”

“God, I am glad I retired before they made us do sprints,” Vale cranks out the cork, then sniffs the bottle and makes a comically considering face until Marc breaks into a smile. He raises an eyebrow in the direction of the couch. “Well, do you?” He asks about the wine.

They sit and Marc takes his glass. Vale has unsubtly poured him a humongous portion.

“You didn’t answer me,” Vale ponders, sipping like a cat. “You know, you are not as good at lying as you think you are, it’s just that no one has the balls to call you out on it.”

Marc privately thinks that Vale is actually historically very bad at telling whether he is lying. He does not share this, he just crosses his arms on top of his knees.

“Hah, you should see my mom— she always let me blame stuff on Álex when we were young, it would make him so mad, and I would always get away with it.”

Turning towards him, Vale twists out of his hoodie, and Marc catches a soft strip of skin as his t-shirt rides up. The band of Vale’s underwear. He bites his lip and looks away. This is embarrassing.

“Hm, a born criminal, then? Not a learned one?” Vale is saying, throwing his hoodie over the chair and settling back on the couch.

Marc really hopes Vale has enough grace to let this afternoon go. He doesn’t have a lie ready, really, that he thinks Vale will believe.

“No, please. Most of those tricks I learned from you.”

“Like what?” He’s looking at Marc with big, innocent eyes.

He knows exactly what, he just likes to hear Marc say it.

“Lots of things. It’s probably the reason I was second place at Jerez in 2013, instead of third.”

It works, and Vale guffaws. Marc knew that it would— He used to love it when Marc would do shit to Jorge. Marc used to love doing shit to Jorge for that exact reason.

“Marc, please, please. We are in Australia, you have to pay your respects to Mick Doohan for inventing that move. He’s probably only about twenty meters away.” He drops his voice into a whisper. “Be careful, honestly maybe he can hear you.”

Marc looks at the ceiling, responds gravely, “I’m not a Repsol Honda rider anymore, I can do what I want.”

“Cin-cin. Hey, me neither,” Vale says brightly, and clinks his cup (José’s travel mug that says LESS TALK, MORE COFFEE) against Marc’s (a protein shake bottle that is missing its lid).

He can do what he wants. Marc turns that over, chewing on the edge of a thumbnail. He’s always thought so, but this is a little bit different. He changes the subject.

“Álex wants to go shopping on Monday at the airport, before our flight home. His girlfriend— it is her birthday on Wednesday, and he wants to get her this at one of the stores there, you know,” Marc pulls up his phone, finding a picture Álex sent him of the necklace. It's— Marc doesn't like it, but Marc’s picky. “And I think it is such a bad idea. It is so ugly, too much. He’s going to scare her.”

Vale looks for a second at the photo, picking at one of his nails, and then looks over at Marc.

“You wouldn't get that for your girl?”

“I wouldn’t get her something like that.”

“Well, what does she like?” Vale takes another pull of his drink, a little more subdued now. His face looks– pinched, for some reason. “Your girl. Maybe she has some ideas.”

“Oh, um.”

Vale just stares at him until he breaks. “No, no girlfriend. With travel, it's hard, you know.” Marc puts down his wine, leaning down to grab his racing boot and fiddle with it. “So. Not really looking.” The strap won’t close. He might need to get one of his backups tomorrow, for the race.

After a moment he notices Vale is still looking at him.

“Hm.”

“Yeah,”

“It’s hard.” Vale agrees, and then goes silent. “Tell Álex that the necklace is not so good. Try simple. Expensive.”

After a taught second where the both sip at their wine, Vale looks like he wants to say something more, but when he starts talking it's bright, airy, unrelated. Some story about him and Mick and being a Honda rider at the tobacco money fueled turn of the millennium, hands moving in the air as he mimes some poor mechanic scrambling to switch a tire. Marc watches, and he can’t stop looking at his hands, his neck, the way his mouth curves around syllables, the slant of his posture.

The thing he is realizing, while Vale boyishly shakes his head in a disapproving impersonation of Jeremy Burgess, is that— this hot fixation he’s discovered, it isn't a one-off. It's not the past, it's here, and it's now. He’d thought a little space would clean things up, work the frustration out of his bones, but the lack of space is serving to be just as clarifying a force. He sits and he stares. It's not just a dream or being pent-up from a long season, he’s not even sure that this is new. It doesn't feel like it is, it feels a lot like when he was 15 and meeting him, like when he was 20 and friends with him. Like when he was 21 and at the Ranch. Like when he was 22 and feeling like he was going to throw up, boring holes with his eyes in the side of Vale’s neck and willing him to look at him.

Hero-worship, he’d thought. The thrill of being friends with Valentino Rossi. People usually grow out of that, don't they? Marc didn't, and now he knows why.

He can do what he wants, Vale had said, except that he doesn't know that he can. Because what he wants, what he thinks he wants, well. That’s not really an option.

He takes his first sip of the night, and the Merlot bursts earthy and light on his tongue.

[allwaswell16]

A One Direction fic rec of fics that have a bad boy Louis character as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other recs here. Happy reading!

- Louis / Harry -

🖤 What Really Matters by @lovemylarry

(M, 116k, uni) After finishing school, Harry Styles starts studying at Manchester University. Harry is a nice, innocent boy who has his heart in the right place. In contrary, Louis Tomlinson doesn't have anything in common with Harry. 

🖤 Strawberries & Cigarettes by dimpled_halo / @comebackassholes

(E, 76k, omegaverse)  Two stories, eleven years, and the two boys that never stopped loving each other.

🖤 The First Year by @parmahamlarrie

(E, 46k, uni) When Louis Tomlinson was assigned a first year student to be his roommate for his final year at the University of Manchester, his expectations were low. All he needed was a cheap place to sleep and keep his stuff amidst his nights out, willing his brain to forget his past. 

🖤 Buried Like Treasure by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(E, 40k, royal) Semi-retired thief Louis Tomlinson has been pulled in for one last job: steal a painting from an uninhabited mansion.

🖤 Want It Flowing Through My Streams by screwstyles

(E, 30k, omegaverse) Harry has just qualified for his first Grand Slam, and he’s prepared to make the most of it – that is, until his heat unexpectedly hits him only a few days before his first match.

🖤 i’d burn this city down to show you the light by you_explode / @nobodymoves

(E, 23k, strangers to lovers) Harry's a sheltered rich kid and Louis's a punk with a heart of gold. They meet when Louis breaks into Harry's house, Harry obtains an instant and all-encompassing crush, and they spend the summer falling into a whirlwind romance.

🖤 taken by lust’s strange inhumanity by CuckooTrooke / @larrydoinglaundry

(E, 20k, omegaverse) One of the reasons Harry said 'yes' in the first place was because he believed Louis Tomlinson, the campus’ most notorious “bad boy”, would be here.

🖤 For You, I Will (I Don't Believe in Magic, but) by theweightofmywords / @lil0

(E, 17k, criminal Louis) Louis leads two lives, when all he wants is a simple one with Harry.

🖤 Saturday Detention by @fallinglikethis

(NR, 15k, The Breakfast Club au) Five boys with nothing in common end up together in Saturday detention. Maybe if they can get past their first impressions, they’ll realize they're not as different as they thought.

🖤 Wild by LarryUniverse

(G, 10k, boarding school) the au where louis is forced to go to boarding school and hates it from the minute he looked at it but a curly haired, frenchy, photography obsessed stunner changes his mind.

🖤 Canny With The Flow by thinlines / @thinlinez

(E, 9k, omegaverse) Omega Harry brews a plan to bag his crush and executes it. Period.

🖤 Sun-kissed Hurricane, Perfect Storm by iwillpaintasongforlou / @canonlarry

(T, 7k, high school) Harry is the quiet kid in the back of his statistics class who writes a lot and dreams about Louis’ cheekbones . Louis needs a statistics tutor ASAP before he flunks and the quiet kid in the back of the class seems like a good choice.

🖤 If You Could See Him Like I Do by BornOnABeach

(T, 7k, getting together) The gossip came from everyone. But the people who talked didn't know Louis like Harry knew Louis. 

🖤 Baby Doll by zedi

(E, 4k, pwp) PWP with shy nerdy Harry and Bad Boy™ Louis

🖤 We can wait 'til tomorrow by fallenflowercrowns / @headband-husbands

(T, 3k, neighbors) Harry pines hoplessly after his best friend who he thinks rejected him, Louis turns up under his window one night. They go on an adventure.

🖤 we're swimming with the sharks until we drown by velvetnoodle

(T, 3k, casino) There’s only one thing that makes Harry’s job on the casino floor bearable, and that’s a chance to grab the attention of the mysterious man who frequents the establishment often.

🖤 dark dark nights and violent things by StarryDay13 / @daydreaming-sunflower

(T, 695 words, rich Harry) Harry's friends are rich assholes and Louis just wants to go home and cuddle (and maybe get high).

- Rare Pairs -

🖤 To Catch a Thief by StormDancer

(E, 49k, Zayn/Louis) There are some rules even thieves have trouble breaking. Marriage vows, for instance.

[hitlikehammers]

can it be love if it’s only been a night? ♥️ (steddie au; ✨meet-cute✨ on a train 🚞)

It’s not that it’s the last stop. It’s not even the last stop. It’s more than Eddie feels…suddenly-and-not-suddenly-at-all, like it’s the last chance he has to pivot the whole trajectory of his life. To look down the diverging road toward where he’d planned to try and end up, versus the opportunity to reconsider that maybe he hasn’t started his life at all, yet. Maybe all the years he’s had so far have just been a waiting space. For this.

rating: t ♥️ tags: modern(ish) au, meet cute, double booked for a cabin on a train 🛤️, love a first sight, falling in love, strangers to lovers, fluff, romance, softness, only for tonight✨, (or is it?!), do you walk and go about your way as planned when your LIFE unexpectedly walks into your train cabin?, or do you say fuck every plan you’ve ever had and follow where THIS leads? 👀♥️

for @steddielovemonth day seventeen: 🎬 Before Sunrise

It’s not that it’s the last stop. It’s not even the last stop.

It’s more than Eddie feels…suddenly-and-not-suddenly-at-all, like it’s the last chance he has to pivot the whole trajectory of his life. To look down the diverging road toward where he’d planned to try and end up, versus the opportunity to reconsider that maybe he hasn’t started his life at all, yet. Maybe all the years he’s had so far have just been a waiting space.

For this.

Because fuck him blind, he’d got on that train—whole-ass adult, rockstar wannabe, still can’t drag your ass on a plane?, his band had razzed him bad for it while they headed out day-of to meet with the label who’d shown interest but, well, yeah, to all of it: almost 30, still does not trust tin cans in flight, the train is a more than acceptable alternative—and he’d lucked into one private room with a bed left, and for an almost-two-day journey he’d fucking needed it, and so he’d settled in, he’d ripped his Sweetheart carefully in the corner, and the whoosh of the doors to his little cabinette had startled him, because they’d already checked his ticket, so what, and who—

But then his brain had stilled. And he’d met soft honey eyes in midafternoon light. So sorry, had come the kind of voice that put the music Eddie loved by in his very soul to shame; I think they double-booked this room-thing.

And it’d turned out they had. But there were two beds. And both of them were headed the same direction. Same destination, even. Union Station to Union Station. The attendant had apologized up and down, promised at least partial refunds but Eddie…

Eddie had, like—

Those doors had opened. And it was like his life had walked through. He hadn’t even known he was waiting on it until right here it was.

Eddie doesn’t want a refund for it; goddamn.

The afternoon bleeds into evening. His cabin-buddy, his life-person, his maybe-soulmate or something—Steve—gives up on the book he’d pulled out about thirty minutes in; better than Eddie, who thought he’d watch the country slide by in the 40-some hours between Chicago and L.A. Feel his heart stirred by the purple-mountain majesty, pastoral grandeur, however that shit translates to his genre of choice—but basically, he’d been hoping to glean some poetic lines for the ballads he knows they need to at least consider, to balance an album pitch.

But he doesn’t see shit, in terms of the sights and scenes. In terms of inspiration, though: Eddie stares at Steve like he’s hypnotized. Caught blissfully in a gravitational pull that outstrips anything he’s ever know.

And his heart’s more than stirred.

Steve’s eyes meet his once he zips his bag back, tucks it until the lower bed.

“Was not expecting motion sickness on a train,” Steve comments wryly, massaging his temples. Eddie would like to volunteer for that role, immediately if possible.

He digs out some Advil and one of the complimentary water bottles in the drawer near the head of the beds, and hands both to Steve.

He, despite his condition, smiles so goddamn bright Eddie thinks he can feel it in the marrow of him like soft simmering, like starlight.

He pretends to write in his little notebook he takes everywhere, beat to hell but trusty, little lyrical snippets and campaign ideas he’s kinda afraid he’ll never have the party to set into motion, but still needs to get out of his head just to keep this side of sane.

Right now, his pen is just…sketching.

If it looks like the line of Steve’s jaw, fuck you.

Eddie can do what he wants with his own notebook.

He manages to keep quiet, which is a feat for him, but also speaks to this unnameable things he’s already associated with this Steve, a near-cellular effect he’s having on Eddie that he can neither articulate or even attempt to explain, to quantify. He’s…

“I know you didn’t sign up for a roommate,” Steve doesn’t break the silence, his voice pitched low like a whisper when it’s just the two of them; “but if you wanted, since we’re here,” he shrugs, and his lashes flick up near-hopeful, too close to shy for the wrong reasons:

“Maybe we can get to know each other a little? Past just first names and that I apparently can’t write on a moving vehicle”

And Eddie, who is loud and abrasive as a rule but keeps the things that matter pressed close to the vest even with his closest friends, his flesh and blood: Eddie?

Eddie scoots over on the lower bunk—it’s still set to be a sofa-type thing, for now, and where Steve had settled in a chair across from it presumably out of courtesy, Eddie pats the space now open next to him. Hopes like he’s forgotten he knew how that Steve will stand, and sit, and let Eddie feel warm in his orbit.

He does. All three things in a breath.

Eddie feels a little lightheaded. A little breathless.

But Steve is very warm, and Eddie feels immediately at ease like he’s pretty sure he’s never known. They dive in to the real stuff, don’t really start with small talk, just sprinkle it in along the way almost just for variety, for flair. Their hopes, their fears, their ambitions: what they’d both ordered for their shitty included train meals. Life and death and loss: Steve’s year-long engagement broken off three weeks before I Do; Eddie’s guilt over his mom, for losing her when maybe if he’d somehow managed to pull their family name from poverty in time where no one else had ever swung it, her last days wouldn’t have looked like they did. Steve’s pwn parents, alive and hateful; Eddie’s uncle, stubborn, and all he really has.

Steve’s hand grabbing his when he says as much; Eddie wanting to believe it’s deliberate, that it means something.

That Eddie could have…more.

This, even.

Poking at each other’s food with their forks, trading vegetables—why order it if you hate the carrots?because the rest of it sounded good, duh; how can you not like broccoli? They even gave you cheese sauce! that’s any insult to the word cheese, for one, and to the main point: trees should never be considered edible, and in miniature at that—end of.

And then they’d fucking laughed, and Eddie’s heart had swelled, and Steve’s eyes had never left his face and, and—

The move on to their dreams, which account for a lot of why they’d both got on the train in the first place: Steve’s a writer—not published, he’d tried to dodge, to diminish himself, but Eddie wouldn’t have it: you just want to add that part; you’re soul’s always an author’s soul, you’re never not a writer if it’s written in your bones and Steve had flushed so magnetically, all Eddie had wanted was to reach and feel its warmth; and Eddie of course is trying to be a musician, but trying? Steve had turned his own logic straight back at him; you’re a musician because it’s written in you cells, I’d say. Your fingers have been tapping rhythms since I sat down. I’d bet my whole wallet that little Moleskine of yours is bleeding lyrics and for a moment, Eddie thinks he’ll reach for it. He never lets people read his notebook. Steve would find the sketch of himself there, on top of it all.

Eddie had wanted him to reach. He hadn’t, though.

He’d asked instead why the fuck Eddie was wearing Reeboks when the rest of him screamed Doc Martens. Which then slid so naturally into a genuine masterclass on the evolution of the unquestionable supremacy of the vaunted Nike.

It’s long past moonrise before they realize the time. There’s no excuse to have lost track—save for each other.

Given they’d both booked the cabin as single occupants, the linens are only for one of the two berths. They could ask, easily, for another set.

Eddie makes his bed on the top and asks if Steve wants to share, against the chill creeping in.

It’s midsummer. There’s no such thing.

Steve climbs the ladder, flicks off the lights. And Eddie can’t ignore it anymore. The way the veins and tubes, the arteries and capillaries and mechanisms folded in around his heart have disengaged, and the unchained thrumming of the wayward muscle’s flaring like a freed balloon, too much helium and no clear direction save upward, upward—

More.

Steve hesitates, only briefly, before he tucks into Eddie’s chest. The moonlight’s dim but Eddie can read the thing on his features: confusion, too small and inconsequential to have even the slightest chance against a gaping-uncomprehending shade of wonder.

“Tell me you feel it.”

The lips that speak move against the proud bone that runs the center of Eddie’s chest, protects his heart as it feels to be growing weaker, more vulnerable every goddamn second he breathes beside this man.

But it’s in that moment that he learns that Steve is brave, the his heart is the kind legends live for.

“You’re like magic made flesh,” Eddie confesses, because his words tend to live in the clouds a little, but he means them so true; he gently, slowly threads fingers through Steve’s hair and pulls him close to actually be able to chart the heartbeat he’s lined up to; that he’s wholesalely responsible for the way it’s lost everything it knows about pumping to a point.

“It feels like my heart’s beating something better than blood,” Eddie whispers, after Steve can feel the evidence for a moment or two, to know; “like you breathed something more into me, like I was waiting for you.”

“Like we were meant for this,” Steve finishes the line exquisitely, pure perfection, his lips dragging against Eddie’s skin before Eddie can’t bear it, has to reach, to tip Steve’s chin up and try and find what he doesn’t know how to name.

Save that he finds it, immediately, in those eyes—like they were just waiting.

For maybe him, specifically, and the very notion thumps hard in the center of his chest like a track change, a divergence.

Like this is the moment to look back upon when he decides, and soon, if the world is going to change; of the path is gonna reshape itself beneath his feet.

“Am I insane?” Eddie asks, because his head adds everything up to that conclusion, but every part of him feels more at ease, more set to rights than he’s remembers knowing ever, not once.

And Steve considers him before he cups eddies cheek, tender. Like home.

“Entirely,” he concludes, without a shadow of doubt, and Eddie’s chest feels buoyant again, and his cheeks hurt for beaming, and—

And then Steve leans, and kisses him, and the world changes. He can feel it. Because nothing ever felt wholly right before; Eddie sometimes thinks his life this fa head just been chasing anything that felt like it fit.

And now there’s this man out of nowhere, who feels carved to match his very bones. Who exhales when he breathes in. Whose heart thumps his counterpoint so there’s never anything save life beating between them: unceasingly.

Like home, Eddie had thought, as if he’d found it—but no.

No, he thinks they’re making it, here between them now.

He slides his tongue between Steve’s lips and cradles the moan he earns inside the tip of his quaking heart, so it can live in him forever.

So it can be the foundation of whatever home will mean from this moment on.

Then he dives in deeper, to learn the taste of what home will be henceforth, just as sure.

~

Sunrise is kind of gorgeous, and unfairly so—the windows are small and they need a good clean—but also unsurprisingly: of course it’s gorgeous. Steve is in his arms, his breath on Eddie’s collarbone.

What in this world could be anything less than sublime?

They lounge, mostly hum and kiss and explore each other’s skin—it remains the unspoken rule that anything more isn’t made for here, but unlike the night before, there’s an addendum Eddie can feel in the drum of his pulse that they’re agreed upon:

It’s not for here. It’s for elsewhere. It’s for later.

Just because it’s not for here doesn’t mean it’s not for them.

And it’s that a fucking thought.

It’s strange how much quicker the time sees fit to pass, upon rising with intention: their lunches come—they’d slept through breakfast, are asked if they want both together, a late bit of brunch and Steve giggles a little, and Eddie says yes.

Because he’s decided, just now, that a core tenet of his entire being is going to be coaxing that kind of thoughtless honest joy from this man’s strawberry lips.

They stretch the meal out long past it turned cool; they feed each other delicate, wanton, filled with care that makes no sense because it speaks to years, to life, and not hours, not two worlds that never held one another less than a day before now.

That part’s filled with a quiet devastation, a mourning: how can you love without your life for your whole life?

And now, halfway through the journey: they may both have boarded with the same destination on a ticket. But Eddie isn’t a fool, not about this: if they disembark in California at the very same platform, they’ll never cross paths again.

His heart arches too hard for it to be anything but true.

The sunset is mediocre, but Eddie thinks it may be his own sour fear that colors it. He’s in Steve’s arms, now. It’s not so late, yet. The train will stop soon, let some off. Bring some on.

Then away.

*Ask me not to.”

Eddie says it from nowhere, without context. It’s clear though: ask him not to go, ask him not to meet his band, as him not to be anywhere but here, in these arms, ask him not for less than always, ask him—

“I couldn’t,” and Eddie’s breath catches, because his heart does first. “It’s your dream.”

And Eddie…it’s only been hours, but Eddie feels like Steve’s voice is his true mother tongue. He heard what it says below:

whatever I could give you is nothing compared to what’s driven you this long, this far; however I could maybe come to sneak inside your heart would be pale, child’s play, and insult to what you’ve wanted for always—

And Eddie’s heart fucking hurts to hear what’s underneath, so he kisses Steve with everything that’s true as best he knows and asks him, lips to lips:

“Can’t a dream change?”

because you are magic, you’re a already in my veins, you make the things I thought I wanted more than air look anemic, feel paper-thin because all that’s real is you, is you, is you—

“In a night?” Steve whispers, breathless, eyes wide.

“What other length would a dream ever have?” because it’s an honest question. It’s probably why everything feels so deeply urgent all of a sudden in the middle of the night: dreams fade with the daylight.

This one won’t leave Eddie’s heart until that heart stops beating for good. But he’s deathly afraid of alighting the stairs and losing this.

He needs to lay the bricks of the new road he travels, with Steve’s hand in his. He needs it before Steve fades away.

“I want you.”

Steve looks at him with tenderness; with far too much resignation.

“You want what’s out there.”

He had. That’s true. But—

“I want you,” Eddie repeats it, tries his best to stamp it into the road he’s choosing here and now, tries to explain that Steve is a revelation he wasn’t looking for, but only because he didn’t know it was there to find:

“I want this, with you, not least because you couldn’t ask.”

Steve quirks a brow at him, as he fluffs Steve’s feather-soft hair behind his ear.

“You said you couldn’t ask, and for my sake alone,” Eddie breathes, hopes Steve can read the distinction, the crucial difference glowing in his eyes like it thrums in his pulse. “Not that you wouldn’t want to.”

Eddie wants to feel shame that the last bit comes out a little like a question, in need of reassurance, but before he can give in, Steve leaps, comes alive to rebuke all doubt and it’s then that Eddie knows, feels the track click right.

“It’s all I want,” Steve half hisses, eyes on fucking fire; “but—”

Eddie frames his face and kisses him like he’s the most precious thing, which he is; he is.

“Let me play for you while you write your novel,” Eddie narrates the track they’re on, now, the world they’re changing with eve try heartbeat. “Let me sing for you. Let’s try all of this together, and see if we can’t be better for the whole of it that way, better than we’d have ever managed apart.”

And he leans in again for a kiss, because he can’t help it.

Because in this new life, on this new road: it may well just be that he can, as often as he likes.

“Because I fuckin’ swear the moment you walked in this room, my soul stood up,” Eddie whispers fierce; “or maybe, better said, it slid in place, like it’d been lost, at loose ends my whole life,” and he traces Steve’s lips, gazing into him with the single aimed to drown forever:

“Because it’d been always looking for you.”

Steve stares at him, lips parted a little, and Eddie’s breath shudders, maybe he, maybe it was too—

“You’re the writer, you have better words—”

But then Steve breaks, surges into Eddie and is commanding, demands Eddie with his lips, his tongue, his hand splayed on his chest and the other coiled around the nape of his neck.

To call it merely thrilling will be an insult.

“I want my heartbeat to be your metronome, in the quiet moments,” Steve murmurs against his swollen lips; “I want it to be the tempo of your cacophony, on a stage bigger than you can see across,” and then he licks those swollen lips, temptation and possession and the utmost care.

“I want to be selfish with you,” Steve confesses, as if it could change anything, as if it’s anything but desired in the whole of him; “and selfless for you To give you everything,” and he slides his open palm over eddies giddy-galloping heart, eyes flickering watch the motion of his own touch, to feel the blood-better for how Steve’s already living in it, racing through the chambers and the veins: “keep the most precious parts of you to myself.”

Eddie doesn’t have enough breath just then to laugh entirely, but he huffs a little, his smile half-lost to an ecstasy he’s never felt quite like this before as he gasps:

“Told you you’d have the words.”

And Steve: he does laugh.

And Eddie knows this new road is heavenly; is so right.

“Your band,” Steve asks suddenly, but not in the tone from before that was aimed to dissuade. Just a question.

His hand still stretched open on Eddie’s chest.

“I’ll tell them the train got delayed.”

Steve snorts. And Eddie loves him, doesn’t he.

Eddie’s already so in love him.

“That information’s public,” Steve points out with a kiss to the notch at eddies clavicle.

“Public information is wrong all the time,” Eddie flick a hand; he’s so far from even pretending to be bothered. “Delays can last forever, if they need to.”

And Steve uses the hand on Eddie’s chest now to brace himself upward, to lift and hover over Eddie, to stare at him in wonder and declare:

“You are insane.”

And Eddie can only smile, broader than he thought his face could contain, like maybe finding your life for real, and falling in love for keeps, teaches your joy to stretch wider as a rule.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and marvels a little that he can reach up and cup this man’s face; that he can touch to keep.

“Isn’t it incredible?

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here

[starry-tight]

My actual experience making this tumblr, ngl.

Cis people and other trans people of all demographics: ok so you're a man so you need to take care f all this stuff but also! You're the only person living here who will regularly do chores so you get to be the dishes and cooking person. Ngl I fully used weaponized incompetence about the cooking, at least with the cis people. I know how to cook but I cook for ME not 6 other people living in my goddamn apartment.

Do you know how many cis male friends i thought I had? Only for them to turn "hanging out with the homies" into "we're going to fuck". All of them met me as a dumpy guy who dresses like a homeless person. I have had men gang up on me

I have had hangouts turn into horrific experiences because of the fact that I have boobs. I had a cis gay friend that would literally grab me by the tit and make jokes about yanking them off.

It's hard to make friends with cis women as well. My first gf when I was 13 sexuality assaulted me because "you're supposed to be a boy so you're supposed to want to do this more, and i really want to do it".

if I don't correct women on their assumptions that I'm a girl as soon as I met them, and i tell them later, they look at me like I've betrayed them and I get cycled out of the friend group very quickly. If I do tell them immediately, I just never get included.

My last roommate would get pissy when I didn't deep clean fucking everything in the house. Would actively say shit about my transness and constantly talked about her transness was more valid. I have been out and non passing for 11 years. I have been struggling and poor and she got pissy at me for having bigger boobs than her even tho she added a pill and grew more pretty quickly. She witnessed me consistently misgendered in public even while binding because a binder doesn't completely flatten g cups. She got pissy at me any time i had a period.

I have PMDD and she decided that was her fucking problem somehow? And made me feel shittier for having a specifically hormone related disorder that connects to my periods.

She knew i was intersex and knew the reason I HAD to take a break from T (I need closer monitoring, I can't afford the testing rn to find out what specific thing I have, but my t levels got WAY too high WAY too fast at a low dose. 1300 at 3 months on like a .3 dose. and my body was suffering.) Honestly she's not the worst about it, just the most recent. Hurt my feelings specifically. Direct example of me experiencing misogyny despite my gender, from another trans person.

Had a dude come over and when I was talking about my life growing up on a rural farm, he directly said stuff about 4wheelers and dirt bikes, and then said "I guess only guys would know". This man knew, I was out to him, and directly said this in my own house. The reason I know nothing about 4 wheelers n shit is because I grew up on 1000$ a month for 3 people, not because I was born with a vag, thanks tho!

I have recently lost a lot of weight because of medical issues. When I was 240ish, I was treated so much more shitty as a trans man. Especially by other skinnier, richer trans men. Binding worked even less then. I had more obvious hips. Even though I was actively on T, my body never really redistributed fat or grew obvious facial hair. I've got a deep voice and that's about it. I have never actually in my life experienced an ounce of male privilege.

When i went to the gyno for an IUD (btw it fell out after 4 months and lodged in my cervix, if i had left it longer/ignored the pain it would have needed surgery) during that time there was a single nurse who would quietly say my chosen name when then other nurses couldn't hear her. She made my year.

I was forcibly impregnated at 17. And became that man's and all his roommates and friends basic maid for 3 years. Even though he wanted me to dress feminine i would still embarrass him by shouting my maleness. I got passed around. I got physically hurt. But I never got treated like a man. That whole period is the main reason I can't use my relatively unisex deadname/nickname at all. Or the first name i chose after.

Me after I first went from a community where 'trans men are girl brained which is why they are inferior to us real trans people, so be a good crossdresser and do most of the chores. Its not our fault we were never taught how, while you were forced into doing it since you could walk'

To the very progressive:

'Trans men are the meniest most privileged meniest men of all malekind and misogyny is a swear word to them, true men of trans manness don't acknowledge misogyny at all and if you do you're a transtrend- i mean faker- I mean misogynist- I MEAN HEFAB USING HIS ASAB TO GET SYMPATHY. NO THERE IS NO GRACE for not understanding all the correct terminology you tme facist! YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER. EDUCATE YOURSELF USING THESE ENGLISH BOOKS YOU CAN'T REALLY READ'

[fruityindividual]

Hi I have a tmos question - how long did it take for Sirius to move back in? Like was he packing his bags immediately post-shag or did they have to like go on dates and be all formal about it for a while until they decided to move back in together?

anon i luv this question n sry for replying so late! kay well personally i think the moving-back-in thing began immediately, but our princess mightve got a lil spooked and begun dragging his feet.... smth like this maybe:

Today we decided to try again.

Two weeks later…

The January sun rose early, pale and cold. Sirius` pyjamas bunched up around his knees, his partner`s hairy shins brushing scratchily against his own.

Two thick duvets bottled their frames as they each cradled hotties to their chests. In the bright coolness of winter morning, Sirius studied the man beside him.

Tawny curls pressed between a warm forehead and a thin pillow, like flowers between pages. A shallow crease set between closed eyes and thick lashes and mussed brows. The delicate corners of slack lips - subtle, fragile as a secret.

Their 13 year-old bedframe was saddled on either side by half-unpacked boxes. His clock gently ticked beside a glass of water and a crystal ashtray; precariously testing the trust of a box`s thin, concaving cardboard.

Slowly, silently, very very quietly… Sirius crept back into the home; the old one, the new one, the one he`d left, the one he never left.

Day by day, box by box, his belongings began to tenderly fill cracks in the foundation of a home with a yellow door. His clothing washed its way into the closet, his bits and bobs walked their way onto shelves, his favourite condiments garnished the top shelf of the fridge.

Perhaps…

Perhaps if they were careful - if they were very lucky - their clothing would hang cramped in their too-small closet for the rest of time, gathering stains and tears and eventually replaced by new threads and trends and seasons and colours.

Perhaps their bits and bobs would never be parted again, growing dusty until Sirius finally did a spring clean and took a walk down memory lane.

Perhaps their favourite condiments would change over time, fluctuating with season and fancy, making the fridge`s shelf sticky until one of them grew annoyed and bravely did the clean.

Perhaps they might be very old one day, and their very old things would mix and meld, gathering the same dust, warming on the same windowsill, decorating the same shelves.

Perhaps they might be very old one day, and very happy. As happy as now, as happy as before.

Sirius glanced at the mouldy spot in the corner of the ceiling, the dewy spot below the windowsill, the damp spot on the wallpaper near the door.

Well, that would be sorted today.

Perhaps he would`ve let the damp have another day on the walls and in his lungs if he were still living alone, as he`d done for four years.

But it wasn`t just him. Not anymore.

Perhaps he`d miss the comfort of his own space - cold and dreary and fluorescent as it was. He`d had his own space for over four years now. Four years of doing whatever he liked, only feeding himself, only doing laundry for one. What if he were no good at living with someone else anymore?

But he was stirred out of these thoughts by Remus` soft snores quieting. He was nearly awake now. He must`ve been.

And Sirius swallowed.

They hadn`t woken up next to each other, side-by-side in bed, in - in -

“G`morning,” Remus hummed into his pillow.

Sirius wracked his brain. What had they used to do when they woke up? When they woke up together?

In the early years, he reckoned it had been an exciting thing (“What should we do today?”), sweet and generous and fun (“I can think of something. But you`d better stretch.”).

In the later years, he`d found it had been a sweet, fun thing to wake up beside him (“Five more minutes… You`re so warm.”), and they were lucky enough to have someone else to direct their love at (“Mm…mornin`, Moons. Shit, is that the time? Teds has football at eight.”).

And now. And now… Perhaps.

Perhaps if they were very intentional—if they were very lucky—Sirius might wake up beside this man for the rest of his life.

Perhaps they`d be older men with creaks and aches (“If I lay down on the floor will you step on my back?”), listing off their to-do lists for the day before even rising from their duvets (“Got the bank, then hair appointment, then supermarket. You wanna come with? We could have a park walk - or a picnic, even. The fountains should be running now it`s spring.”)

Perhaps they`d be ancient men with many medications and less to get done in a day (“Here`s the pill… And some water. I don`t see why we can`t stay in bed a bit longer… You want another pillow? Here, take mine—I`ll just use you.”).

Perhaps they`d be very old one day, and very happy, in the decades old bed and home littered with their things, gathering the same dust, warmed by the same bit of sunlight.

“Morning, Moons.” Sirius pressed a kiss to his forehead, inhaling the warm scent of sleep and last night`s shampoo. “Sleep alright?”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Will you just move-in already? For real?”

Remus` fingertips traced the cardboard box sticking out from the bedframe.

“I - I am.”

But Remus shook his head. “Something`s up. Is anything wrong?”

Sirius shook his head at no one. “I just…”

Fingertips wandered toward the hem of his nightshirt, underneath it, against his back. Sirius shivered. Too cold - Remus` fingers were icy.

“I`m a bit, erm - I don`t know if I remember how to do all this.”

Remus` fingertips didn`t leave him, but he nodded his head, eyes washing across their ceiling. “What`re you up to today?” he asked.

Sirius quirked a brow. Perhaps he`d said the wrong thing. “Erm… Teds has football at eight. And I`m gonna look for a washer, `cos honest to God, Moons, I cannot be bothered to sit around at the laundrette for an hour. We should have a washer. And then there`s the supermarket. Would you, er, like to come keep me company?”

And Remus` fingers pressed into Sirius` back as he felt himself shifting onto his back, letting Remus cage him in and stroke his face, thumb pads tracing the crease between his brows.

“You remember fine,” he said simply. “I think this is how we do this.”

And Sirius felt himself smile. He let Remus watch.

[arovalentines]

time to make your choice only you can be the one

[puppppppppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[i-am-still-bb]

4. The “Consort” and his King(-to-be) -- Fili/Kili, T, Part of this unnamed AU

“What do you need?” Kili asked when Fili closed the door to his rooms with a resounding thud. The bold slid home with a solid metallic thunk. Fili’s shoulders were slumped, dragged down by the weight of his duties, intellectual burdens, and physical pain. 

Fili did not turn away from the door. He gently rested his head against the warm, dark wood. “Can you turn off the lights? Please?” The last word carried a note of need that was not normally present in Fili’s voice even on his worst days when everything was going wrong and everything was happening.

Kili was moving before he responded. “Of course.” He quickly turned off the overhead lights and turned on some other lamps that were placed throughout the room. Those cast their lights downwards, they were dim with low wattage bulbs, and Kili even had them connected to his phone so he could turn them off without even having to leave the bed if need be. “What else?”

“I…” a shuddering breath, “I need to be out of these clothes. They’re too tight, they’re too much…”

“Different clothes or no clothes?”

Fili’s shuddered. “None.”

Kili gently placed a hand on Fili’s slumped shoulder. “Let me help you.”

Fili let himself be turned. Kili’s slim fingers deftly unknotted the dark green tie at Fili throat. Fili lifted his chin to allow better access. Kili dropped the silk tie to the floor. That was a problem for later, tomorrow, or for someone else. Hands slide under the light gray suit jacket, pushing it from Fili’s shoulders, down his arms to the floor. When Kili slipped the buttons of the dress shirt from their holes Fili breathed a sigh of relief. His shoulders relaxed, the tendons in neck stood out less, his breathes deepened. 

The shirt joined the tie and the jacket.

Kili knelt to untie the stiff leather shoes that Fili hated to wear. “I can barely walk in these things,” Fili had said before tossing the shoe to the other side of the room. “Much less run in them.” Fili planted a hand against the wooden door, to help keep himself upright, his fingers curling in effort. His head dropped forward, exhaustion seemed to pour from him. “Up,” Kili ordered gently so he could gently work the shoe off Fili’s foot. Then the other shoe. Then his socks. 

“Pants?” Kili looked up, hands resting on Fili’s thighs. 

Fili nodded.

“Do you want to do them?”

The shake of Fili’s head was almost imperceptible.

“Almost done,” Kili soothed. “Then we’ll lay down.”

Fili made a small sound, almost a whimper.

“I know,” Kili rubbed a hand up and down Fili’s thigh. “Just a minute more.”

The wool pants were stiff and they tapered at the ankle. Kili had to fight to get them over Fili’s heel and off, but after a little under-the-breath swearing the pants were tossed to the side. 

Fili allowed himself to be pushed in the direction of the bed with its tall posts and curtains and mountains of pillows. Kili pulled the blankets back and gently pushed Fili down. Fili caught Kili’s hand when Kili turned away for a moment.

“Don’t go,” his voice was rough.

Kili turned back, taking Fili’s hand in his own, “I’m not going anywhere. I was just moving your book so that you could reach it if you decided that you want it.”

“Oh.” Fili relaxed into the bed. His eyes slowly closed and his breathing evening out.

Kili got into the other side of the bed before pulling the blankets up and tucking the around Fili, who made an appreciative noise. Under the blanket Kili took one of Fili’s hands and started rubbing with the firm and steady pressure that Fili seems to need when he was like this.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Fili breathed. “Love you.”

Kili lifted their linked hands to his mouth so he could press a kiss to the back of FIli’s hand. “Love you, too.” 

--

1. Luprecalia 2. "Oh, good, you're here! Hold this." 3. "But daddy, I love him!" 4. Handcuffs 5. Omegaverse 6. "They'll have to go through me." 7. Field of flowers 8. Renting rooms from the locals 9. "Exactly how many languages do you speak?!" 10. There's only one bed 11. Full Moon

--

Drabble Challenge 9 is now officially open!

We are only playing Sat - Sun, so please come back on Tumblr to check it often. (From now on until Sun/Mon midnight whatever time you’re on)

RULES ARE THE SAME AS LAST TIME - PLEASE READ UNDER THE CUT:

STEP 1: Pick one of the following prompts:

Luprecalia

It's 3 a.m. but fuck it, we're being domestic.

Never have I ever...

The Consort and his King

Nectarines

"They will have to go through me."

Assembling IKEA furniture

Renting rooms from the locals

Valentines Day

“This isn’t going the way that I thought it would.”

Step 2: Write a quick response of at least 100 words (a classic drabble is 100 words, but whatever).

We won’t be counting, but the challenge here is to be concise, while having a clear link to the prompt you’re responding to. There is no upper limit, but remember the prompts get snatched pretty quick.

Fili/Kili or any fictional Dean/Aidan pairings, clearly mark your warnings etc.

Existing verses or brand new work are both fine.

Step 3: Refresh Tumblr and use the notes to check the last person that has reblogged this post with a response (IMPORTANT!)

Just ordinary reblogs to spread the word are ok (ignore those), but you’re looking specifically for the latest reblog that had a drabble added.

Step 4: Reblog from that person, adding your response. You also need to copy-paste the prompt list and REPLACE the one prompt you responded to with a brand new prompt (anything you like).

I.e. you claim one and you put one back. There are still 10 prompts.

Step 5: Format your post. Response text and updated prompts list MUST be hidden under the ‘Read more’ button.

Only 2 lines should be visible on the dashboard: 1) which prompt you’re claiming, pairing, rating, verse, possible warnings and 2) ‘Read more’.

Step 6: Tag your response: #Drabble Challenge 9 so that whoever wants to, can blacklist the whole event.

Next person:

Step 1: Find the latest reblog of this post with a response.

Step 2: Pick one of the prompts from the updated list (always find the latest reblog!)

Repeat Step 3, Step 4, Step 5, Step 6 etc. The list of prompts is forever evolving.

This event is meant to be snappy and fast, creating a caterpillar of reblogs, crawling all over your dashes.

How to resolve possible problems:

Two people writing responses at the same time for 2 different prompts from the same list. This is not a problem: So long as the second person responding finds the latest reblog, their prompt should still be available on the updated list. Only 1 prompt is replaced at a time.

Two people writing responses at the same time for the same prompt (AKA my prompt disappeared by now): Find the latest reblog, add your response and add your own prompt as number 11. From now on there are 11 prompts. However, this is meant to be snappy, so please don’t spend half a day writing 100 words…

Meanwhile, @linane-art will kick-start this, and provide the first example.

Have fun! Any questions - give us a shout. If it starts going wrong, there may be a mod reblog, setting it straight again.

~gatheringfiki

[seaweedstarshine]

Late to the game as I’ve kinda been kinda non-here for a minute but I scrolled through the Dot and Bubble tag, and thought I wanted to write this post into existence.

There's this part in Doctor Who Unleashed where RTD says this:

“What we can’t tell is how many people will have worked that out before the ending. Because they’ve seen white person after white person after white person, and television these days is very diverse. I wonder, will you be ten minutes into it, will you be fifteen, will you be twenty, before you start to think, everyone in this community is white. And if you don’t think that — why didn’t you? So, that’s gonna be interesting. I hope it’s one of those pieces of television you see, and always remember.”

And I'm like. Yeah. But the reason this works even as well as it does is largely thanks to the work of the previous showrunner with the previous creative team, which was notably the first era to have any writers of color (amongst other firsts in terms of inclusivity in directors, composer, actors). While Chibnall fumbled whenever he tried to write about race himself, he did have the self-awareness to have Black and South Asian writers writing the episodes where race is the focus (and a female writer for the episode where sexism is a focus; my point is, he seemed to know his shortcomings).

I wonder what the current creative team looks like? (not really, but I wasn't 100% sure for all of them)

To quote RTD:

“...before you start to think, everyone in this community is white.”

This is pretty non-self-aware, right? It's pretty “It is said, and I understand this, there was a history of racism with the original Toymaker, the Celestial Toymaker, who had ‘celestial,’ and I did not know this, but ‘celestial’ can mean of Chinese origin, but in a derogatory way,” right? (from The Giggle Unleashed) It's pretty “and I had problems with that, and a lot of us on the production team had problems with that: associating disability with evil,” right? (from Destination Skaro Unleashed)

—none of which are issues that should be overlooked, but think how much exponentially better they might’ve been addressed if he’d consulted with Chinese writers and wheelchair-using writers before going straight to giving the Toymaker weird fake accents and making Davros walk?

How many Black or non-white people do we think saw the Dot and Bubble script before it landed in Ncuti’s hands?

And this just keeps happening.

And like, from some of the shocked responses I've seen from white viewers to the ending of Dot and Bubble, maybe the episode's unsubtlety was needed? From the way RTD talks about it in Unleashed, the episode was written with a white audience in mind, Baby's First Microaggressions (where of course the microaggressions come from people who are pretty self-admittedly white supremacists). Ricky September, a more seemingly normal depiction of someone in the racist bubble of Finetime, seemed like an interesting element, up until the way he died.

The ending worked for me, because I do think the Doctor's reaction is true to how the Doctor would react. I just keep thinking of how much better the core themes could've been handled by someone with actual lived experience on the subject matter.

[boxwinebaddie]

uncle neen!!! welcome back omg i was so sad to see u disappear </3 hyh !!! i had a question i asked last time but i was wondering since ur rewriting ur fics, are u planning on posting them on tumblr? or on ao3? pls be kind to urself too<33

good MORNING, lovie!!!!~ <3 c':

( or whatever time it is, where you are at the moment! )

i'm very excited to announce that you are my very FIRST new ask message on my brand new blog!

( teri is my first follower; ly ter. <33 o//3//o )

***long overdue UN ramble-bramble under the cut. xx

i /do/ miss my six hundred bajillion ask memes and am mourning the loss of all my online creations and great joys as a deranged southpark fanfiction author and the legacy i built with my tiny, gay weird hands

( i will go into it another time, but i had a very, very frightening bipolar episode surrounding my blog and my role on here as a writer, friend and mentor to you all, deleted all my things in a horrible panic, was able to recover them...but in the -- what i hope is the *very last* -- after shock of my episode...i got very scared, very sad and deleted both my dearly treasured and beloved, beautifully cult followed by many of you and other ghosts of sp style fanatics past ao3 account**

**( with peppermint on it at 13k likes which...oh my god, please be gentle with me, that was a very, very hard blow and rough realization for me and i am sorry to everyone who loved that fanfiction and wanted to go back and read it for posperity and personal comfort...i miss her too; rest in peace, pep, my first born. my sweet girl. </3 )

...and most tragically of all, i deleted my tumblr blog, with over one hundred pages of carefully curated content surrounding my sp aus, your lovely, insightful and thoughtful questions and inquiries, also typed with your tiny, weird gay hands answered, in turn, with mine, torched the ev. of those memories in the final blast and lost my window into your world through that medium...

...which is literally heartbreaking to me, because more than even my silly fanfictions or my blog, what i loved to do, was talk to all of you and read your wonderful messages each day and remind myself of why i should be here and continue to do what i do. </333 :'''c

BUT! my darlings, as ravenstan would say, 'it's always darkest before crimson dawn', for the very first time in several weeks ( which, i fear, and i was, full of fear and horrible self loathing/dread every waking and nightmarish moment ), last night, i cried for a very, very, very, long time, held myself together in the broken places -- told myself and the girl i was that i loved her and i was going to take care of us and be brave -- and broke the fever ( a little off key like jersey kyle, but very lovely nonetheless; love you tone deaf king. x my sboyf. )

today, i woke up this morning and slept...PEACEFULLY and woke up PERFECTLY HAPPY AND RESTED...

AND SMILED. QUITE. WIDE!!!!~ :D

and that is a baby step, but it is a step in the right direction and also almost wanted to make me weep like a baby again because i literally have not felt happy or like i do not hate myself for like, i shit you not, over like 15-20 days...it was frightening and fucking horrible! SLAY!

nevertheless ( or the most, finally ) i am excited to welcome in a new era/year of change on my blog and within myself; which is an era of peppermint flavored 'hope i'm healing' in a delicious rem(ember) font.

unfortunately, because i nuked my ao3 account, i do not currently one atm, but am in the process of recovering it.

( i'm not condoning any kind of rude/uncivilized behavior bc people are allowed to do anything they want -- but i'd really like to get my user back and would appreciate it a lot if no one used it to create another ao3 account just because it would be confusing for my readers and disheartening to me to not be boxwinebaddie anymore. )

until then, i will be writing/drafting rem(ember) in my messy google docs, am storyboarding everything to the best of my ability ( which is not perfect, but nothing is -- except stan and kyle to each other -- but god loves a trier, which is why he hates me: i prefer hell where it's drier -- that way my girlfail guylinea will not run. xx )

KALE SEITAN! ;)

posting little snippets of it on here for all of you, probably put it here on my tumblr and post it up to ao3 if i can regain my account/one in general ( i am a little worried that because of how long it's been, the loss of all my followers and, what i assume, is a decreased public or tiktok generated interest in sp, it will do poorly; rip </3 )

-- but the point is...that i want to start doing stuff for myself now. and not because i think i should or create unnecessary stress/sadness surrounding my strength or weakness as a writer or person ( or like, beat the living shit out of myself every single day anymore )...

...so i am writing it slowly, carefully, synthesizing all the info i gathered from over a year of answering your questions ( which helped me develop my sp au styles and their worlds into the lovely, seemingly breathing paper machslayed things they are now ), am going to write the fanfiction i always/wanted/ to write ( i’ve always wanted to rewrite RM, but was so busy and overwhelmed with my blog/my irl stuff that i couldn't )

and i'm calling it...

<3

p.s. ( i love you ): i am going to give my grandmother a copy of the first chapter of peppermint for christmas because i wanted to do something special/sentimental for her and secretly push the gay middle school style agenda ( she is actually very woke and thought my uncle might be gay for a while when he was younger, haha xx ), but i want to give them different names, so that on the off chance it gets passed off to my mom, my dad or manages to travel by world of mouth ( my grandma has a tendency to gab, but i love her a lot ) that it can't specifically be traced back to my dead ao3 or my blog.

so if any one has any ideas for silly interesting names i could give my sons, names for other characters or south park in gen. hit me up! <33

thank you for your interest in my work -- and in me, in general. i love you all dearly, i hope you heal ( i know you will ) and smile, pendejos because got a lot coming up on that crimson dawn and a lot of crazy shit coming down on that *jersey i won't say i'm in luh megara vc*

~SCHARLET sLUt~

cheers! mazel! ;) xx

-uncle nina, in her healing era <3