#I actually have another like dozen-ish of these

[sysig]

Cards 👏 cards 👏 cards 👏 (Patreon)

[b1asho]

I swear I'm not a wof blog I swear. Anyway, here's the bugs and a plant for some reason

Transcribed notes and other info on these guys:

the little doodles are just scribbles about where and their special glands are (which are colored yellow) amd how they work. From the top down and left to right, they say

'wrist spinneret with starter, mouth gland with proteins, combining them causes a chemical reaction makes a lot of quick-hardening silk.'

'Venom (soldier or Queen)

Worker-similar to silkwing silk

Drone-nothing in wrist'

'Extended periods of inactive sun time helps store energy' slightly to the left is 'like a leaf', slightly below is 'ambush attacks'

'No acid or venom, but secretes poisonous mucus and saliva' then to the right is 'very scary-looking because they have skin with bones under it instead of am exoskeleton'

Next to beetlewing head says 'acid spitting glands' below that says 'spinnerets on tail for building and subduing prey'

Some other general info:

silkwings are the smallest pantalan tribe amd they're omnivores, primarily eating plants but opportunistically scavenging when possible. they have a long tongue and a set of spinners in their mouth, the tongue being their to access the flowers,bugs, and fruit from the giant plants on the continent. the spinnarets from both their mouth and wrist have to be mixed to create the strong substance they use for building and defense (there is a ratio they can mix it at that causes it to combust when exposed to air and slung at enemies) the scakes on their wings are a bit poisonous but otherwise they have few defenses beyond this, they're also slow clumsy fliers. they have an exoskeleton but they also have an active respiratory system (so they actually breathe in and out unlike a real butterfly i think) unlike hivewings, they're not eusocial but they have been forced into those roles by the hivewing occupation. they're what's left of the beetlewings, having changed drastically in appearance over the years due to a lot of different pressures.

hivewings are large and omnivorous, but primarily eat meat to help fuel their flight. they're bipedal when on the ground, standing in a weird splayed fashion but able to run at fairly high speeds. when in flight, just like silkwings, they use both their leg wings and chest wings. hivewings can buzz them both at extremely high speeds and therefore fly much quicker and with more agility. also like silkwings, they have an exoskeleton and lungs, and their ither organs are stored in their abdomen tail thing to keep them away from the massive internal muscles needed to twitch their wings that fast. they are eusocial, and have several different classes. soldiers, workers, and queens are all female, and while they're larger than drones the queen is the largest (laying all the eggs in the colony. there are several dozen queens and hives on the continent, but they all answer to one). workers have a setup similar to silkwings where they can mix substances from their mouth and wrist to help them build the hive and trap prey. soldiers can't do this, and only have venom in their mouth and tail like a queen. drones are only there for the queen and don't do much else, having very little political or social power. hivewings are another offshoot from beetlewings that was mixed with some nightwings (which is why their faces, horns, and spines look a bit nightwing-ish and where their black coloring and sparkles of white dots on their wings came from)

leagwings are the only vertebrates, and look very scary to the others with their transparent skin,large eyes, and bones. they spend most of the day immobile somewhere in the sun,only occasionally moving to get water or ambush prey. their many frills help maximize surface area to photosynthesize with. they're entirely carnivorous when not getting energy from the sun. they're much more active at night, using the battery of energy they got from the day before returning to somewhere high and exposed to the sin so that when morning comes they can start to recharge. their main defenses are their teeth and claws, but they can also secrete a poisonous substance from their mouth and skin to deter others. it's mainly disorienting, but in a high enough dose it will kill. their long frog like kegs are for jumping from tree to tree and gor climbing because it's harder for them to work up the energy for takeoff from the ground. some of them are also magic and can control plants (magic is also how the One Queen can control all hivewings, but they also have their own natural pheremone signals) they have largely been wipes out thanks to outcompetition, habitat loss, and deliberate extermination on sight, but pockets of them are still around. they may have been from the same place as rainwings and share some of their features, but have changed drastically from those roots.

no one really knows a lot about beetlewongs because the version I drew is now extinct, but they were likely omnivores with both acidic spit and spinnerets, along with heavy armor. unlike their descendents they're still built more like a dragon from phyrria (idk if I spelled that right) with their big wing limbs being in front with the little arms being behind them instead of the other way around.

I decided to keep them all hexopods even though I think the hive and silk officially have another smaller pair of wing things (bringing them closer to being 8 legged in my version of things)

[pretentious-blonde]

breaking point

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: you get a call from steve, asking for help. but as the night unfolds, nothing could have prepared you for what you were about to witness—or the pain you were about to endure

warnings: migraines, nightmares, physical violence, flashbacks, panic attacks, avoidance, steve fucks up badly

a/n: angst is here, you have been warned

series masterlist

You’re perched behind the counter of your bookshop, legs tucked beneath you on the tall stool as you idly flip through a well-worn novel. 

The place is peaceful this time of day—Thursday afternoons rarely bring in crowds, and you’re content with the stillness. It’s quiet, broken only by the occasional car driving past and the intermittent rustle of pages as you turn them. 

You’ve already spent most of the morning sorting through a particularly large order for an elderly gentleman who’ll be picking it up on Friday—he insisted on a dozen specific editions, which meant verifying your supplier’s stock twice just to be certain every book was correct. 

Now the boxes are waiting in neat stacks, and you’ve been procrastinating on finalising them, letting yourself sink into the comforting distraction of your story.

A sharp ringing pulls you abruptly from the page. You straighten, setting the book down on the counter without marking your place, the spine open as if you might return to it any second. Sliding off the stool, you reach for the phone and lift the receiver to your ear, greeting whoever is on the other end with the usual warmth you reserve for customers, stating your name and if you could be of service. 

At first, all you hear is soft static, followed by a hesitant intake of breath. Then a familiar voice fills your ear—slightly strained, yet gentle. 

It’s Steve. 

Immediately, you stand a little straighter, concern creeping into your expression. He almost sounds winded or like he’s trying to tamp down on some discomfort.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice edged with an apologetic note. “How’s it going?”

Your brow knits at the tone, but you do your best to keep your voice light. 

“It’s going good. Not too busy today.” You hesitate before speaking further. “Are you all right?”

You hear another sigh across the line. 

God, he really doesn’t want to ask. 

“Yeah, I’m... I’m okay, I guess,” he replies, a faint pause lingering afterward, as though he’s summoning the courage to contradict his own words. “Um… actually, I’m not.” He exhales, the sigh audible over the crackle of the line. “And I’m really sorry to do this to you. I already tried Rob, but she’s not picking up, and… I didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice is laced with genuine remorse, and you can practically picture him pinching the bridge of his nose or running a hand through his hair—anxious that he’s inconveniencing you. 

“Hey,” you soothe, pressing the phone closer, “it’s fine. What do you need?”

There’s a nervous kind of silence before he speaks. 

“Would you be able to pick me up after work today? I—I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I get these migraines sometimes, and they’re, well, they’re killers. I... they say not to drive when it’s really bad, you know, because it affects your vision and everything.”

You can hear him falter, like he’s trying not to sound dramatic, and a pang of concern spikes through you. 

“Steve,” you say gently, “I know what a migraine is.”

“Oh,” he breathes, sounding oddly relieved that you understand. “Right. Course you do. I didn’t mean—sorry.” You can practically sense him shaking his head at himself. “I just… would you be able to do that? I wouldn’t ask, but this one’s coming on pretty strong, and I’m—”

“Of course I can,” you cut in, determined to stop his roundabout apologies before they spiral. “I can leave here around three-ish, maybe get to the school by three-thirty. Does that work?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost too quickly, like he’s trying to keep the relief from flooding his voice. “That’s... that’s perfect, actually. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure him. You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, heart soft at just how grateful he sounds. “Take care of yourself until then, all right?”

“I will.” He lets out a small, breathy laugh that doesn’t quite hide the discomfort, but you appreciate the effort. “Promise.”

With that, you both say your goodbyes, and you hang up the phone gently, lingering with your hand on the receiver for a moment longer. After a moment, you glance over at the boxes waiting to be packed, then at your open book on the counter, the pages still spread as though silently beckoning you to return.

There are only a few hours until you have to leave. You heave a soft sigh, sliding the receiver back into place. Stepping back around the counter, you pick up your novel once more, sliding onto the stool and returning your feet to their familiar tucked position, determined to read away the worry until it’s time to collect him. 

After all, you’ve already done almost everything else that needs doing—and you can’t shake the feeling you’ll want your energy later to take care of him properly.

You wait by your car, leaning against the driver’s side door with the keys in your hand. The afternoon sun feels pleasantly warm on your skin—though to you, it’s nothing compared to the heat of summer. 

You glance at your watch, noticing it’s just past three-thirty, and there’s a steady stream of kids already pouring out of the school’s double doors. They rush in all directions—some sprinting to the buses parked in a neat line, others trudging over to waiting parents who greet them with warm hugs and scattered conversation.

Your eyes wander across the lively scene until they land on the figure you’ve been anticipating. Steve steps out of the building, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a jacket, his fingertips pressed tentatively to the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a pair of simple, thick-framed sunglasses—something you’ve never actually seen on him before. The glare off the pavement makes him wince, and you can practically see the dull ache of pain behind his eyes.

He catches sight of you almost immediately, a fleeting look of relief flickering over his face. You give a small wave, and he lifts a hand to wave back, smile tugging at his lips—grateful, but a little strained. 

Before he can take more than a couple of steps, a tiny blur of energy suddenly barrels up to him. It’s one of his students, a little boy clutching a crumpled piece of paper in his fist, words spilling from his mouth so fast you can’t even pick them out from where you’re standing.

You watch as he stops in his tracks, forehead furrowing at the sharp twinge of discomfort that crosses his features. 

It would be easy for him to brush the kid off, to hurry away toward the car where relief beckons. But instead, he crouches down, bringing himself to the child’s eye level. He offers a reassuring nod, swallowing down what’s obviously a pounding headache so he can focus on what the boy is saying. 

You notice how his free hand fists gently at his side—an involuntary motion—but he never lets it show in his words or his face. He’s too busy listening intently, nodding along, and replying in a voice you can’t quite catch.

He stands, guiding the boy gently by the shoulder or hand—making sure he feels safe. The two of them make their way through the swirling crowd of other kids, looking around for the boy’s parent. 

Even from a distance, you can see how carefully he navigates the chaos. His eyes dart back and forth as he’s quietly asking the child more questions, probably trying to figure out who’s come to pick him up. Every now and then, his posture tightens, a reminder that the bright afternoon sun is hitting him just a little too hard, but he doesn’t let go of the kid, and he doesn’t break away.

You shift on your feet, considering whether you should go over and give him a hand. Part of you aches at the sight—he’s clearly in discomfort, yet he’s still looking out for the child as though that’s the only thing on his mind. 

Before you can move, a woman waves from a few yards away, and the little boy’s face lights up. Steve offers him a warm grin, even if it’s tinged at the edges, and guides him in that direction. You see the mother mouth a thankful greeting, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he steps back. 

She seems effusive in her gratitude, and Steve nods politely, responding with quiet words that look like, No problem at all, or something similar. 

He forces another small smile, and though you can’t hear their conversation, you can read his body language—he’s not trying to appear rude or dismissive, but you can tell he’s longing for a reprieve.

Finally, he manages to say his goodbyes. The mother gives a final wave of thanks, and the child practically bounces at her side, happily reunited. You see him rub the back of his neck as he turns away, then, at last, he makes his way toward you. His steps are quick as though crossing those last few feet to your car is suddenly the only thing that matters.

You’re about to ask how he’s doing, the words right on the tip of your tongue.

Are you okay? Do you need anything?

But Steve beats you to it. 

He steps in close, sliding both arms around your waist, and pulls you to him in a tight, desperate hug. It’s unexpected, for a moment you just blink, caught up in the feel of him against you. Then you sink into the embrace, returning it wholeheartedly. He tucks his face into the curve of your shoulder and breathes out a heavy sigh that’s filled with relief. The tension in his body practically radiates, but you can feel it lessening with every second he clings to you.

“Long day?” you manage, your voice soft near his ear.

He makes a low, rueful sound that’s almost a laugh. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, pressing his lips in a weary half-smile against the side of your neck.

You pull back slightly to look up at him, studying the pained pinch to his brow. Gently, you reach to straighten his glasses where they’ve slid down his nose, the tender motion making him close his eyes like the simple touch is a balm. Then you skim your fingers through the hair at his temple, careful not to add any pressure that might worsen his headache. 

“Ready to go?”

His eyes open, and though they still flicker with discomfort, there’s something warm and thankful in them. 

“Yes, please,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

He eases himself into the passenger seat of your car and places his bag by his feet, wincing faintly as he pulls the door shut. From his vantage, even the soft click of the latch feels just a bit too loud. His head throbs behind his temples, and he presses the tips of his fingers to his brow, exhaling shakily. 

He doesn’t want to drag you into this discomfort—he’s already apologetic that you had to come out of your day to scoop him up. But as soon as he’s settled in, he glances your way and catches the concern etched across your face. 

You’re trying not to show it too obviously, but he’s learned to read you well enough by now.

He notices you carefully put the keys into the ignition, turning them just enough to bring the engine to life, and then pause. You don’t reach for the radio. Instead, you cast a quick, reassuring look in his direction, clearly determined to keep things as calm as possible. 

There’s a softness in your eyes that makes a knot of gratitude twist in his chest. He almost apologises again—he can feel the words rising to his lips—but he decides against it, not wanting to strain his voice more than necessary.

As you begin to pull away from the curb, you lean over slightly, speaking in a near-whisper. 

“Should I take you home?” Your tone is gentle, as though you’re wary of aggravating his headache. “Or…?”

He hesitates. 

He really does consider letting you drive him back to his place, but the thought of being left alone in that quiet apartment—especially with how it’s been feeling today—sends a wave of apprehension through him. 

Plus, he knows you’re juggling the shop, and he doesn’t want to pull you away from your responsibilities. He craves your presence more than he’ll ever admit out loud. Being around you, he can breathe a little easier; the tension in his chest seems to unfurl just enough for him to bear the pain.

“Is it… is it all right if we go to yours?” he asks, his voice hushed and edged with that uncertain apology he can’t quite hide. “I promise I won’t, like, get in your way. I just—your place is… it’s quieter. And it… helps.”

You steal a quick glance at him, one hand steady on the steering wheel. 

“Are you sure?” you ask softly. “Not that I don’t want you around, but I don’t want you feeling—”

“Please?” The word comes out almost too fast, earnest and low. “I like your place,” he admits, managing a small, sheepish smile that tugs at his features despite the throbbing in his head. 

He hopes you can see the sincerity in his eyes—that your space feels safe to him in a way his own doesn’t right now.

A slow, gentle laugh escapes you. It’s the kind of sound that soothes him, even through the pounding ache behind his eyes. 

“All right,” you say, turning onto a side street that leads toward your neighborhood. “We can do whatever you want.”

Those words settle something in him. He sinks a bit more into the seat, letting his head rest against the headrest. 

By the time you turn onto your street, his eyelids have grown a little heavy. He hasn’t fully drifted off, but the combination of your presence and the gentle lull of the car has lulled him into a sort of half-doze. He manages a small smile when you finally come to a stop.

The moment he steps inside your shop, he’s relieved by the quiet of the space—like stepping out of a bright, noisy world into a sanctuary scented with old paper and fresh ink. The cramped ache in his head hasn’t loosened much, but at least here, within these walls, it feels less oppressive. 

You guide him in gently, one hand hovering at his elbow as though you’re ready to steady him if he stumbles. He can sense your concern in every small gesture.

Before you can lead him upstairs, his gaze snags on the piles of books around your register—stack upon stack of hardcovers, paperbacks, a towering sea of spines. His brow furrows with mild curiosity. 

“Big order?” he asks, voice still hushed from the pain.

“Huge.” You tilt your head in the direction of the counter. “I was planning to sort it out after I picked you up.”

He’s about to form some sort of apology—maybe for interrupting your workday, or adding to your to-do list—when you catch the flicker of remorse in his expression. You shake your head before he can speak. 

“If you’re going to say sorry, I don’t want to hear it.”

A weary but grateful smile ghosts across his lips. He nods, accepting the gentle reprimand, then follows you up the narrow staircase that leads to your living quarters above the shop. 

The building is old, the steps squeaking quietly beneath your combined weight. He keeps a hand on the banister, half to steady himself, half to keep from bumping into you if his vision swims.

You place his bag by the door and usher him into your bedroom, he’s reminded of how warm and personal the space is—your favourite blanket tossed over the foot of the bed, a small reading lamp perched on the nightstand, the faint scent of coffee or tea lingering in the air. You head to the windows first, drawing the blinds to blunt the intruding sunlight.

“Lie down,” you say softly, motioning him over. “Rest your head for a bit.”

He sets his glasses on the nightstand, and this is the first time you’ve seen his eyes without the frames all day. They’re red-rimmed and shadowed, fatigue radiating from them in a way he’s tried to conceal. Your heart clenches with sympathy at just how worn he looks. He catches the expression on your face and musters a small, apologetic shrug—like he’s saying sorry yet again, without the words this time.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice dipped in concern, “come here.”

He does as asked, easing onto the bed alongside you, with a careful shift of his weight. The cool sheets feel like a blessing against his feverish skin. He closes his eyes as you card your fingers through his hair, the motion tender and calming, each pass easing the tension behind his temples.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, voice low. “Another pillow? Something for the pain?”

“No, I’m good.” He exhales a sigh he’s been holding onto for hours. “Took some pills before I left work. Should kick in soon—an hour or two, tops.”

You nod, leaning in to brush a delicate kiss against his temple, careful not to aggravate the sensitive area. It’s so gentle and so you that it sparks a little warmth in his chest, even through the pulsing ache. 

“Are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own?” you ask, a note of hesitation in your tone. “I can grab anything else you need—”

“I’ll be fine.” He gives you a tired half-smile. “Promise I won’t go through your stuff while you’re gone.”

A soft laugh leaves your lips, and relief glimmers in your eyes. He’s glad you can still share a light moment, despite the dull throb in his head.

Rising from the mattress, you step across the room and return a moment later with a tall glass of water, setting it carefully on the nightstand within easy reach. The sound of it touching down is soft, but in the quiet, it feels pronounced.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” you remind him.

Just as you move to go, he lifts his gaze. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, holding out a hand. You curl your fingers around his, and he tugs gently, guiding you back in for a brief, tender kiss that lingers longer than you expect. There’s gratitude in the tilt of his head, in the way his lips press against yours. “Thanks, angel.”

Your cheeks flush, and you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, but he can tell by your voice that it means a lot to you to help him.

You ease away, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click, leaving the room filled with hushed light. He settles back against the pillows, letting the muffled sounds of the shop downstairs lull him. The pain still stabs at his temples, but now it feels manageable—less like a prison sentence and more like something he can endure with you close by.

He emerges an hour later, surfacing from a surprisingly restful sleep. The dull throb that had settled behind his eyes is now a faint echo, and as he scrubs a hand across his face, he realises he feels… better. 

Much better. 

There’s a fleeting sense of relief—he’d almost forgotten what it was like not to have that constant, pounding pressure.

He rubs at his eyes and grabs his glasses from the nightstand, sliding them back onto the bridge of his nose. Outside the bedroom door, all is quiet, save for the faint rustle of movement. He recalls where he is—your place—and a tiny smile flits across his lips, fueled by a sudden warmth in his chest.

Deciding he shouldn’t just linger, he ventures out of the room. He notices quickly that you’re nowhere to be seen upstairs.

When he reaches the shop floor, he sees you standing near the entrance, turning the lock on the front door. Apparently, you’re closing up for the evening. You exhale a tired breath, flicking off the main lights, and in that moment he decides to have some fun in making his presence known. 

He moves silently, inching closer, taking full advantage of the fact that your focus is on the street outside. Then, in one swift motion, he lunges—his hands gripping your shoulders, pulling you toward him. 

You stumble, nearly losing your balance, but he catches you just in time. It takes effort to hold in his giggle at your squeal. 

You nearly jump out of your skin, whirling around in alarm—only to roll your eyes when you realise it’s him.

He smirks, tugging you closer, and before you can scold him, he leans in, pressing a trail of soft, lingering kisses up your neck—his version of an apology.

 “I see you’re feeling better,” you tease at his sudden affection, putting on your best irritated tone, though his lips on your neck send a shiver through you, the sensation ticklish and distracting.

You feel him grin against your neck, the feeling of it settling something deep inside you. The pain isn’t entirely gone for him, but with you here, it’s a thousand times more bearable than before.

“Yeah… a lot,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier.

He pulls back to meet your eyes, and you notice the lingering exhaustion in them. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a heaviness he hasn’t managed to sleep away.

Guilt tugs at you. He’s spent the whole day powering through, surrounded by kids, pushing through. You wonder how often this happens, how many days he forces himself through without letting anyone see.

“So,” you begin, eyes flicking up to meet his, “does that happen a lot?”

He blinks, caught off guard. 

“Huh?”

“The migraines,” you clarify, voice soft and yet insistent as you brush a thumb against his temple to emphasise your point.

He hesitates. He’s never exactly hidden the fact that he gets them, but he’s never brought it up either—never put words to it, much less explained the reasoning behind them.

Usually, they’re a warning sign, a foreshadowing of rough nights ahead. His anxiety always lingers, never too far out of reach, even though being around you has helped. He' knows's aware this isn’t something that just disappears. It’s a lifelong journey, one he’s learned to live with, however reluctantly.

“Oh, uh… yeah, they come and go,” he says, trying for a casual shrug. “Some are worse than others.”

You purse your lips sympathetically. “That’s annoying.”

He releases a soft huff of a laugh, running his hand gently across your lower back. 

“Yeah, well… what can you do?”

A brief, comfortable silence follows until you tip your head, studying him. “Did you eat today?”

He thinks back, sifting through the blur of his morning. 

“Uhh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I don’t think so?”

You click your tongue, the corner of your mouth quirking up. 

“Oh, good, because I’ve been craving Chinese all week.”

He raises a brow, not entirely following. 

“Huh?”

“Are you not staying for dinner?” you reply, bemusement colouring your tone.

Immediately, his guard goes up. Something feels off, and he knows it. He doesn’t want to stay—every instinct is telling him to leave. He knows his body well enough to recognise when it’s warning him. 

“Oh, um. I mean, I can. But I was thinking, y’know, you’d want me out of your hair soon, so…”

He trails off, and you give him a look that’s telling him to stop being ridiculous. 

“Not at all,” you say. “I was gonna ask if you’d stay the night.”

Now that would be a problem.

He wants to say yes. He wants to say yes so badly.

The last night you spent together had been nothing but sweetness, the two of you tangled under the covers, whispering until the early hours, scolding each other for not sleeping yet making no real effort to stop. 

He wants that again. He wants you again.

But he can feel the anxiety thrumming at the base of his neck, a low, insistent pulse that hasn't let up all day. The migraine was usually the first sign—a warning, subtle but familiar. He knows how this goes. Knows how easily it can spiral if he doesn’t listen to it.

So he does what feels safest. He deflects. Shoves his hands into his pockets, schooling his expression into something easy, something unreadable, and lets you down gently. Or at least, he tries.

“No, that’s—honestly, I’m good,” he says, uncertainty slipping into his tone.

By the look on your face, you are not pleased with his answer. 

“C’mon. It’s not a big deal,” you press gently. “I can wake up early and drop you off at work—no trouble at all.”

This is a fucking dilemma—choosing between the unknowns, between what he wants and what his mind is screaming at him.

Technically, he has everything he needs. His jumper is still here from the other day, his emergency medication is in his bag if things go sideways. You’re good, you’re understanding. He knows that. But the anxiety clawing at his ribs doesn’t care about logic. It only knows one thing.

He really doesn’t want to put you out. And the look on your face—soft, playful, pleading—is downright dangerous. You don’t understand, but that’s not your fault. How could you? And it’s not fair to say no to you, not when all you’ve ever done is offer him kindness.

You take half a step closer, eyes shining with encouragement. 

“Are you really gonna make me beg?” you tease, and he can’t help but let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

Uncharted territory. 

The words ring in his head. 

He steels himself, reminding himself that last time was good, that he survived it, that maybe he’s stronger than he gives himself credit for.

“Fine,” he says at last, voice almost resigned, but a tiny smile playing at his lips. “Fine, all right.”

You beam, and it’s the kind of smile that makes all his lingering worries recede at least an inch. You tighten your arms around him in a grateful squeeze and pepper a quick, playful kiss against his chin. 

“Okay, so,” you say, a gleam of excitement in your eye, “I’m totally fine with sharing, but if we order spring rolls, we have to get two orders. Non-negotiable. They’re my favorite, so…”

You launch into a happy little ramble about the menu options, rattling off sauce preferences and side dishes, trying to piece together the perfect meal. He watches the way your face lights up, and though the knots of anxiety still tug at his gut, he finds them easing—at least for now. 

He never wants to be the one to dampen your mood, never wants to be the reason your smile fades.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened the moment he closed his eyes.

It hit him fast, relentless—dragging him under before he even had the chance to fight it. A night he can never forget, no matter how hard he tries.

He's in the Creel House again, though he can’t recall how he got there. 

One moment, he was drifting in a half-conscious haze, and the next, he’s stumbling over warped floorboards that groan under his weight. The hallway is impossibly long, stretched out like a sick parody of reality. The walls are all wrong, shifting and pulsing with deep veins that look alive. In his chest, his heart drums a vicious beat, every thud echoing in his ears.

He tries to turn around—to find a window, a door, anything that leads outside—but the corridor twists, forcing him forward. Panic grips him. He knows he shouldn’t be here. 

This place was supposed to be gone, sealed away. 

Yet it’s all here, clear as day. The chipped wallpaper, the stench of rot, the cold air that clings to his skin like a shroud.

He senses movement at the edge of his vision. The thick, slithering mass of vines creeps along the plaster, reaching out like greedy hands. He swallows hard, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. 

Gotta keep moving.

The floor beneath his shoes seems to splinter in protest with each uncertain step. His breath comes ragged, visible in the stale gloom. He can almost taste the decay in the back of his throat.

Suddenly, something coils around his ankle—cold and slick. He yanks his foot back, but the vine refuses to let go, sliding tighter around his leg. He gasps, stumbling as fear knots in his stomach. 

This is the moment everything always goes wrong. 

His instincts scream at him to run, but the more he struggles, the more the house closes in. Another vine snakes up from beneath the floorboards, twining around his wrist. The pressure is sharp—like iron shackles—and he chokes on a panicked sound.

“Stop,” he manages to rasp, voice hollow against the silence. The vines press in like they understand, as though taunting him. He jerks his arm, fighting to free it. Finally, by some miracle, he manages to tear himself away, practically lurching sideways into the wall. The texture of the wallpaper is spongy and damp beneath his palm, and horror climbs his spine. 

Get out, get out, get out.

He staggers down the hallway, half running, half limping. Every muscle in his body is ready to snap, like he’s been caught in this hellish loop for hours. The floor shifts again, throwing him off balance. He falls to his knees with a grunt, his heart pounding so violently he can hardly see straight. 

In the corner of his eye, a vine rears up, poised to coil around his shoulder. He twists away just in time, the motion jarring him so badly he cries out. His lungs burn with each gulp of stale air.

Then he hears it—a voice, faint and familiar in the distance. His name. Just a whisper.

He freezes. 

No. 

He doesn’t want you in this hellscape, not even your voice. It feels all wrong. He whips his head around, searching for you, but all he sees are the same endless vines reaching across the ceiling like greedy fingers. The voice rises again, achingly gentle. 

Steve. 

Fear lances through his chest. 

Why are you here? 

He needs to get to you, save you, do something. 

He staggers forward, arms flailing at the vines that try to yank him back.

He can’t tell which way is up anymore—everything is crumbling, flickering, drifting in and out of focus. It wraps around his shoulder, and he loses the last shred of composure. His stomach drops, pure terror fueling him. He clamps his hand around the rubbery texture and wrenches it off with all the strength he has left. 

It has to let go. 

A guttural shout rips from his throat. He pins it down, vision blurred by panic.

Then, at the edge of his consciousness, there’s a softer noise. A plea, quieter this time, but insistent. 

His name, spoken with shaking breath. 

That voice… it’s definitely yours.

Steve blinks, pushing back an onslaught of nausea. He’s still gripping something. But the vine dissolves, the hallway dissolves, the entire hellish scene dissolves—replaced in a nauseating rush by the dim light of early morning and the disheveled duvet beneath his knees. His chest still heaves with exertion, sweat slicking the back of his neck. For a second, he’s disoriented, mind torn between there and here. 

Then his gaze lands on you.

And he realises what he’s clutching. It’s not a vine. It’s your wrist—your delicate wrist pinned beneath his trembling fingers. It’s at an awkward angle, balled into a fist as you try to resist his attack. 

He’s nearly on top of you, looming in the half-dark with wild, panic-stricken eyes. Your breathing is ragged too, your face filled with dawning horror. You’re staring at him like you don’t even recognise him, and the second his mind comprehends that, he feels his heart drop to his stomach.

“Steve…” you say shakily, voice low, tears lacing each syllable. “You’re hurting me.”

He’s hurting you. 

Your words pierce him like a blade to the gut. 

His grip slackens instantly, and he recoils, dropping your wrist as though it’s scalding hot. His chest on fire, eyes wide and filled with guilt. You cradle your arm close, still trembling, and he realises what he’s done—he was the danger in your bed, he was the one who scared you.

“Fuck—” he breathes, voice cracking. “No, I didn't—”

He wants to reach for you, to reassure you, but the look on your face stops him cold. 

Terror. 

Terror… of him. 

The same man who promised he’d never harm you. A silent horror seeps into his lungs, making it impossible to draw a full breath.

He hovers half above you, heart hammering a rapid, disbelieving rhythm in his ears. His vision tunnels on your trembling hand, clutched protectively against your chest. You flinch, just the tiniest bit, and it feels like a knife twisting in his gut. 

He shifts back, giving you space, but panic throbs in his veins like a second pulse.

“Angel,” he manages, voice raw, “are you—are you all right? Fuck—I swear—”

You’re breathing unevenly, tears quivering in the corners of your eyes. He can see the hesitation carved across your features—the part of you that can’t decide if you should move closer or farther away. It breaks him more than he thought possible.

When you finally nod, it’s a tiny movement, barely there.

“I…I’m okay,” you whisper, but the tremor in your voice betrays your fear. “You just…you scared me.”

Those words hit him like a tidal wave, drowning him in remorse. Guilt churns in his stomach, hot and relentless.

He knows what it’s like to be truly afraid—to feel that kind of fear deep in his bones. And the last thing he ever wanted was to make someone else feel the same, never when he was around.

“I know—I know I did,” he says, voice cracking on each syllable. “Jesus, I—I’m sorry. Can I see?” He looks pointedly at your wrist, the one you’re cradling so protectively.

“Steve, it’s fine,” you protest, though the wariness in your voice says otherwise.

He swallows the lump in his throat. 

It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. 

“Just…let me look, please,” he pleads, extending a shaking hand. Every muscle in his body is alive with self-loathing.

How on earth could he do this? He knew this would happen. He never should have stayed over after yesterday—he hadn’t been feeling a hundred percent and should have trusted his instincts. They hadn’t failed him before.

He wanted to blame you for insisting, but he couldn’t. Not when he remembered the way your face had lit up when he agreed. That smile had been worth it then, but now, seeing the uncertainty in your eyes, it didn’t feel like enough.

Finally, you shift, slowly offering him your wrist. Your hand trembles, and he hates himself for it—hates that you’re scared of him, even if you’re trying to push it down. The sight makes bile rise in his throat.

“Is it okay if I turn on the light?” he asks softly, afraid that even the sound of his voice might startle you.

You nod, a wordless motion. He flicks on the bedside lamp, wincing at the sudden wash of yellow light. 

Now he can see everything.

The faint imprint of his fingers around your wrist, the bruises threatening to form beneath the skin. But the most devastating sight is your eyes, wide and teary, brimming with a kind of apprehension he’s never wanted to see directed at him. He inhales sharply, wrestling down the urge to look away because he knows you deserve more than his cowardice.

The look in your eyes shatters him. It guts him in a way he can’t put into words.

He tries to recall everything his therapist and friends have ever told him after an episode—something reassuring, something grounding—but how can he, when he’s the one scaring you?

His mind scrambles for the right thing to say, some way to make you understand that he’d never, ever hurt you—not willingly, not ever.

“I’m not—I’m not going to hurt you, all right?” He hates how desperately he needs your affirmation, how terrified he is that you might doubt him. “I didn’t realise I—” 

“Was it a nightmare?” You interrupt him before he can spiral further, your own voice still trembling.

He swallows, nodding. That’s certainly an understatement. 

“Yeah,” he admits, though the confession tastes bitter on his tongue. 

He put you directly in harm's way. 

His brain flashes with the vivid memory of the vines, the crawling floors. 

What has he done?

You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself. 

“You were…talking,” you say, your tone careful, as if you’re unsure how much you’re allowed to pry.

“Was I?” He forces out. His throat feels painfully tight. 

The idea of you overhearing any part of those twisted images. 

He doesn’t want you to know. 

Not like this, not when you’re already shaken and he’s feeling like a monster in the softness of your room. He wants to say more, explain it, but the words stick in his throat. He’s not ready to unravel that story yet, not when he’s still trying to absorb the fact that he frightened you.

He slides his gaze to the clock, ignoring the knot of dread forming in his chest. Nearly five in the morning. He was supposed to wake up soon anyway, but now the ticking minutes feel like an escape route. 

He can see in your eyes that you’re about to push for more—questions, understanding, some explanation of what just happened. And he can’t face it. Not now, not with the shame burning under his skin.

Now? He’s going to be a fucking coward. 

“I should, um—I should probably get ready,” he mumbles and you can barely believe what you are hearing. 

His voice sounds foreign in his own ears, devoid of its usual warmth. Anxiety stabs at him, driving the compulsion to leave, to put distance between himself and the scene of this half-waking horror. Maybe if he puts on his clothes and gets out the door, he can pretend for a few hours that this didn’t happen.

He sees the confusion flicker across your features, the hurt you try to hide. But the terror from moments ago still lingers in your eyes, and he feels it like a physical wound. Everything in him screams to fix this, hold you, tell you it’s going to be okay. 

Yet the fear of hurting you again—of losing control—fights him at every turn.

He practically trips as he scrambles off the bed, his heart hammering loud enough to drown out any rational thought. He needs to get away—needs to stop the spiral he feels uncoiling in his chest. Grabbing for yesterday’s clothes, he balls them up against his chest, grimacing when the fabric tangles in his unsteady fingers.

“Hey, no—wait,” you say, voice still tight with fear and confusion. But he’s already halfway to the door, jaw clenched against the wave of panic threatening to swallow him whole. 

He can’t look at you—won’t look at you—because the second he does, he knows he’ll see the hurt carved into your features, the tears in your eyes, and it’ll break him. 

He focuses on each step, on the ache thrumming behind his ribs. He wants to disappear.

“W-what are you doing?” you stutter out, following him into the narrow hallway just outside your bedroom. He tries to ignore the tremble in your tone, tries to ignore the fact that his own chest feels like it’s collapsing.

He finds his shoes by the wall, jamming his feet into them. 

“You don’t have to drop me off,” he mutters, not quite meeting your gaze. His voice sounds so hollow it startles even him. “I’ll get the bus. Just…go back to sleep, okay?”

He knows the request is insane—knows you’re not going to waltz back into your bedroom and pretend none of this happened. 

But what else can he do?

“Are you seriously going to work right now?” you press, frustrated and hurt at the same time.

You can’t believe he’s running away—ignoring everything that just happened. He doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is flat, as if he’s reciting some script you can’t quite decipher.

You don’t understand how he can act like this, not now, not when you need him the most.

“It’s fine,” he insists, though his voice cracks. 

But you’re both not.

He doesn’t feel remotely fine. He feels like his insides are strangling themselves. 

“It just…happens sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” you echo, exasperated. “Steve, wait—”

But he’s crouching to grab his bag, rummaging for anything else he might have left scattered around the room. 

He can’t stay here. If he does, the reality of what he’s done—of the rawness he saw in your eyes—will crush him.

“I’ll call you at lunch, okay?” he rattles off, his words mechanical, cold. As if scheduling this conversation might keep him afloat. 

Just keep moving.

He shoves his shirt into his bag, barely registering your expression. 

Just get out of here.

He’s so far into his own head that he almost misses the sound of your voice, pitched higher with desperation.

“Steve! Fuck—please!”

That tone stops him in his tracks. He freezes like you’ve yanked a chain on his spine. Slowly, he forces himself to turn, his eyes finally meeting yours. 

Christ, the way you're looking at him.

It obliterates any last shred of composure he has. Your pupils are blown wide, tears shimmering at the edges, and there’s a panic there he’s never seen before—like you’re grappling with a slow-motion wreck and can’t stop it.

All the oxygen seems to vanish from the room. He can’t form words, can’t even pretend he has them. He just stares, his chest tight as tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. 

The shame, the fear, the longing to make this go away—it all comes crashing in.

“Please,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Don’t go. You—you can’t just leave like this. We—we have to talk.”

Every hair on the back of his neck stands on end. 

He can’t. He just fucking can’t.

He knows if he stays, if he tries to talk through the nightmare he’s dragged you into, he’ll fall apart completely.

His eyes sting, and he’s dangerously close to crying in front of you. He wants to beg your forgiveness, to promise that he’ll never let this happen again. But the weight of his fear for you—of you being near him—is suffocating. 

He has to escape, or he’ll lose it.

“I’ll call you later,” he chokes out, not even believing his own words. It’s a weak, hollow promise, and the guilt in his chest crushes him as he brushes past you.

You call after him, the sound of your plea ricocheting in his skull. 

But he doesn’t stop. He’s already breaking into a near-run, stumbling down the steps, out the shop door, onto the barely-light street. He shoves his arms into his jacket, hardly noticing the early-morning chill seeping through the fabric. 

He can hear your voice behind him—unsteady, laced with heartbreak—and it nearly makes his knees buckle. 

Instead, he forces himself forward, practically sprinting until the sound of your cries fades into the back of his memories.

All the while, the same thought hammers through his brain. 

He’s running again. 

He’s been running in his nightmares for years, and it turns out he’s just as good at it in real life.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish

[basedhighsenberg]

Tonight at work I had an engaged couple in their 40s come in who have been a regular of mine for a while now.

Every time they come in they, specifically he, asks for me. The guy is a textbook himbo construction worker but he's also one of the nicest most genuine people I've met since working there. Imagine a golden retriever that has been trained to operate a cement mixer.

They come up the counter and he is visibly anxious and turning red. He puts a small box on the counter and starts to say "So this is my mom's ring-" except can't quite finish the sentence and starts ugly sobbing in the store, in front of like a dozen other guests. He continues to take it out of the box while sobbing.

His fiance and I do our best to calm him down. I bring them over to a sitting area and grab a box of tissues for him. Finally he calms down, and he's able to actually talk his ideas through- which are actually very sweet. He goes on to explain that his mother passed recently and they had discussed using some of the diamonds in her old ring for for his future wife's engagement set.

He already had an idea- he wanted to combine two white gold contour bands into a ring-wrap to go with the ring she already had, and wanted to sub out several of the diamonds in the already existing WG bands for ones in his mom's ring. After inspecting the ring and consulting with my jeweler, we decided it was extremely feasible and should only take two-ish weeks.

Before I can use stones from an outside ring though, I have to test them to be sure they're diamonds. So as we do this, he again gets super anxious and starts welling up with tears. Thankfully though, all diamonds according to my tester (and my eye- I can now spot fake shit through a microscope fairly well).

I watch the wave of catharsis role over him like a warm blanket as I tell him the diamonds are all real. He then proceeds to run on a tangent. "is the ring good? Like, did my dad do good? Cause they were poor growing up and they did right by me and my sisters but like, is it a good ring? Did he have to work a lot for it? Is it good? I think it is but I'm not an expert. What do you think?"

It was built probably in the 60s when gold was cheaper and rings were often chunkier. A cathedral style mounting in 14k yellow gold, with three bands of diamonds- one with baguettes on the central cathedral arms flanking the 1ct-ish marquis center diamond, and two bands of round diamonds running below the cathedral arms to give the ring a look like it had two wedding bands joined to either side. It was well made and had weight to it, and all-in-all probably clocked in between 3-4 TDW. A comparable ring like that would probably easily be $10k+ retail in today's market.

So I tell him his dad did good, and he again gets super emotional- but manages to pull himself back enough to calculate the payments with his future wife. They figure out how to make it work, I ring them out and the ball starts rolling. They both shake my hand on the way out and he gives me one of the brightest smiles I can recall seeing anytime recently.

I should mention- his fiance had actually been a regular of the store before when she was married to another guy, who I found out after she left him was extremely abusive towards her. Every time they came in, his vibe was just rancid and everyone could pick up on it. I was happy to learn about her leaving him when she came in and asked me to help her clean up a bunch of jewelry that he had bought her (while cheating on her) so that she could sell it. I was happy to assist.

But, when she and this new dude first met a while later, I thought they weren't long for each other. She's a semi-professional Hispanic woman with 3 kids, and he is... again, a big retriever puppy. You would never picture these two together otherwise.

I see a lot of couples come in that I genuinely feel like are soul mates, or at the very least extremely compatible matches. I also have a lot of couples come in that aren't destined to be together long, and it's apparent within the first few minutes talking with them.

This time though, I have seldom ever been so glad to admit that I was wrong. By any rational measure of thought these two meeting shouldn't have happened, let alone falling for each other and discovering that they work extremely well together. All they want to do is spoil each other, and you can see the love in their eyes when they're talking with one another.

God brings people together through the strangest and craziest of circumstances in a way they never could have facilitated on their own, to form something greater than they ever could make by themselves.

The more I get to see the fruits of that in person, the more I consider myself blessed to have been brought by God to where I am now, to be in a place where I can help people take their miracle and run with it into the sunset.

I don't know if I'll do this job forever. But in the meantime, it sure is good.

[thyfleshc0nsumed]

Hey actually let's talk about cigarette burns since I feel like they're pretty in vogue rn for the t4t girlies out there. I have a few dozen of em so I'll share my experience.

First off, they are usually going to be semi permanent if not permanent. Not saying don't do it, but I am saying that should be considered.

There are ~16 on the back of my hand, all from around the same time from over 2 and a half years ago. Most if not all were not from putting out a square, but instead, holding the cherry against the skin. Most are faded enough that you have to look really close, but a few you could see from a glance

Most of these below are from a year and a change to nine-ish months ago, and they all were from putting out cigarettes. Some of them have a slight bump to them (likely small keloids) whereas some of them are much flatter. They don't itch or irritate and besides the visual blemish, I wouldn't notice I had em. Some are very faded and don't even show up well on camera, whereas others are very noticable even from a distance. I would very much not recommend getting them on your breasts, those are the only ones I regret. They healed slower and poorer and I just don't like their look.

I also have some on my back and legs but they're similar enough to examples shown here.

Second--the actual act of burning. Look idk jack shit but I find it's less painful and heals much nicer to just get it all done quick. It's like putting out a candle with your fingers. From contact with the skin to being pushed down all the way should probably be like a second, maybe less. Once it's out, it's out, it's not really gonna damage the skin any more, so unless you're going for long term skin damage, the name of the game is speed.

If you want to make that second hurt a little more, give it a drag right before you press it down, it'll heat the cherry up, though again, more likely to damage the skin more. Want it to hurt/damage a little less, wait till it's already going out. Besides that, any actual tips for putting on a good show are for another time.

Finally--caring for the wounds. I literally did nothing to care for any mine so no advice from me besides probably hit that bad boy with some alcohol wipes every now and then and please don't keep picking at it. I'm sure others can add what to actually do. I did have luck breaking down one that turned into a keloid by massaging it gently for a bit every few hours for a week or two but that could be random

I'm sure there are other risks but this is just things I've run into with burns, so others can feel free to add on

If u appreciated this post, consider checking out my leather at pansy-leatherwork.com

[hispanthicc]

Things I Like About Being A Guy That Got Fat On Purpose.

I think after my last text post I should post something more positive in relation to weight gain. I have been gaining or at least trying to for several years but it wasn't until the pandemic that I really started to grow.

I am now about 210 ish, it fluctuates but it doesn't go lower than that. I'm also like 5'7 so i look 230+.I wear a size 38 x 32 in pants... but I might actually be at 40. I was wearing XL's in shirts but over the past 3 months I've been wearing XXL's. I do go for looser clothes otherwise L-XL would be fine. I think looser just works for me cuz I have generalized anxiety disorder and I need to feel like I can breathe so the looser the better. It's kind of funny how huge that sounds because the fit on my clothes is very regular despite my description of it being loose. I also feel like the way looser shirts drape over my body my boobs look a lot bigger, I mean they are but it's not so obvious when I’m shirtless but it's very noticeable when I’m clothed. I'm kinda self conscious but i've also gotten to the point where I don't really care. I also like that i'm wearing the last size that a lot of stores carry (which is probably going to be really annoying soon). I bought from a plus size store twice this year (it's still 2024 as of writing this) Once when buying a suit for a friends wedding and then I bought some random sweater. both fit and looked really good on me.

I feel more confident the bigger I get. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe I just feel more sure of myself. Maybe when you're bigger you *have* to be more sure of yourself. I also think that after making content for so long I just dgaf about a lot of things. There really isn't anything that someone can say to me thats gonna make me not like myself or getting bigger. It's just kinda who I am now.

This is a somewhat recent observation and maybe it's a healthy one but, A lot of times as a gainer you are comparing yourself to other gainers. So you may be thinking things like "oh he eats so much more than me", or "I wish I was that big", or "I wish my capacity was bigger." however, if you compare yourself to someone who isn't a gainer you'll feel a lot bigger and you'll realize how you're eating like 5x more than a regular person, and doing so very easily. Regular people aren't eating whole pizzas, half a dozen burgers, liters of soda regularly. Regular people are likely trying to fit within a 2500 calorie diet range. A lot of gainers eat that before lunch lol. The first time I noticed this (I don't get out much) is when I was out with my friends a few months ago, we went to the movies, then dinner after. We went to an indian restaurant which obviously meant there was a lot of food. I really enjoyed it and I ate a lotttt but everyone else got full very quickly and had to get a to go box. I was the only one that didn't lol. (I need fat friends, or gainer friends irl, ik that's not possible for me rn tho).

Another thing is that people will want to cuddle you. You're just automatically considered to be more cuddly or huggable. People also seem to wanna squish me lol. one of my friends has rubbed my belly while cuddling in the movie theatre several times he's also grabbed my boobs so many times. so that's fun.

there's probably more things. lmk if I should write more. I’m gonna end this here. cuz i'm writing this on 0 sleep lol.

[onthewaytosomewhere]

oh oh oh - thanks @typicalopposite for the early tag 💚

so first since this snip will have no smut - which feels a lil weird for me i posted a fic on friday that does if ur interested in a lil pip had alex first firstprince fic - gonna need you to tell me what you want to happen here

okay peeps it's time - today will be the first day of this lil fic (48k-ish) i wrote and will be posting throughout the month - it's gonna be a "baker's dozen 12 days of winter/holiday" thing - so 13 days lolz

here's a snip from the first chapter (under a cut with some tags cuz well it's longer than i thought and i don't wanna pick another snip lolz) OPEN TAG TO ANYONE ELSE WHO WANTS TO PLAY ALONG

On his bed, Nora lounges like a queen surveying her domain. She’s lying on her stomach, one leg lazily kicking in the air, her other hand clutching a burrito the size of her head. The remnants of her lunch are scattered on the nightstand—a crumpled foil wrapper, a soda can tipped precariously, and a few stray tortilla chips that she occasionally crunches between her teeth. With her free hand, Nora rifles through a pile of Alex’s belongings next to her, occasionally plucking an item and tossing it into his suitcase without so much as a glance. A bottle of holiday-flavored lube arcs through the air, landing in the chaos with a soft thud. It’s swiftly followed by a couple of brightly colored dildos, one of which bounces off the edge and rolls onto the carpet. Alex freezes mid-step, his hand clutching a stack of folded shirts. He raises an eyebrow, his tone caught somewhere between incredulous amusement and sheer exasperation. “Really?” “What?” Nora doesn’t even bother looking up, taking another indulgent bite of her burrito. “You never know what kind of emergencies you might face, dude.” Alex closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, steadying breath before setting the shirts on a nearby chair. “This is a legitimate acting gig, Nora. Not that kind of movie.” “Still,” she says, her voice laced with mischief as she finally looks up, her hand now brandishing one of his neon dildos like it’s a trophy, “better safe than sorry. Besides, you still need to make some content for your Presidential Boudoir account; you don’t want to leave your plethora of subscribers in the lurch.”

okay tag ur it (in a no-pressure all that jazz way) @adreamareads @basil-bird @bitbybitwrites @blueeyedgrlwrites @cactusdragon517

@stnichols @caterpills @cha-melodius @cricketnationrise @dragonflylady77

@dreamtigress @emmalostinwonderland @england-would-fall @eusuntgratie @everwitch-magiks

@firenati0n @firstprincehornyramblings @firstsprinces @forever-fixating @hgejfmw-hgejhsf

@iboatedhere @inexplicablymine @jmagnabo92 @judasofsuburbia @kiwiana-writes

@lizzie-bennetdarcy @mikibwrites @myheartalivewrites @ninzied @nocoastposts

@orchidscript @piratefalls @porcelainmortal @priincebutt @royal-chandler

@seths-rogens @softboynick @sophie1973 @sparklepocalypse @stellarmeadow

@stratocumulusperlucidus @suseagull5914 @tailsbeth-writes @thedramasummer @thinkof-england

@thesleepyskipper @thighzp @tinyarmedtrex @zwiazdziarka

SOME DAY I WILL DO ONE OF THESE W/O SO MUCH RAMBLING AND WITH SNIPS ACTUALLY 6-7 SENTENCES BUT TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY 💚💚

[umhwarmglitterstory]

Bliss

Abby Anderson x f!reader (VIDEOGAME ABBY ONLY)

Mature

Sex scene

Chapter 1

(bliss masterlist)

It was past five p.m, and it was at least half an hour walking home, if you rushed. Your knee will kill you tonight, but still, better than staying out past sunset. At least Magda had promised it would go just for another week, and you'd finally, finally, be done.

And thank god! It had been so exhausting, and strange? Months working almost exclusively on making dozens of portable filters parts. Exhausting, boring, repetitive, full of distressing memories.

And, well, now Emanuel…

Just a few more days and the atelier will be done with military issued shit, what were the chances of encountering him? He'd definitely avoid you, you'd never see him again, probably… nor any of them. You will miss Abby, you know that, always seemed so cool and kind, especially considering.

Three cars passed by, an active ambulance in between two patrols. A few more cars, and then two more patrols, way slower, actually patrolling the streets.

This is how it should be, the further away you were from them, their peers, their values, the best.

“-It's them! It's all their fault! Why should my daughter pay?!”

You reached the deli at the end of that street, bought a large fruit salad. Don Ismael gave you the known old wink, you smiled back, watching him ‘covertly’ lift the paper lid and add a bunch of chilean red grapes on top. You found this place through your boss; Magda and Ismael were old friends, so there was enough camaraderie to ‘buy under credit’, or pedir fiado, like he says, although today you could easily pay.

You walked back outside, easing the weight of your bag strap on your shoulder, looking down at the steep scenery. Here it came, the actual trial: the next three streets you had to walk downhill. You just had to go extra slow, as most days you could stroll down without bating an eye. But this past weeks, with the extra load of work, you left the atelier already sore, adding today the haste to beat the nightfall.

Just a few steps downward, already thinking about how you should start wearing that knee brace again, when you heard a car slow down by your side. A gray suv, most definitely a w&f car, stopped right ahead of you. Your stomach dropped.

Reluctantly you kept walking, just because turning around could go from pathetic, to an actual infraction. The polarized window rolled down, and you fully expected an asshole officer, or worse, the bearded face of your brand new ex. Why would he do this? Didn't he-

But no, it was her smiling face who greeted you.

“Hey! I've- I was hoping to bump into you.”

As surreptitiously as you could, you checked the inside of the car. No one else, just Abby. You exhaled with relief.

“Hey” you greeted with a smile, a hand on the lowered glass, “What a coincidence, then”

Abby stroked her hair, today in a half up, half down, pretty, “Uhm, yeah- Well, good, no? Hop on” She said, already reaching to open the passenger door.

“So, are you taking me home?” You asked while buckling in.

“Uh, mind if we go get dinner? I haven't eaten yet, so…” She proposed, sweetly puckering her lips.

“Oh, okay… yeah sure, sure. Works for me.”

“Alright then… What do you say about tacos?”

“Tacos” You confirmed with a heavy nod. She smiled wider.

The car pulled away, the window up again, as mandatory with w&f issued vehicles, but a soft breeze came from the ac.

At the first red light she turned around, “So, why have- oh” She reached across the console and stroked harshly your forehead with her thumb

“Ow! What?”

“You got some paint-ish stuff” She showed you her fingertip smudged with blue

You snorted, that happened a lot, you just usually weren't tired enough to not check yourself on the mirror before leaving the atelier “Oh, yeah, that checks” You said.

Abby licked a different finger and went back to smudge again, luckier this time. You continued, a bit flustered “Lots of paints and varnish today”

“Really? What you working on now?”

“You know, more filtering stuff”

Abby frowned “Really? Geez, how many did we commissioned?”

You shrugged. “They are uh, delicate, complex, uh, bound to take time”

“Man, me, Manny, I don't know, we could say something, put off the delivery” You nodded noncommittally, probably wincing at the mention of his name, or the clear fact he hadn't shared the news yet.

Abby caught on that, apparently, she looked between the traffic and you.

“What?”

You smiled, very awkwardly, looking down at the blue bag on your lap. It was old and worn, and it didn't help that you were always pulling at the loose tendrils.

“So… I guess he haven't told you yet”

“Who? Manny? Tell me what”

“Uh… we broke up. Like, yesterday, we-”

You were suddenly pushed forward and right away pulled against your seat with the force of the car slamming the brakes.

The car behind honked loudly, too close to the suv, which itself was way too close to the van ahead. A crash avoided by the skin of the teeth.

“Abby! What the fuck?”

Her mouth was opened, her hands clutching the wheel. She let it go like hot metal.

“Shit!... shit, shit, sorry…”

A weird silence came over, all the way through the red light, and into the next two traffic lights. She talked again only when she parked outside the Mexican place, pulling the handbrake, hmm, probably a story behind that precaution.

“Ma- Emmanuel… he didn't tell me anything”

You huffed, “Yeah, figured”

Now it was her with her hands on her lap, staring upfront, the decorative neon lights of the restaurant reflecting on her eyes. You stared, just for a bit.

“Do… Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Uhh… I mean, yikes… He's your friend-”

“You are my friend, too. And… Important, may I add”

That did make you feel warmer.

You shrugged “We just, didn't work. Uhm…”

Really, you didn't. And honestly you never expected it to be serious or long. But you would have given it at least a couple more months.

But then, a week ago,

A ‘violent’ robber, that was obviously not that violent. The man entered the restaurant, gun up and ready. A functional and loaded gun, as Emanuel himself verified just a minute later.

You couldn't and wouldn't assure he wasn't willing to shoot or hurt. But the point is, he didn't. He went to the cashier and yelled for the money, just about ready to bolt. Emmanuel took him by surprise, the man just had no idea what to do. Emanuel said he was wlf&dra, and the man immediately faltered. Your then boyfriend ordered him to drop the gun and raise his hands, and he immediately obeyed.

Emanuel still punched him and tackled him to the floor. The man didn't fight back, but Emanuel still beat and kicked him, pinning him to the floor. Too forceful, too heavy. He was whimpering, bleeding. In two minutes two policemen came in, taking over.

The man lastly squirmed, just a little, “Please” in his mouth. Many spat on him before fully removing his weight.

“Too different and all that… But! Uh, it was fun, while it lasted. That's what matters, no?”

She stared at you, as if truly paying attention to your words. She lowered her eyes, “Did you love him?”

You bit your lower lip, “I'd be a lot sadder, no?”

****

“Most- All records were tampered from that day, by the staff, actually. If Nora gets it, the access to the database, we could…”

But Nora was still too unsure “It's not you risking your whole career!” She had barked at Abby. She'd yield in one or two months, but it still was so bothersome!

They were so close to getting it.

And if Nora didn't budge, in the end, she herself and Manny could force their way into any office. They would, she would. It was enough disrespect she had honored six death anniversaries now, without any justice. A seventh one just wouldn't happen.

But Nora's words still got to her. Didn't Abby risk herself too? Her career, her life? Oh, and Owen's condescension, not caring to ask Mel, because then again, why? With Mel's perpetual indifference if not distaste for Abby. And then Manny’s fucking assigned mood for this week.

Good, she could rip off her entire hair.

Instead, at the end of the shift, she let loose her tight bun, and went for a drive. A very stressful if not even dangerous activity, but she could do some ‘lone time’. Not that she'd have to worry about encountering her grumpy roommate, since grumpy Manny tended to stay out, working or drinking.

But then again, she didn't crave that specific loneliness of an empty apartment. ‘Truly’ subconsciously, she ended up in your neighborhood. Or close enough, she knew the workshop direction, for work reasons, and you said you lived closed by.

No, it was too late. The old shop was closed, the dirty and faded ‘créer & guérir’ sign with a sharing é was only lit by the street lamp. Maybe she could call you for coffee? Friendly, innocent coffee. Platonic. You technically had already invited her, no? ‘We should hang out one day’.

Whatever excuse, she just needed it, to see you, touch you, even if just in passing. Hear your voice, your laugh, and talk about- Manny?

Abby gulped, shaking her head. Go ahead, become some version of Mel? Hell no.

She just needed some fun. It had been a couple of very stressful months, advancing like never before on her dad's case. She needed to fix a night out, a girls night, without you. Or accept Dan's advances. Maybe even take some cheesy course, paint mandalas, do pottery, why not, ask at your workshop-

And Abby had to scoff. First she'd have to drive outside this zone, immediately, for you, for Manny, for herself.

Too bad god or the devil were on her side, because at the last second, she caught your very tired form walking down the street

****

She parked outside a three storey house, some light coming only from the first floor.

“This where I live” You said, signaling with your thumb.

“Oh, big” Abby answered, and you snorted

“No, dums, do I look rich? I rent the third one, quite small”

“Hmm, crafts won't make you a houseowner” Abby said, imprudently, and it was just a commentary, but still! Thank fuck you laughed.

Certainly, you’d be a lot sadder, if-.

Abby smiled because you did, and how could she not? How could anyone not?

“I'm on my way, what do you know? Not like I have any rush, I like it here”

“Really? Good neighboors?”

“Well, I've never seen the ones on the second floor, but Damaris, my uh, landlord? Gosh, she's an angel.”

“Ah, so uh, good pricing, then?”

“Yeah… well, more than good, you know? She's caring- well, all that”

“Man, that must be nice. Familiar, right? Much better than, you know, barely greeting the neighbors. I, uh, I think, last time, was when I lived with my dad? There was this lady across the hall, that was always sharing her cooking”

You chuckled “The classic ‘oopsies, I made too many cookies’?”

“Yes! It was rather obvious, and they were kinda dry. But uh, at least my dad found it funny”

You both laughed. Abby had been staring at you, a bit too much. She hoped you didn't notice, and she hoped too, with her whole heart that you did, that you please, please, felt it too.

“At least wasn't the raisin ones” You joked after a bit.

“Hey, I won't take raisin slander!”

“Oh, my, me?- Oh, I got a bunch of grapes here, actually.” You lifted the bag on your lap.

“Yeah, sure” Abby rolled her eyes playfully

“Yes? Come, I'll show you… I mean, if you want?

Go, with you, to your apartment?

“Uhm…” She shouldn't, you shouldn't. But it was just an invitation, no? Friendly, innocent, platonic-

“Like a payment for dinner? May you accept some grapes, ha… or is it too lame?” You asked with a pinch of shyness, of vulnerability.

God it was such a bad idea!. Just think about Manny, poor, poor Many-

But she took in your precious, expecting face. It was over. “Sounds fair”

“Maybe with some coffee?” You asked opening the main door

“You're joking”

You pushed her shoulder with yours

“I think I have some yogurt”

The two of you went up the three sets of stairs. Nothing, and yet Abby's heart just kept accelerating with every step, every second. She focused on the decoration, on the warm lights and the earthy smell from the flowerpots. Anything to not zero on your figure ahead, to not think.

Just as your keys jingled, a small bark greeted from the other side

“That would be Jackie” You said. The door opened just enough and a small dog appeared, opaque orange fur and big black eyes, squarish and a little fat, probably some mixed chihuahua. Jackie didn't stop a second to growl at Abby, just circled her and went back to your feet, wiggling half its body.

Abby chuckled “Quite a bad guard dog. Terrible”

You scoffed “Well, that's just because we are already inside his domains” You picked him up. “This whole house is his, actually, by proxy”. You fully opened the door and invited her in.

“It's Damaris’. Here and then I babysit, we may have just missed her dropping them”

“Them?”

You put Jackie down and signaled with your chin to the small mustard couch, a black dog, slightly bigger and slimer than Jackie was laying on a throw pillow. “There she is, that's Luna” Luna looked at Abby with more reward than her friend, but still didn't make a fuss, her face was covered with white and gray hairs, looking overall unimpressed. Still, she moved her tail a little as a greeting.

You took off your shoes and Abby followed, leaving them by the door, between two ferns. Abby sat opposite to Luna on the couch, extending her hand slowly to pet the puppy's head. Abby looked around, at the many plants and books around the room, at least one pot and a couple of books on every surface. Under the glass of the coffee table Abby recognized a science book she had to study in highschool.

Jackie came to interrupt the observations, putting his front paws on Abby's leg, staring hard for two seconds with his shiny bead eyes, and then going to lay down on the dog bed between the couch and the window, chewing on a bone shaped toy.

“All this company… guess you don't need me, then.” Abby jested, making you scoff from the kitchenette. It was a small place, just the living room and small kitchen, two more doors in front of Abby, one half opened showing a bed, and the other leading to a bathroom or a laundry room, she guessed.

You washed your hands on the sink, and started going through your cabinets, a radio sounding somewhere, filling the space with soft music. A wave of domesticity coming with the view of your busy back.

Abby had to ask to use the bathroom, and it was indeed what was on the other door. She went about her business, washing her hands, flattening her hair with wet fingers, then splashing cold water on her face, watching the droplets going down her nose and chin on her reflection.

She was not doing anything bad.

Sure, this was starting to feel like a dream come true, but that was it. You were friends, period. Also, you and Manny were fucking finally not together anymore.

Okay, okay. Avoiding her eyes in the mirror, Abby fixed her hair, a little bit more than necessary.

When she got back, there you were sitting on the small couch beside a sleeping Luna, four things on the coffee table: two small cups with fruit, and two small cups with greek yogurt.

A mix of chopped apples, pears, bananas, pineapple, and plump red globes. It was delicious, because it was your offering mostly, but it really tasted extra juicy and sweet.

“These grapes are good” Abby commented, chewing on one. “Like- Where did you buy them?”

“Uh…” You focused on stabbing something with your fork “The super”

“Really? Which one?”

“Uh, the one in the fourth- you just gotta know how to choose them”

“They're never this juicy-

“Lucky pick! So, how was your work?

“Uh… heavy, as usual”

“What are you again?”

Abby frowned, what? “...A woman?”

You chuckled “Like, your rank, I mean”

Abby felt her face going red “Oh, right! Right, uhm, second Lt.”

But you kept laughing.

“Aw, come on! Spare me” Abby whined. It was already a miracle she could confection sentences being this close to you!

“You? Spare me! You are untouchable, like, this super accomplished, uh, officer? Let me laugh this once”

Abby felt her face reddening again, now under a different shadow “It's- it's not that great” she said with just a thread of voice.

“Mmh, yes it is” you defended, spooning down some of your yogurt “I get shivers thinking back of the drills” You made a face of disgust at the memory.

“You never thought of joining?”

You snorted, but kept your eyes down on your cup “...Hell no…”

Abby nodded, “I mean, most do like that, the four years and dip”

“Mhh” You said with your lips pursed

“What”

“Well, I uhm, sort of, didn't finish the four years? So…”

Now that was an unthinkable for Abby

“Why”

You shrugged “It's just– it wasn't for me”

Abby nodded, but her frown remained

“So, how long were you?”

“Two years” You answered quickly, setting down your cup on the table.

So, halfway? Considering the first year was the hardest, and yet leaving after? Considering the immense benefits that came with it?

Of course Abby didn't say it out loud, but you did read her face.

“I know, I know.” You said with a roll of your eyes “When you know you know, I guess”

“But- you know…” Abby didn't want to press. But still!

You raised your shoulders again, finally making good eye contact again

“This is my thing, you know, being an artisan” you said with a little gist on the word, “I get to do pretty things”

Rarely Abby heard of people so carelessly denying the service benefits, well, except the very rich guys that could go sideways.

But then again, it was you. Beautiful, precious you. So, why couldn't you do your pretty things all day, everyday, if that's what you desired?

“Fair enough…” Abby conceded with a small smile. “Tell me about this, how was your day creating?”

You laid back dramatically against the backrest with a heavy sigh “You know! What do you think? There's nothing pretty lately, doing nothing but stupid filters!”

And you complained with such a cute pout Abby laughed, putting down her cup and leaning back with you.

“The ups will pay you good, I promise”

“Mmm… still sucks”

“Still sucks,” Abby agreed with a nod.

“You really saved me with dinner” You said after a minute of silent musing, “I couldn't have come home to cook” And you seemed to shiver at the prospect alone “So, thank you, really”

Abby bit on her lip, almost hard enough for blood to spill “I, uh, I could take you out to dinner… anytime” Abby proposed, staring down at her fidgeting fingers.

Please, please, let's not grow apart. Please, please, lets- lets-...

You smiled, shy yourself, which was an excellent sign. “Don't, Anderson, or I'll take you up on that”

Abby looked back down at her hands, at some city lights beyond the veiled curtains in your window.

She heard your small chuckle, with a seriousness in it she begged she wasn't just imagining. You moved a little in your spot, half laying on your side, turning towards Abby. She copied you, ending face to face, the space in between barely classifying as decent.

“And uh” you picked at something on her shirt, inexistent, just lazily pulling on the fabric.

“What if I want… Lobster, hmm?”

Abby chuckled, you didn't really eat meat or stuff, but still. “I could fix that” Abby answered you.

You both smiled, nervous, pulling and pushing at the eye contact. Craving, Abby hopped.

“That so? And if I want lobster everyday”

“Every day, three times a day?” Abby added with mock seriousness, you nodded along with a grin.

Abby laid her head back, heavy, her heart rate in the hundreds, staring up at the light pastel of your ceiling. This was it, no?

“Again, I could fix that, I really, really could” If you let me, please, please let me

She moved her head back to face you, stare at you, finally daring to lose herself in your eyes, under your knowledge, and you looked back. You looked her in the eyes, and she was the one feeling lost. Your caress went around her face, her hair, and when you looked at her lips, she made up her mind.

“I just… Want to kiss you” Abby said, defeated, resigned. Too afraid, but still forcing herself to hold your gaze, to assess you, bracing herself. Time stood still for a second, and so did you, not a muscle moving.

Oh, how hurtful will be this rejection.

And then heaven came down.

You angled forward.

Abby would always, always, be there to receive you. She met you halfway, threw herself, more like it. That first touch, that first entangle, the softest lips meeting hers, too damn quick- then you separated, just for a second, and inevitably clashed back. What did it even feel like? How could Abby know when she had just died?

You opened your mouth, just a little, but Abby understood, she pulled you closer, by your waist first, then positioning your leg across, so you were straddling her,

****

A zap of electricity ran up your spine, it felt too good. Abby caressed you, one hand around your torso, stroking your back, going under your shirt, the other on your neck.

There wasnt a discussion, you wanted this, you yearned for this. Something opened in the back of your head, a small door with awkward truths, that you had been pushing back and back for a while. You were always looking at her, no? It wasn't just you liking the idea of having her as an extension friend, it wasn't how easy it was to have her always around, it was just her, just Abby. Just she herself, closer. How much had this made you doubt your break up, postpone it? Not because of your relationship itself, or your boyfriend, but for having to say goodbye to her. Wasnt she one of the las tethers holding you to Eman-

You pulled back, without opening your eyes. You tried to laugh it but it came too chopped. “We- uh, we just, I don't, I don't- isn't this too fast? Are you- are you sure?”

Because it had been just yesterday that it ended! And up to a week ago you still saw him and you together! You remember when you and him just got together, Emmanuel mentioned Abby, and how she was “a platonic soulmate” You rolled your eyes, fully expecting either some basic friendship, or a weird infatuation where they obviously wanted each other. Then you saw them together, and he wasn't lying: in the most endearing way, they were sort of made for each other. Who wouldn't kill for an understanding like that with a friend, for that connection?

He had said, -quite ominously-, that they had the most unbreakable bond that could there be: shared trauma. Something horrible that linked all of their ‘clique’

They were besties, they were excellent coworkers, and even roommates. What Were you doing?

But when you finally opened your eyes, expecting, hoping, for a look of resignation, of contempt, of anger, of realization, ready to negotiate a pause, an amount of time to wait, anything! You just found… adoration?

Abby had her eyes eyes half-closed, admiring you, with so much heart. Had she even listened to what you had just said? She had, because she grabbed your face, pulling you a little closer, and said looking into your eyes, with finality, and an almost serene smile “I just… I just really want to kiss you… hold you, have you”

That was the seal. A day, a year, what did it matter? Whatever! You found love, you were afraid. You were sure. You kissed her again, deeper, hungrier, pressing every part of your body that you could against hers. Maybe it was better like this, without talking. You could do it come morning.

****

Abby opened her mouth and started eating you. It felt too good. She clutched your hip, your waist, your back, caressing your face, your neck, with a soft pressure that delicately grew and grew and grew.

Abby licked your lips, down your chin and your neck. She had to taste, know, memorize. The ecstasy felt so intense she’d have to water down the memory for the rest of her life.

She helped you take off your shirt when you separated for a moment. She forced down the cups of your bra, guiding one breast to her mouth, squishing the other, you moaned loudly. How had she lived without you? She started swirling your nipple with her tongue, biting and sucking on the nub. You were so soft and sweet.

“Abby” you complained, your fingers grasping at her scalp “Yeah- baby” and yes, yes! Call her baby until the day she dies.

She stood up, her eyes rolling back at how good it felt to have you clinging to her. You gasped and giggled.

“This is like a fantasy” you sighed.

“How so?” Abby asked, caressing your throat with her nose.

“This, all of this… and check these guns” You said caressing her bulging shoulders. You two giggled, until your eyes left her muscles to lay on her face again, staring intently at her eyes “A dream come true” you prayed, caressing her face, holding it between your hands. It was unfair, making her feel sacred. You kissed again, deeper and slower. Abby held your thighs tighter, while your tongues toppled each other.

“Left” You muttered against her lips, Abby carried you to the room, pushing the door fully open with her back. She delicately placed you on your bed, right by the pillows.

“So” Abby, asked, crawling after you, staying on all fours above you “This is a nice quilt”

You laughed, but still your eyes got carried to the bulging muscles caging your head

“You knitted it?” She asked, enjoying playing suave nonchalant.

You rolled your eyes

“I'm not a master of all crafts, you know?” you complained, your fingers snaking under her issued t shirt. “Still, do plenty with my hands” You tried to pull the thing off, Abby complied, taking it off and throwing it on the floor. The floor of your bedroom, where her clothes should always belong.

She stood back on her knees, unbuttoning your pants while you unhooked your bra

“Good, good” Abby said, suddenly growing breathless, your underwear came off with the rest in one pull.

Abby repositioned between your knees“But for now” she laid down, tuckered before her temple. She extended her arms under your legs, reaching for your hands, putting them on her head, your fingers sinking between the strands of hair “Keep them there”

You clasped them once as a greeting, and an agreement. And Abby dove in, hungry for the glee in front of her. It wasn't just the respite of a ‘finally’, more like the crown back to the rightful princess, the long lost one.

She kissed and kissed your venus, inhaling deeply, stroking her cheeks on the inside of your thighs. Your fingers kept massaging her scalp, and she answered with the rub of her thumbs on your perfect flesh.

You giggled and she smiled, briefly, going right back into focus, kissing down millimeter by millimeter, memorizing your scent, feeling the damp on her lips. She licked them, groaning at the flavor, at the knowledge, at the idea of having you. Her tongue pressed, breaking through your labia, a flood of lust coming to greet and invite. You did too, with your exhaled voice.

Abby licked down to up, one side then the other, slowly, rapt with the noises you were making, belatedly culminating in a swirl around your clit.

“Fuck!- ah!-”

Abby kept the pace for a while, and why not? You'd have eternity, oh, you will. Nonetheless, despite her discipline, you were growing more and more sensitive, more and more vocal. Here and there you squished her head, and your hands pulled harshly strands of her hair, guiding her head, aiming for the peak.

And fuck, if that didn't dwindle Abby's willpower. It felt like she may had peed herself with how wet she was, assured of a wet patch through her cargos.

Her moans joined yours. It was a brand new frustration, hot and delicious, translating into Abby pushing harsher her tongue, full on massaging your vulva, entering and smoothing the ridges and brims, making her way into your channel.

You gasped, and groaned, in and out of grace. She couldn't wait, she had to know. Abby zeroed in on your clit, suckling fervently, crying herself.

“Yes! Yes yes yes- There! Yes!”

She had to press down your hip to stop your squirming, feeding on your whimpers and your flavor.

You gasped a final time, and everything stopped, your back arched off the bed, with the most wonderful cry Abby had ever heard. And she kept going, to the last drop, stopping only when your shaking hands pushed her away.

In hindsight it had been too quickly, she hadn't stop to breath, leave it alone speak. Like the first time ever tasting candy.

But Abby had too never felt so satisfied, and spent, not without an orgasm. Horny, but not as much as she was hungry for you.

She crawled a little upwards, plopping down with a sigh on top of you, her head on your chest.

You kept your eyes closed, like in a deep long slumber, but soon enough your arms embraced her, and you reached to kiss her forehead.

She stared at you, and when you opened your eyes, you kept looking at each other, somehow in slow motion, under a pink filter. Your hand found her face, swiping her chin with your finger, then stroking her check with the most tender touch a person could give, Abby was sure. She closed her eyes, feeling safer and more at peace than she had in a long, long time.

(Chapter 2 ->)

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

Danny Phantom (and technically optional crossover) Prompt

Imagine, if you will, a not-aging Danny Fenton. There’s about a dozen ways to do this, but in this case—Danny still has a human lifespan, he just looks human (though, I won’t argue against any immortal Dannys). As Fenton, he’s just stuck at fourteen. Phantom, being a ghost whose appearance is based on what he sees himself as, does look older. By this point, he’s probably retired from superheroics—I just find unphased and jaded 18 year old Danny to be hilarious. So, he’s just like ‘I wanna go to college’.

So he does. He just. Always looks 14. His hair grows, he can build muscle, and he can definitely have dark eyes—but otherwise? Short ass 14 year old. He constantly has to prove that yes, he’s the real Danny Fenton, and no, this is not a scam. He eventually has to get meta-specific paperwork filled out—no need for the genetic test if the power is fairly obvious. (Of course, it’s possible to do this AU as not crossover, but then you’ll have to do the legwork of making it less odd that someone has superpowers, and whether that means everyone knows he’s Phantom, which might change some of the issues. It also doesn’t have to be DC, for instance, you could use Marvel or even My Hero Academia—ultimately, up to the writer.)

Anyways, he gets his degree(s), enters the workforce, and by the Ancients is it hard to be taken seriously. Even people who see his paperwork and know for a fact he’s a full fledged adult are just like, aw, poor kid, can’t even reach the top cabinets without stretching or climbing. So, while he could just keep being the most qualified 14-looking-adult, he’s quickly getting sick of it. He can’t even be a school teacher, none of his students will take him seriously! Not even the younger ones, cause even the other teachers aren’t respecting him.

There are about… three options available to him, up to whoever wants to pick up this sort of prompt.

1-he gets into acting or modeling. Or perhaps, stunt acting. And everyone is just a bit unnerved about how absolutely none of the nonsense seems to get to him, and he’s just… a little *too* bendy sometimes. He’d make a great scare actor, if he wasn’t terrible at scaring people.

2-he goes into the work force as Phantom in a cheap wig and terrible contacts. Half the time, he forgets at least one contact. Cue mystery of who the hell this guy is, because, for ONCE, someone actually paid attention to the paperwork and knows that he DOESN’T look like THAT.

3-he tries to get work in a slightly more remote position, where his colleagues are few to none. Of course, that is, until some hero or another such professional has to meet him in person, and gets one hell of a shock about who their expert on the computer has been all this time.

There’s of course the undercurrent of Danny’s experiences as a teen hero, so sometimes absolutely wild situations show up, and his stories are like, super weird. He thinks at least SOME of his experiences must be universal, and they’re… really, really not. The outlandish stories don’t help the whole ‘not taken serious’ thing, but then they turn out to be true. Bonus points to rogues or ghosts showing up to say hi and everyone is like WAS THAT A FUCKING DRAGON?! And Danny’s just like ‘yeah she was a beauty pageant coordinator in my hometown, we kept in touch. I helped put her brother in jail’. As if that did NOT just raise more questions than before.

Of course, use or don’t use what you want (such as, he does keep a public-ish position, or he just goes full villain to prove a point, or even somehow starts working undercover at schools and summer camps for xyz reasons, whether or not the Justice League finds him, what his degree(s) weee even in, etc etc), I just think that Forever Teen Danny stories are interesting.

Basically… it’s reverse Shazam, haha.

[apprenticestanheight]

heyy, i’m here requesting being loyal to my word lol, i have this little idea where adam is stalking/taking pics reader for a job and actually gets like obsessed ?? with them and tries to awkwardly make a move lmao, and obviously this happens before the bathroom events, idk if this idea sucks i just miss my pookie💔

Aldis- A.S x gn! reader

I love this idea so much and writing it was so fun!! Thank you so much for sending it in, writing for Adam is definitely a blast lol

Fic type- this is fluffy!!

Warnings- shitty bosses are implied, and the prices that are mentioned are inaccurate (I looked up aldi grocery prices and then adjusted for inflation by like, a dollar or two lol), stalk-ish behavior is mentioned (adam talks about trailing you going to and from work), cigarettes and smoking are mentioned a few times and Adam might be a little ooc

It started off as a job. Adam found himself hired by your employer to see what it was, exactly, that you did on the way to work and from it. Adam didn't want to know why your boss had wanted to know that of you and the money was good enough to not question it, so he went along with the words of your boss because the money, in the end, helped him pay rent on the shitty apartment he called home.

It started, apparently, because you'd come late to work a couple of mornings in a row with a variety of different excuses--the rain on a day of downpour, your car had broken down, your car was in the shop, your alarms weren't working--but Adam didn't bother to question that, either. He got his camera, he trailed you, he developed the photos and took them to your boss in exchange for cash that could be either devoted to making the rent or buying cigarettes.

Eventually, what was originally just a job became something a bit more for him. He caught himself genuinely caring about you, trailing you not because your boss asked but to make sure you got home without issue.

Care became infatuation, and infatuation got Adam Stanheight where he was--standing inside an Aldi Supermarket at six in the evening on a crisp day in late summer-early fall, having pretended to bump into you in the candle section, of all places, while he shopped Aldi for the deals that he could get on groceries as he needed them anyway.

"Shit!" Adam cursed, catching the candle you held before it could hit the ground on the basis of nothing but luck. "I am so sorry--I barely know my way around this area. I don't typically come down here, but the shop near my apartment is closed for renovations and I needed to grab groceries." Not entirely a lie--you lived in a different spot in New Jersey than he had, but only twenty minutes in a car, and the shop near his apartment where he could've grabbed groceries was closed, so it was Aldis and their bargain deals on any and everything both out of necessity and his minds desire to make a move.

"Oh, no worries!" You laughed. "Seriously--I don't know my way around here either, I typically shop somewhere else, but stuff has happened at work so I gotta do what I gotta do."

Adam had stopped taking photos of you only two days before, having been let go from the job after 'complications' according to your boss.

Adam was trying to flirt, but the flirting part of getting someone to give you their number was not quite his strong suit.

"So," you said. "There must've been another shop in your area. What brings you here?"

"You know that it's impossible to pass on ground beef at 99 cents a pound," Adam said, laughing. "Or a dozen eggs for $1.35, or milk for the low low price of $1.86--it's a rough economy and I am doing my best."

You laughed, and Adams heart gave a funny little flip. "$200 gets you a fuck ton more here than it does anywhere else. I've got candle money, which is nice to have again."

"Are things at work all right?" Adam asked, a feeble attempt at flirting that probably came off a bit too invasive. "Shit--there I go. Asking the way too personal questions. You don't have to answer that, we barely know each other and I don't mean to be invasive."

"My boss has cut my hours in half, is all," you said, shrugging. "I'll be looking for a new job next week, do you know anybody?"

"Nobody reputable," Adam said. "Not that I work with people who aren't, but--"

"What do you do, and what's your name? I'd like to put a name to a handsome face."

"My name is Adam Stanheight," he said. "I take photos."

"Subject matter?"

"PI stuff," Adam said. "I am a glorified snitch, basically, but the money is good."

"Well, glorified snitch," you said. "My name is Y/N and I work in marketing. You ever wanna make a career switch, give me a call."

You passed him your number, and Adam found himself in awe just a bit. He'd fumbled his way through flirting with you like it was the act of trying to share a cigarette and he was a first-time smoker, and you'd flirted like it was nothing.

"What if I don't want to make a career switch?"

"Call me anyway," you said. "We can shop at Aldis together and I can tell you all about the woes of my life in the frozen fruit aisle."

You walked away thereafter, and Adam was left to stand, his cart to his left, in awe.

[all-pacas]

do you have any book recs or something you read recently that you really loved? i’ve been in a bit of a slump with my reading and i’d love to pick it back up

lol thanks for indulging me!

Currently I'm working my way through 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. It is very good, very dense, and impossible to even start to explain, one of those novels in a novel in a novel situations, loosely about a city in Mexico, but also a) a love triangle between english professors b) a teacher who grows obsessed with a physics book c) an American reporter sent to Mexico to report on a boxing match d) hundreds of murdered women e) a german writer. It's. It's a lot. It's very good, it's very long, I cannot explain it succinctly.

I also just started Haruki Murakami's Wild Sheep Chase, which. I love Murakami novels but they are probably not for everyone! As a starter book for him I like to recommend Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, as it's less surreal and more grounded than a lot of his novels (and shorter). Killing Commodore, one of his more recent novels, was very fun. And if you're into sort of weird Japanese literature, I highly recommend The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa, a sort of… sci-fi-ish story about a lovely peaceful society who, periodically, have concepts (like "birds") outlawed and thus forgotten by all, or anything by Sayaka Murata, who has what I can only describe as humanity dysphoria and writes fascinating short stories.

After I wrote all this I decided to self-shame and show off my Book Mountain, the pile of books by my nightstand I've accumilated over many, many months and mostly have not yet read:

The Field Guide to the Connecticut River is actually super interesting if, like me, you grew up in New England and never thought of that river over there as an eco system in itself. It has illustrations! Pictures of frogs! Geological maps! Super fun to just page through, makes me wanna go hike and look at ponds.

Mary Beard is a fantastic author and I've loved her other Roman-related books (SPQR and Pompeii), super stoked to take another crack at Emperor of Rome.

Ours is a really well written novel with an interesting idea — in the 19th century a group of mostly escaped slaves form their own secret town hidden by magic and isolated from the rest of the world, and how that both protects and hurts them. I just can't get into it, but eventually I'll finish it.

A Children's Bible is quite short and it was fantastic. A group of rich adults rent a summer home and bring a dozen or so children, who are left to fend for themselves as their parents drink and lie around, all while quietly in the background the rest of the world collapses.

Lies and Weddings was fun! it's by the author of Crazy Rich Asians and is essentially a remix of that, just set in England this time. But if you like that sort of thing, it's a fun, quick read.

Bright Young Women was another really good book, I just recently finished re-reading it. I very much enjoyed Jessica Knoll's first book, Luckiest Girl Alive, she's a very strong POV writer. Bright Young Women is a sort of… fictionalized version of the fallout of the Ted Bundy murders, except the murderer is never named or made out to be sexy or sympathetic or cool. It's more about what comes before and after 'the perpetrator' comes into people's lives. Very, very good book.

Another novel (not pictured, but it's on my bookshelf in my line of sight) I really enjoyed recently is Wellness by Nathan Hill: he wrote The Nix a few years back and that was also great, he has a very light and funny style even as he's tackling like. Grief and trauma. Wellness is basically about a married couple in a rough spot, examining them both, how they came to be who they are, the way your past shapes you even if you don't know it, and who they try to be for one another. Maybe halfway through the story there is a silly little anecdote that later came back and made me cry because it was so lovely and paid off so well. Definitely recommend.

[my-hobby-is-finding-the-source]

Hi! There was a Tumblr blog that posted this (and I'm pretty sure they were the original artist, since they had lots of other pretty Pokémon artwork in the same style, and I usually made sure never to reblog from reposters) like 6-ish years ago or so and it blew my closeted teenage lesbian mind, but now no matter what I do can I find them again, and I've remade like a dozen times since then so I don't even have any reblogs of their other art.

(Wow, I was going to send a way grainier screenshot of the picture with this ask, but I actually found a higher quality saved version deep in my camera roll just now. I still can't find the source with it, but it's probably better to work with)

I would appreciate any help!

As much as I tried, I could not find another post with this image.

I was pointed to this unreachable and unarchived collection that, apparently, once held a copy of it. Hopping between pointers I went, to pixiv, to Twitter, and to Tumblr (well, Tumblrs), but that piece still eludes me.

Although, the artist still seems quite active, as they have recently set up shop on Misskey as well, which is a blessing in this conturbed times.

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week 2024-09-16

It's Autumn

This is late because turns out there's not really a polite way to finish tapping out your Mondaypost when someone else is already in your bed.

Listening: a recommendation from the Topic Lords podcast, Ancient Sword Cult by Writhen Hilt. It's about swords!

Epic fantasy metal is a tremendously funny genre.

Watching: Watched Saloum with @thosearentcrimes because we heard it on Kill James Bond and both went "that sounds cool as hell" and it was!

Another great addition to the group of films where guys turn to the camera and go "Hey does anyone else feel doomed."

This is a really tense and well put together crime drama, some top-tier monologues and characters who are going all out. Very much worth watching without looking up too much about it I think.

Reading: Started A Desolation Called Peace a few days ago. Three Seagrass! She's so clueless! Man my girlfriend is so cool it's a shame she's not a complete person.

Having read Memory, then all of The Masquerade, and now Desolation, I think this gives me an interesting look at what I like and don't like about each series. Teixcalaan doesn't spend so much time obsessing over little world details, instead building a culture and atmosphere of empire that I really enjoy. The Masquerade is more on the ground which has benefits, but it's somewhat artificial feeling. It's at its best in the very personal moments around Baru and the other cryptarchs.

Still getting through Desolation though.

Playing: Mine Craft. I've been fiddling with some mods like Distant Horizons which does low-res renders of the world out way further than the stock game. I always get back into Minecraft for like three weeks and then put it down for another year. I have a whole lot of thinking done on how the game design of Minecraft is very cleverly pushing on different kinds of players

Making: Printing again for the first time in a while, more home objects. Finally have an excuse to get dozens of tiny neodymium magnets!

Tools and Equipment: I got a new-ish oscilloscope! Proper digital one too, Hantek DSO2D10. It has one feature I consider a nice-to-have and one feature I consider essential for cramped home lab use.

The essential feature is a built-in signal generator. Sure, it can only do a couple dozen MHz cleanly and "cleanly" is being generous there, but for like a $50 premium over a similar non-generator scope you get a single channel generator with arbitrary waveform capabilities, very handy. Saves a lot of space and makes you more likely to actually use the damn thing.

The nice-to-have is built-in logic analyzer features. Yes, a digital logic analyzer will do this better and cheaper, and yes, you could even just dump the waveform and analyze it on a computer, but being able to poke around on a board and just hit "tell me what I'm looking at here" on a random bitstream is tremendously valuable for speed and comfort.

The DSO series is pretty cheap, they're no Tektronix or Keysight, but they're a damn side better than pure analogue, having used pure analogue for a long time. Just skip it, storage and maths functions are so worth it.

[theriverpointace]

short ramble responding to your tags lol: I started off as a educational psychology major, creative writing minor and then did one show with my uni's drama club and then changed my entire degree and did so many cool shows and wrote cool things (lavender menace and red rabbit my beloveds) If I was able to, I would have majored in theatre too (but they have now completely cut theatre from my campus 🥲)

ooh educational psych sounds interesting! i have a friend who's an education major/theatre minor and her passion for it is so so epic

like i said i changed my major after like. a week or two lol. part of it was also the way i just got super quickly absorbed into the theatre group (clique, we're a clique, my school is pretty clique-ish 😅), plus! there's another girl there who's three years older than me but is otherwise very nearly my carbon copy (if i were from the opposite coast) and SHE also started out as a creative writing major/theatre minor before switching to a musical theatre major and double majoring! so naturally i had to do the same, we wouldn't be matching otherwise 😂

theatre's just. intoxicating. like you said, all it takes is one show. i was hooked as soon as i saw other people audition. when callbacks were posted and i was called back for antigone. when our director and her husband piled a dozen people into their little apartment downtown just to hang out for fun. when people scooted their chairs in the caf to make room for a girl whose name they could just barely remember, i was so new. when the set got built, piece by piece over two months. when i built my character secret. when our creon would yell at us, only to laugh and crack jokes as soon as rehearsal was over. when i got tears in my eyes from ismene's sheer overwhelming emotion. when i heard people clap for the first time at something i had performed in, actually really performed in—no more shitty high school shakespeare! and i've been assistant costume manager for the last three months, and it's been exhausting and stressful and why the hell did they put two freshmen in charge of all the costumes for a show with as many quick changes as "the glass menagerie"!!!!! i've never done a quick change in my life!!! but i love these people to death and though i'd rather be on the stage again i'd never trade this for the world.

they're also making our theatre department smaller so i feel your pain :( they're graduating this year and next year's seniors, but this year's sophomores and freshmen are being advised to simply switch to the new course catalogue since they're dropping about half a dozen essential classes for the old catalogue. which means i won't take smth like stage makeup, or dramatic lit and crit, which SUCKS, but i'm still so, SO excited for the shows i'll get to be a part of here, and the friends i'll make with the group that's here now, the group that'll come in next fall, the group that'll be here when i'm a senior. it's so so sick and i love it so much!!!

[princess-of-the-corner]

You. . .should probably not have informed me that you have seen Sky High and have ever had thoughts about it, because now I am going to QUESTION you (I have not seen BNHA, despite my absolute best efforts, so some of these may be stupid questions):

1) I get the sense in Sky High that the power ratio is swapped compared to BNHA. Like, having superpowers is the 20%, not having powers is the 80%, which is why it's still expected that you hide your powers. Is this a regional difference? Is the power ratio actually different or is it just that Sky High is only for kids who's parents are heroes? And so lots of people are powered, they just aren't heroes and aren't focused on?

3) Actually, back on the hiding your powers thing, why do they do that in Sky High but not BNHA (to my understanding at least)? Is it just that the Sky High cast is all superheroes or the children of superheroes trying to maintain a secret identity, or is it that America has some sort of stigma on superpowers (possibly due to it being a minority)?

3) What is Sky High's relationship to UA? How rare are these hero schools? Are they even aware of each other? Are they rivals? Friendly? Do they do exchange programs? Does one have significantly more clout than the other?

4) The Commander and Jetstream are very very patriotic and American heroes. Is this just like their aesthetic, or does it have something to do with them being diplomats/representatives/mascots for America?

5) Sky High is built off beloved cheesy stereotypes, which means the stated goal of most of the villains is World Domination TM. Has anyone ever actually gotten close, and what would that have looked like in both areas?

6) What would a regional super school in somewhere like europe or south america look like and how would it compare to UA and Sky High?

7) Any and all thoughts on particular plot and character beats that you liked or did not like from Sky High, and/or how you would do them differently?

Sorry this is so long, I just wasn't aware other people who watched this movie ever had Thoughts about it outside the initial watch, and I am EXCITED!

Honestly I think most of my thoughts would be that Sky High happens earlier in the Timeline.

When Quirks are less common and being a Superhero is only a new profession, and due to how few Heroes there are they still maintain Secret Identities to the public but are government-registered.

Over time it transferred to how it is in bnha where Heroes are publicly known and less secret identities (though many do keep their homelife on the downlow while hamming it up at 'work'), and Quirks being much more common in newer generations therefore allowing more schools.

Hero Schools nowadays are decently common. Like in Canon bnha there's half a dozen for Japan alone. So you can only imagine how many America would have. At LEAST one per state. I think UA and Sky High would be aware of each other in the sense that they're considered the best Hero School in their respective country, and some friendly rivalry and international programs together. Similar with Hero Schools in other countries.

The Commander and Jetstream are def just Like That™ for aesthetics lmao.

Also in terms of plot, I'm not sure there's anything I'd say I wanted to alter, exactly. But Sky High was a single movie with a 1hr 40min running time. There wasn't a lot of time to explore everything it set up! So I'd say just make a whole series and explore all of it.

I think the only plot point I felt :/ about was Layla's whole 'I'm only going to use my powers when the situation demands it!' thing which meant..... not using them ever unless it was literally life or death at the last second? Like girl you're going to a Hero School to learn how to utilize your abilities through safe (ish) training exercises so you'll know how to use them in real combat. I think in a darker-toned series she might be forced to confront this fact in a harsh way, like another student calling her out on it because of their own tragic backstory.

[raeofalbion]

Fic Ask Meme:

Because it’s one of my go to favs: Shatter Albion Series.

Is there any scene that you cut from the main story that you wish you could go back to add? (Or alternatively, tell us about a cut scene that you wish you could have included)

( meme ) -- Thank you! :D <3 And thank you for reading! <3 I'm so glad you like the series.

Y'know, it's funny, cuz this is exactly why I rewrote MoI back in...my goodness, was it 2016? (Surely not that long ago??) There were just so many scenes that needed elaborating and missing bits that needed to be added and it felt necessary to do that before continuing on with the series.

But yes! There are still some I cut and either would like to add back in or might repurpose for later. (Sorry, this is long.)

From MoI:

The first time Victoria and Reaver sleep together. I've tried to write this so many times and it just...doesn't ever work out the way I'm picturing it. There's like...half a dozen-ish cut drafts in a document somewhere. Maybe one day I'll make it work.

The original, hand-written draft of MoI included a scene with Logan questioning Ben after Victoria disappears from Reaver's house, suspicious about why his sister's suddenly not writing him. In the end, it was cut cuz it didn't really make sense to have him go to Ben to find out if Victoria had somehow contacted him, but I still kinda like the idea.

Continuing along the Victoria-running-away track: there's a couple little outlines somewhere for a follow up to the scene where she decides to leave, showing how she got out of Reaver's house. One of them involved her actually shooting Reaver with his own gun; the other involved Reaver essentially stalking her through the house, not interacting or trying to stop her but watching her all the while. In the end, I couldn't make up my mind and I felt like nothing I wrote there would be 100% satisfying to readers, so I chose to scrap both ideas. Not sure if that was the right decision, tbh.

There was a scene before the wedding with Walter and Jasper playing cards in the original draft. Tonally, it didn't work, but I still like it.

There was a scene where Reaver sort of...playfully faux-crowned Victoria in the castle? He's being an ass and very sarcastic about it, and Victoria hates the entire thing, but it was supposed to lead to them having semi-public sex. ...which is also the reason it got cut. What smut I'd written was just...not good. And I never really had the will (no pun intended) to rewrite it, so I scrapped it.

An early on scene where Reaver and Victoria get into a proper row after she walks in on him with one of his...uh...friends. I actually had to check and make sure I didn't add this one back in and I'm not sure why I didn't. Reaver yelling at her about them "pretending to play house" and about how he was never going to choose Victoria above his own interests would've been very 👀👀👀 given how things turn out.

Not something I actually cut, but, if I were to do another rewrite, I'd like to add some more Logan scenes, just for the tragedy angle.

From DoV:

Cut one of the mystery dreams (well, I guess now that we're near the end of Blackout I can just say it: one of the dreams she shares with Scythe, where he's trying to contact her) cuz it was too repetitive.

A couple tiny (very tiny!) scenes with Faraday. Just chatting with him. In hindsight, they were unnecessary to cut.

I've talked about this one before, but the original scene where Victoria and Reaver talk about their relationship was cut and rewritten. Originally, Reaver was going to confess his feelings for her there. But it didn't fee organic and didn't really work and it kinda just pissed off Victoria worse. So instead the scene is -gestures to the story- but the line about the singing fish is as close to confessing as Reaver can get himself at that point.

From Blackout:

Technically the entire first draft was cut because my pc ate it, so I'm sure there's a lot of things on there I would like to add back in. T-T

Cut some flashbacks with the Crawler just for length, nothing really plot relevant, though. (I may come to regret this.)

Also cut some really stupid jokes of Reaver's. (I do not regret this.)

Cut a lot of political stuff that will affect the next story, and I...have begun to suspect this will come to bite me in the ass because a couple things were much more relevant than I thought they'd be. :S SO. I don't know what I'll do about that yet.

The next chapter has a rather large chunk from it that was cut and is in the process of being rewritten. Basically: Reaver and Victoria being horny now that they're reunited. It doesn't fit, tonally or pacing-wise, but I am a little sad y'all won't get to read Scythe interrupting them and Reaver complaining under his breath about not getting off. Maybe I'll turn it into a oneshot.

+ Bonus!

Technically there's an entire story I've cut from Shattered Albion (set between DoV and Blackout) about Reaver and Faraday investigating one of the DLCs together. I would really like to add it, cuz I think it would set up some things for the final book and I think it's fun, but I'm not sure if anyone actually would want to read it.