imaginestraykids

[anotherlifelesshawksloverplshelp]

drawing Hawks and i get a kfc add, then a chick-fil-a one right afterwards

Sick

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: bodyguard!aemond targaryen x president's daughter!reader

warnings: explicit language. secret relationship. some sweet fluff. a highkey dark & obsessive aemond (as usual, that’s basically my brand). babytrapping. mentions of tiddy sucking but that’s rlly it.

notes: hi my little loves, long time no write. several months back, @welight-theway asked for a continuation of the bodyguard!aemond fic, so here it is! hope you enjoy it !! 🫶🏼

also im literally walking out the door as i post this, to walk the graduation stage and get my bachelor's hehe. 2nd gen college student over here 🥰

masterlist

As funny as it might sound, it was your breasts that tipped him off to the little one in your belly.

Sergeant Aemond One-Eye Targaryen is unashamedly a boob man — one so incredibly obsessed with your boobs, as much so as he is with the rest of your body, heart, and soul combined. He actually remembers this particular shirt (a low-cut halter top in his favorite color) you wore to a close friend’s birthday dinner; it looked absolutely stunning on you, showing off the perfect teasingly amount of cleavage that left his mouth watering and pants painfully tight. He helped you sneak out of the house with it, knowing that your father would’ve busted the vein in his forehead if he saw. It was three weeks into his new job as your personal bodyguard and four long years into his infatuation with you.

But that was around four months, and now he has you, and knows you — both inside and out.

So when your pretty face scrunches up in obvious discomfort when he sucks on your right boob and gnaws at your nipple, he is left raising an eyebrow. He has your boobs in his mouth all the time… the short hiss that soon follows between gritted teeth is a bit concerning as well. What is wrong, baby? he coos. It feels sore, you whine, hiding your face in his neck. Hurts too, daddy. Don’t like it. And you’re right, he realizes. Both your breasts and nipples appear more swollen than usual, puffy and tender, and maybe even … a bit plumper too?

Aemond thinks he has a faint grasp of what might be going on with his sweet girl.

He spends the following week eyeing your every movement around him, studying the way you walk and talk, eat and sleep, and how often you might visit the restroom. Frequent urination, odd food cravings, some complaints of minor backache here and there, and midday fatigue … when he googles ‘signs you might be pregnant’ later that evening, his suspicions are correct.

You are pregnant…with his baby. Oh. OH! Aemond is simply over the moon. He wants to cry and shout and pound his chest in happiness, manners and etiquette be damned. And he didn’t think it was actually possible, but he feels himself falling deeper in love with you, his mind constantly muddled with the sight of you fucked so full of him.

This … this is what you were made for, he knows — carrying all his babies, giving him the family he deserves.

“You’ve made me a daddy,” he mumbles against your stomach, careful not to stir you. You’re cuddled around a silk body pillow, exhausted from the four orgasms he gave you, fisting the sheets in a tight grip. “Good girl.” He then presses a tiny, feathery kiss above your belly button, gently dragging his lips across your soft skin, before closing his eyes. Aemond remembers a dreamlike fantasy he had around two years ago, back when he was stationed overseas at Ali Al Salem in Kuwait. He had been napping in an army tent, your picture clutched between his thumb and index finger.

(His favorite picture. Your father had posted it on Instagram as a birthday post; you were sitting at the dinner table with a strawberry shortcake cupcake centered in front of you, the 18-shaped candle poking out of the thick frosting.)

In his dream, you were his pretty little housewife, fingers laced together as you anxiously awaited your husband’s return. Once his laced-up combat boots stepped inside the American airport, you flung yourself into his arms, pleading with him never to leave you again. And he promised. Gods, did he promise. You were everything and more, how could he possibly neglect you again? He woke up only five minutes later, just when you were shyly spreading your legs open, and he was catching a glimpse of your wet cunt; he could’ve cursed the world and murdered someone at that moment.

Aemond almost wishes he could tell that younger sergeant that it’ll all be worth it. All that fucking fixation and hard work would play out in the end, and his ship would arrive at the right dock, and she’d be there to greet him.

Two months in, he notices all the small changes in your body. You’re none the wiser, of course, but your breasts are fuller, and your pretty face is carrying a new glow that shines along your cheekbones and smile. And the baby bump isn’t quite obvious yet, although that doesn’t stop his attention from constantly straying down to your tummy, in hopes of seeing something — anything —  poke out. How could he not admire his beautiful and pregnant woman?

I know you’re in there, he sometimes thinks to himself, mostly in amusement. You might have fooled your mother, but not your daddy.  

Three and a half weeks later, he kisses the tip of your nose and lips before whispering the news in your ear. Your head tilts in equal shock and confusion while your eyes widen and eyebrows furrow. “I’m…pregnant?” you breathe out. You then squint down, watching as your palm flattens across your lower belly. “Are… are you sure?”

He nods. “The signs are all there, baby.”

“What signs?”

“Remember when you were complaining about your breasts earlier?” You nod. He continues, “-sore and sensitive breasts are usually a sign of pregnancy. Haven’t you noticed that they’re a bit… fuller as well? Cup ‘em, baby, feel them.”

You do as he says, cupping your breasts. Around your nipples is a little tenderness that does hurt a bit, and they do fill out in your hands, but you didn’t think much of it before. You chalked it up to PMSing but now… now you’re left speechless, unable to process anything else but the fact you might actually be pregnant. Chuckling, Aemond rests his hands on your shoulders before pressing his forehead against yours. In his lone eye — both happiness and pride.

“I’m so sure of this… but if you’d like, just to be on the safe side, we can always have you take a pregnancy test.”

“Yeah!” you perk up. “Yeah…yeah, um, I think that is a good idea. Just to be positive, y’know.”

Aemond runs a quick trip to the local CVS, and forty-five minutes later, the pregnancy test displays two pink lines, side by side.

You’re pregnant with Aemond’s baby.

He’s completely overjoyed. You’re just trying to mentally plan out how to break the news to your father.  

So it is quite hard to hide a swelling belly; this you learn throughout the next few months. You got lucky during the first trimester, having barely shown with some minor symptoms. But now halfway into your second trimester, there are only so many oversized sweaters and graphic t-shirts you can wear until it arouses suspicion.  

But Aemond, he is simply so gentle and loving towards you, providing constant naked cuddles and belly strokes. He feels more like a husband than a lover, or even a retired decorated sergeant hired as your bodyguard.

You’re a bit worried about public reaction, and your father’s response to your unexpected pregnancy. Your father loves you so much, but at the end of the day, he is still your father, and you are his little girl. “What are the chances he might blacklist you?” you ask Aemond one afternoon, the two of you in the kitchen cooking lunch. “And send me to a nunnery in Switzerland?”

Aemond laughs. “Very unlikely, baby.”

“He’s going to be so upset…”

“It’ll be fine, quit worrying so much.”

“AEMOND!” you snap, bracing against the kitchen counter. Your temple falls into your hands, and you feel that sudden rush of stupid pregnancy hormones overcoming your thoughts. “It won’t be fine! Don’t you understand?! He’s going to hate me! HATE ME! He’s going to be so disappointed with me. I’m still young, in college, and unwedded. Can you imagine all the shit the public will say? All his political rivals, the media, people in school…”

I’m done. In the public’s eye, I’m ruined.

Aemond pauses his mixing of the salad greens, nuts, vegetables, and cheese, setting the bowl to the side. His head drops, and he lets out a loud sigh. “No one is taking you away from me,” he states, in a low and raspy voice. “Especially your damn father.” You blink, taken back a bit. “I don’t give a shit that your dad is the damn president of this fucking nation. You’re mine. That kid in your belly is mine.”

“Aemond…”

“I’ll marry you if I need to. Is that what your father wants? Would he be happy if his pregnant daughter was married to her baby daddy? Would it make all this unnecessary drama shit better? Cause I’ll fucking do it.”

You glance down at your bare feet, wiggling your painted toes. The mauve-colored nail polish is chipping along your big toenail. If you’d ask, Aemond would definitely repaint them.  

“Do you want me to marry you?”

Your tongue wets your bottom lip before you press your mouth in a tight line. “I don’t know if my daddy will let me marry you…” you admit, toying with your fingers.

Aemond then leans against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh? Is that so?” In his mind, he is freshly eighteen and enlisting in the army, attempting so hard to ignore the snarky comments made toward both his nose and chin and quiet demeanor. All the doubt and torment, the constant undermining and discouragement, and being told he’d never amount to a higher ranking.

His eye drops to your baby bump poking out from behind your shirt, and the delicious way those cute booty shorts hug your hips. You’re everything and more. “I can’t lose you,” he says, shaking his head. “I will not lose you.” He is so incredibly in love with you, driven by obsession, and deepened by the fact that you’re carrying his child.

“I’ll marry you. Next month, next week, even tomorrow if you’d like. Just say yes, and I’ll handle the rest.”

He has the ring in his bedroom, tucked away in the back of his top bedside table drawer — a love knot, glittering with a French pave’ set of diamonds that cover the band halfway in 18k white gold. A symbol of everlasting love, he was told by the jeweler. It’s been in his possession for well over a year now, he just needed to find a reason to use it.

And a baby seems like the perfect reason, doesn’t it?

(creds to the loml my literal everything @chainsawsangel for the banner above <33)

taglist for everything aemond: @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @moonteas @chompchompluke

[catboybiologist]

Hi! I’m CatboyBiologist.

Formerly a femboy, now a trans woman just starting HRT, and a PhD student in molecular biology. I started using this online persona as a fun, shitposty way to explore gender a few years ago. I post selfies (generally sfw, but somewhat sexy, so minors and ppl who don’t like that have been warned), rambles about science, tutorials and advice from the stuff I’ve learned by being a femboy in the past, nature pictures, stuff about the ocean, my adorable grumpy little tortoise, and unsolicited opinions on random nerdy topics. Any pronouns are fine. I don’t plan to socially transition for a while, and still present as a man most of the time, so I’m used to whatever you wanna use for me (for now, I’ll update this if that changes). Please send me pictures of your pets or other cute animals in your life!

As a scientist, I’m also documenting my transition! This google sheet will be updated at least monthly. I also have additional metrics I’m keeping to myself, and pictures that go with this, but I’m not sharing them publicly yet. Keep in mind that this is just one person’s experience with HRT, and may not represent universal trends!

Adding a little something here, bc I think it was an interesting bit a writing: if you want to see me respond to a transphobe about what "biologically female" means, here's a thing I wrote about it. CW for transphobia and discussion, obviously.

Also, if any of my measurements look weird, its entirely possible I fucked up. Let me know if anything looks off!

Here’s some of my favorite pre-HRT pictures:

If you want to see more of my pre-HRT selfies, browse the “femboy” tag on my blog!

And as of this writing, I’m only 2 days after the start of HRT, so here’s a picture with my tortoise that’s technically post-HRT (but with 0 time for actual changes):

If you want to see my future post-HRT selfies, browse the “trans selfie” tag on my blog!

Also here's another really cute picture and fanart of my tortoise by @whalesharkcat:

I have affectionately given my tortoise the title of The Grumpus.

I also wrote a couple of tutorials and general vibes about being a femboy before I started HRT:

Sometimes I make shitposts of myself, I don’t take myself too seriously:

This includes the way I came out on tumblr:

And here’s an overly serious, long ramble about trans thoughts and things that I wrote shortly afterwards:

Later addition: Someone asked how I take selfies, so I wrote a quick and dirty guide with some tips on how I do so in response to their ask:

Oh yeah and apparently I was a 196 microcelebrity? I never to thought I was popular enough for that but apparently some people do 🤷‍♀️. So uh, hi 196 tags, I'm abusing you for my pinned post LOL

As for terminology, I personally do think of myself as a “man who is becoming a woman” as opposed to having always been a woman. If that doesn’t resonate with your experience, I totally get that! But that’s why I freely call pre-HRT me a femboy, while still calling post-HRT me a trans woman. I’m also keeping the blog name as CatboyBiologist for the forseeable future, because at this point, Catboy just seems like a gender neutral term to me.

I’m also trying to put together a script for a podcast regarding how studying biology influenced my perspective on sex and gender- lmk if there’s any interest in that! It’s probably gonna be way too long and indulgent but oh well.

So uh. Yeah. I don’t end these types of things well. Byeeeeee

[honeyzephyr]

finally got around to making my girl a better ref sheet! this is my rdr2 oc mallory! she’s a 24 year old aspiring doctor that resides in valentine with her aunt and uncle, assisting her uncle in his work as the local doctor. her horse, poppy, is an overo american paint that was gifted to her by her uncle. (more about her under the cut! be warned i am no writer so it might suck 😭)

mallory spent most of her early life growing up in the state capital of lemoyne, saint denis, with her mother, father and two older brothers. being born into high-society came with expectations, these expectations being, more often than not, challenged by mallory much to her mother’s dismay. after refusing an arranged marriage, which left her relationship with her parents strained, mallory set off at the age of 18; moving to the muddy, livestock town of valentine in new hanover to live with her aunt and uncle, chasing her dream of becoming a doctor.

this is where she meets kieran duffy, an odd fellow that caught her eye from the moment he stumbled into the doctors office, bloody and bruised. upon noticing his green scarf, it didn’t take long for her to realize he was running with the o’driscoll boys to which she upturned her nose.

“that’s a nice horse.. she yours?” he gestured to the american paint tethered to the post out front of the doctors office as she tended to a particularly nasty laceration on his cheek. “mhmm,” she hummed in response, not all too interested in engaging in small talk. he, however, did not seem to take the hint, “she looks just like you.”

as the weeks rolled by, kieran became a frequent sight, either passing through the office due to o’driscoll business or looking to have another wound tended to. mallory couldn’t help but find herself warming to the man, charmed by his gentle nature and intrigued by his involvement with such a ruthless gang that he so clearly didn’t belong in.

much of her relationship with kieran is pre-canon, taking place before chapter 1. she has no canon ties otherwise, though she does reunite with kieran a few days prior to his death in chapter 4. she bumps into him on a busy street in saint denis while visiting her family. she has to do a double take, making sure she hadn’t been imagining things, but quickly pulls him into a hug upon realization.

she all but begs him to meet her by the docks a couple evenings later, to which he agrees to, though he never shows.

she later moves to new york, attending college in medical studies.

[love-hs28]

You're gonna do just fine, I promise.

Summary: Chemistry class had never been your strong-suit, and an upcoming test leads you to break down while trying to study an impossible unit.  gn!reader cw: reader has panic attack 1.1k words comfort & fluff Posted on: 6-20-24

You and Eddie were hanging out in your room one autumn evening, both trying your hardest to study for an upcoming chemistry test. Your record player spun softly in the background and the only lights illuminating your room were the lamps on your desk and nightstand, and the string lights that hung on your walls.

You didn’t struggle in school by any means, but you still had to actually put in effort to keep your grades up. You probably pushed yourself a bit too hard sometimes, because there was no reason to not be satisfied with A’s and B’s as your average scores. But, for some reason only known by God or whatever higher power there might be, this current chemistry unit was giving you absolute. hell. Eddie, for once, seemed to be getting the hang of things pretty quickly and had finished his study sheet before you had the chance to get halfway done. Chemistry had always come easy for him, most likely because he actually found it interesting and easy to pay attention to. And, despite what many people might think, Eddie was really very smart when he wanted to be. 

After offering to help you and you refusing the help due to the determination to figure it out on your own, Eddie retreated to your bed to continue reading his well-loved copy of Lord of the Rings while you stayed hunched over on your desk. 

Too many minutes go by of you trying to solve a specific word problem, and you’re afraid if it isn't solved in the next attempt you’re going to drop out of school completely. You let out a sigh and rub your hands over your face. Eddie, lying on his stomach with his elbows propping himself up, looks up from his book. 

“Sweetheart, that’s the third time you’ve sighed in the last minute. Maybe it's time for a break.” 

You sigh and frustratedly shuffle through your papers and textbook. 

“These fucking problems are killing me, Eddie. It’s like I understand what’s going on and how to solve it but forget what I’ve read a minute later. I just- I can’t fail this test, Ed. I can’t.” 

Eddie moves to sit up against your headboard. “Y/n, you’re literally the smartest person I know. I promise you, you are not going to fail the test. And hey, even if you did, I’m sure your gpa will still be, what? 3.999…” 

“I’m serious, Eddie! It’s fucking stressing me out and I just- there’s no way I’m going to learn or retain all of this by Friday.” You can feel your heartbeat start to quicken and breathing is becoming a bit more difficult as your chest begins to tighten.

“Hey, don’t freak out, y/nn. You’re gonna do great. I can try my best to help you and we’ll figure it out together okay? I promise, don’t stress about it, it’s gonna be fine.” 

You rest your head in your hands on the desk and try to calm yourself down. You can feel tears forming in your eyes, slowly beginning to fall down your face. 

“It’s more than that, though. It’s just, everything is so stressful right now and I can’t- I don’t know what to do.” You sob into your hands, the stress of the past couple weeks feeling overpowering and impossible to hold in anymore. 

“Sweetheart,” Eddie sets his book face down on your bed and gets up to walk over to you. He gently removes your hands from your face, turning the chair away from the desk and kneeling so he’s level with you. You’re really struggling to breathe now. 

“Baby, shhh. It’s okay. I’m right here, look at me. It’s okay.” He softly guides your face to look at him. Your ears are ringing and your eyes won’t focus so you tightly squeeze them shut. You shake your head, moving out of Eddie’s hold, folding over and covering your face again. 

“I can’t- Eddie- I can’t. Fuck, I can’t breathe.” Air is coming in and out of your lungs now only in short gasps and whimpers. Your whole body shakes as you repeatedly shake your head, trying to get rid of the foggy and panicky feelings. 

“Sweetheart, calm down. You’re gonna pass out if you don’t slow your breathing, angel, look at me. Follow my breaths.” Eddie gently takes one of your hands and puts it over his chest, taking deep, exaggerated breaths for you to follow. His other hand rests on the side of your face, trying to get your eyes to focus on him. It works, and after a moment of following his breathing patterns you can feel your heart and gasps start to calm down. You don’t know how many minutes pass, but your eyes never leave each other as you continue to breathe together. 

Once your breathing is manageable, your face crumples and you break down, all of the suppressed emotions of the past week coming out now that you don’t have to worry about whether or not you’re going to make yourself pass out. You sob, hiccups and everything. 

“Oh, angel,” Eddie gently guides you off of the chair and into his lap on the floor, you leaning all of your weight into him and holding him as close as possible. Your grip stays on his shirt, soaking it with tears. He rubs your back and strokes your hair, whispering non-stop comforting words into your neck. 

“I know, I know. It’s okay, love. I got you. I got you. You’re okay. It’s gonna be okay.” 

Once you calm down one final time, he gently pulls back and puts his hands on your face so you can look at him. Wiping the remaining tears away with his thumbs, he kisses you on your forehead. You rub your eyes, suddenly feeling very tired from exerting the entirety of the energy you had left. 

“Let’s take a break from studying, yeah? We can watch a movie or something. Get your mind off of everything. Or just lay together, whatever you want.” His thumbs rub loving strokes on your cheeks, eyes looking at you in an attempt to show you just how much he cares and wants you to not feel like this. 

You lean into his touch and glance over to your bed where his book lies open. “Can you read to me?” 

Eddie beams and gives you a sweet kiss. “I thought you’d never ask. I would love to.” 

He picks you up, making you giggle as he takes you to the bed, and you lie down so he’s against the headboard and you’re lying on his chest between his legs, the book in front of both of you. He reads to you while you fidget with his hands and rings and he plays with your hair. You eventually fall asleep as he’s reading, finally able to relax, his sleep following shortly after. 

a/n: hope you enjoyed!! my first Eddie fic! hopefully more to come soon 🤞haven't posted in a while and I would looooveeee any recommendations! this isn't proofread so pls ignore any mistakes 🙏 love ya'll and couldn't be more grateful for the love the last few fics have gotten. as always, pls leave requests/asks/whateva. love ya! <3

[sleepy-spacetronaut]

Info sheet for the Human Bill design + some drawings

*had to censor because I don’t know if it would get me yeeted off Tumblr or not.

The Handyman Bill AU is actually interesting because there are multiple outcome possibilities from there…

For one, I like the idea of Bill exiting the Theraprism to find himself with most of his powers stripped away and be taken in by Soos and Melody to live and work with them in the mystery shack. I can imagine the amount of shenanigans he’d drag the Pines family into.

On the topic of appearance

Ive seen a ton of anthropomorphic Bill Cipher designs over the past weeks, and each has a cool concept with their own specialties (Spoony’s design is particularly notable). My Bill, unfortunately, looks like a middle aged, expired version of the ‘twink Bill’ from around 2015, except with longer hair. This design is different from what I had imagined it to be, so I chose to draw Bill in 3 stages (as a kid, young adult and as a middle aged man. I’ll post his younger form sometimes later) so the character design wouldn’t go to waste.

For the outfit, I just went with what I’ve seen people draw him clothed in and what I thought would look comfortable. I feel like after being trapped in the Theraprism for ‘rehab’, he would be neglectful of his overall appearance, instead of going for fancier stuff like tuxedos or coats and capes, he’d probably enjoy to wear baggy clothes you can easily throw in the washer and won’t require thorough maintenance. (He might look dusty, but he takes baths, I swear—)

They’re a few variations of what he wears while still with the totality of his powers, maybe I will give him another , more elaborate outfit. I have yet to draw a full body version of Bill where I can show his tattoos and scars—currently I must decide on what to do with his face, I have too many single-eyed ocs, and I’d like to add an original touch to him.

When would the AU in which Bill returns take place?

After the Weirdmaggedon occurred, the residents of Gravity Falls were probably still shaken by the amount of strange and atrocious things they experienced. They’re great chances they’d still be triggered when they see cipher script or anything that reminds them of the evil triangle demon.

In the case of my design for him ,and potential fanfiction outline, Bill would have returned into the dimension where the Pines family won two years after the events, so the traumatic events are fresh in their collective memory. So, Bill would be put under intense scrutiny (by everyone but especially Stan and Ford, they’d be mistrustful of him) and be forced to cover up his tattoos when at work…and in general.

Bill would have a certain reluctance to work at the shack, he’d try to scam the customers to get the sales up upon and get caught red handed at it, or try slacking off during his shifts to try to sneak in Ford’s lab in search for anything that could help him restore his power to its former glory.

The highlight of his days would potentially be to annoy the Pines family, bonding with Mabel and Dipper (being let onto their gossip and some activities they do, maybe help out with their studies as well), and ABOVE ALL, to have some alone time at night to stare at the starry sky.

Psychological traits and etc.

As for his personality, he would be a lot less flamboyant, still as sassy as Weber though, perhaps grouchy from being forced to interact with ‘insufferable sentient meat sacks trapped in a cage of bones with a squishy exterior’. From the majority of cases I have observed, Bill keeps a nonchalant attitude, he is fairly collected and only truly lets out his emotions when it comes to fits of anger, jealousy or, in rare cases, sadness (often related to flashbacks of his childhood or his parents in the Euclidean world).

But what if it wasn’t the case? What if instead, Bill, as a human, would be unable to control his emotions? I had a theory that Bill Cipher has a higher pain tolerance while in his triangular, two-dimensional form partially from his powers but also because of his body isn’t entirely physical, and so it may lack several sensory receptors.

His liking for pain may be due to the fact he could barely feel anything (or plainly because he’s a masochist. Who knows.) It would qualify as a new and interesting experience for him, and he is a curious creature who also ‘efs around to find out’.

However, once he gains a physical human body, he will be faced with various problems humans have: muscle pain, bloating, cramps, eye sores, back sores, hair loss, acne, sickness, getting cuts and bruises easily…and never mind gravity, which would be a new inconvenience for a being who used to float almost 24/7.

So Bill wouldn’t be able to control his emotions because of how humans tend to feel a lot,he’d be forced to resort to masking and even then he wouldn’t be able to hold it for long. Plus, when he was a metaphysical shape, he had a bigger pain tolerance by contrast to when he gained a human body with hundreds of touch and pain receptors—Drinking with his eyes won’t be working no more, ouch!

He’d easily get a meltdown because of overstimulation (from the environment, from interaction with people he mostly hates or dislikes, and from being able to feel a lot more sensations than while in his bi-dimensional, triangular form) and have trouble regulating his body.

Additionally, Bill heavily relied on his magic powers to get stuff he needed or to protect himself, but now that a great chunk of his magic abilities would be gone , it would require more effort from him to do anything. And if he ends up activating the remaining power, the constant use of it would always backfire as his human shell isn’t made to contain the pressure of magic, resulting in cramps and stomach issues.

As a final note to this, in the show it had been shown that he is short tempered and easily leans into his emotions (especially anger) but can use his magic in order to ‘blow off some steam’. (Remember Time Baby and his whole squadron of men—except like for Blendin, getting erased?) However now, he cannot blow up a planet just because he’s having a tantrum, so he would most likely just stomp the ground while shrieking like a five year old.

Yes, when put under pressure, the evil Triangle becomes a CRYangle.

P-S. : He’s trying his best, plz be nice to him.

Edit: Woops it’s Blendin , not Baldwin, he’s not bald yet.

[hd-wireless]

📻🎶 H/D WIRELESS 2024 - WEEKLY WRAP-UP #1

🎶  Just a perfect week

Read fanfiction in the park And then later When it gets dark, look at art. Just a perfect week Reading at work in the loo, And then later a podfic, too And then home.

Oh it's such a perfect fest We're glad to share it with you Oh, such a perfect fest It just keeps us reading on, It just keeps us reading on.   🎶

🎤 Welcome to the 8th round of H/D Wireless Fest!

The time has finally come to start posting all the fantastic entries we’ve received this year!

We’ve revealed 9 top hits so far, with many more to come. The mods have been working non-stop since December to make this happen, so we’re beyond excited to finally be underway 🤩

As always you can listen to the prompted songs for the works we post on a playlists:

Click here for the YouTube playlist.

And now without further ado, our Wrap-up for the first week of posting:

🎶 H/D Wireless Art 🎶

📻 Fly Away with Me Tonight? [Gen, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: Levitating by Dua Lipa  🎵Summary: A chance meeting, an invitation to dance

📻 ghost (might as well be gone) [Gen, Digital ]

🎵 Song Prompt: Might as Well Be Gone by Pixies  🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy retired from the Auror force and left England a decade ago, but he still receives the Daily Prophet. Today’s issue provides closure on the one case he was never able to officially solve.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic and Art 🎶

📻 Trade My Heart For Honey [M, 64.170, Digital Watercolour]

🎵 Prompt: Water Under The Bridge by Adele  🎵 Summary: A Witch who thinks she’s a Seer, a Seer who thinks she’s a Witch, a former nemesis-turned-something-turned-acquaintance who thinks they could be friends, and a Scottish village full of Muggles who think this is as much their business as the fair folk in the woods. Draco is going to prove them all wrong.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 You're on Your Own, Kid [E, 44.274] 

🎵 Song Prompt: You're on Your Own, Kid by Taylor Swift  🎵 Summary: In August of 1998, Draco leaves behind everything he’s ever known. With the help of two middle-aged lesbians, a Muggle bookshop, and a new best friend, Draco’s future is finally looking up. That is, until Harry Potter wanders back into his life a year later, undoing everything Draco has worked towards.  Or, a tale about healing, forgiveness, and living for no one but yourself.

📻 Heartbeat [E, 22,791]

🎵 Prompt: Heartbeat by Childish Gambino  🎵 Summary: Harry hates Draco, and Draco hates him in return. Only it's not hate, not even a little bit. Featuring: a cooperative independent study, golden hour on wrecked sheets, strawberries in the summer at Grimmauld Place, water from fountains of (dubious) origin, purple Mardi Gras beads, and a bird with silly legs.  Also featuring: heated arguments, infidelity, unquenchable desire, and heartbreak. Over and over again.

📻 Long for Bliss! [E, 9,400]

🎵 Song Prompt: This Must Be It by Röyksopp  🎵 Summary: Harry has a tough decision to make: take the blue pill or the red pill. He chooses a pink one instead and throws caution to the wind. What blows back comes in the form of a blond fallen angel that talks like he’s the Devil and moves like he’s fucking.  Or: Harry tries MDMA for the first time and unexpectedly encounters a mysteriously captivating Draco at KOKO London.

📻 Going Down Swinging [E, 4,661 ]

🎵 Song Prompt: Hello Mudduh, Hello Fadduh! by Allan Sherman  🎵 Summary: “Who are you?” he asked, feeling around for a truly abominable pair of glasses he fixed firmly above his nose.  “I’m Draco,” he answered. “Draco—” He paused. It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember; it was that the memory wasn’t there.

📻 The Most He’s Ever Said [E,16,431]

🎵 Song Prompt: One of Your Girls by Troye Sivan  🎵 Summary: It takes them twenty years.

🎶 H/D Wireless Podfic 🎶

📻 [Podfic] A Different Kind of Meaning by p1013 [E, 01:42:57]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Outnumbered' by Dermot Kennedy  🎵 Summary: The ceiling doesn't hold any answers, but there are cobwebs scattered across the corners with shadows tangled in their threads. The rug against his back is rough and scratchy, threadbare and devoid of colours other than various shades of brown. Harry takes it all in, absorbs the dingy and depressed state of his home. There's a pointed moment of decision, a note about to be played, a silence about to end, and then he rolls to his feet and sets to cleaning.  It's the first constructive thing he's done in years.

[fastlikealambo]

Connubium.|| Coriolanus Snow x Black Fem Reader Chapter Four

table of contents.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Summary: Stealing from The Capitol is a deadly offense, yet you’ve done it more times than you can count but when you do something you should not have done, Volumnia Gaul decides a fate for you that might just be worse than death.

Notes: This takes place post The Ballad of Songbirds And Snakes and Coryo is in his last year at The University, studying under Dr. Gaul. This will not follow canon, I’m not an expert on all the lore so I apologize if I get things wrong.

Disclaimer: You know Coriolanus is a POS, I know Coriolanus is a POS, please don’t yell at me because this is just a fun little story, something for thee hotties, and  if you feel that strongly against President Snow, please let me know if you’d like me to sign you up for tessarae.

Warnings: a little bit of dream smut 18+ only

Thanks for the love on chapter three! If you want to see chapter five, comment or reblog, feedback makes me want to continue!

Dr. Gaul loved to waltz.

As peacekeepers dragged away the body of the morphling you just killed, Gaul walked you into the residence and put the kettle on. 

If she wasn’t holding your dying parents hostage and you weren’t scrubbing blood from your face while you told her about your afternoon with Coriolanus, you could pretend she was a slightly eccentric aunt around for tea.

The moment you mentioned dinner at The Plinths, Gaul lept of her seat, turned on music and a few moments later, the most dangerous woman in Panem was teaching you The Capitol Waltz. 

You made sure to step on her feet for the glory of District 6.

    “You should be lighter than air, now try again or I’ll make sure you injure that ankle permanently.”

It went on like this until night fell over The Capitol and Gaul left you with a guide to each of the high society families that would be in attendance.

  “Mr. Snow’s future is well discussed and those that would do anything to see their idiot children in a position of power one day will spend the evening trying to destroy the pair of you. Do not let them, little thief.”  Gaul warned and snapped her gloved fingers, signaling for two peacekeepers to take their places outside your door.

You’re left alone, helping yourself to meal after meal till your stomach hurts and your mind is foggy enough to sleep.

How were your parents sleeping?

Was there someone making sure your father wasn’t cold? 

Was there someone to hold your mother’s hand?

It did not matter now for in your dreams, you were always together.

In Coriolanus’ dreams, he crawled to you.

Warm and ravenous, he would have you on his scarlet sheets, kissing and biting your tender dark skin. The more his lips wandered, the more tremendously hard his cock became, entering you with a desperate ferity.

“Coriolanus.” You whispered.

“Coriolanus.” You moaned.

“Coriolanus.” You screamed.

He thrusted and thrusted inside you till his cock met nothing but soaked sheets, the sound of your heavy whimpers replaced by something else.

Hissing.

And in Coriolanus’ waking life, he opened his eyes and began to scream.

 “Your gun is wrinkling my dress.”

The peacekeeper in the backseat with you ignored you and jabbed the gun into your spine, forcing you to get out of the car outside of the dinner party the following night where Coriolanus waited for you, rose in hand.

     “You clean up nice Coriolanus Snow, it’s nice to see you without gravel in your curls.” You said, taking the offered flower and smelling it. 

       “I might just be the luckiest man in Panem, you look lovely. How’s the ankle?”

        “Better, though I think my days of reading while crossing the street will have to be behind me.” You said with a real smile and took the arm he offered.

          “Are you nervous? Everyone’s eyes will be on you.” Coriolanus asked and you reached forward to straighten the rose pinned to his lapel.

         “Then it’s a good thing my eyes will be on you.” 

For someone who had been beaten by peacekeepers and nearly killed by a morphling, to sup and dine with those responsible for keeping the districts half starved was a new kind of torture.

But you were absolutely flawless.

Coriolanus must have introduced you to everyone during dinner and you smiled as they made jokes about the smell of district 12 and listened intently to their strategies for pre-reaping bets.

You just had one final introduction and you must have been shaking because Coriolanus squeezed your hand.

     “President Ravinstill, I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” Coriolanus lied with a slight bow at the older man.

       “Young Mr. Snow, good to see you boy. Who’s this lovely creature?” President Ravinstill, President of Panem said, a wide smile not reaching his eyes.

If you were a hero, you would have picked up a butter knife and stabbed him, or held him at butter knife point until he agreed to cancel the games for good.

      “It’s an honor to meet you, President Ravinstill, thank you for all that you do for Panem.” You said warmly, shaking his hand.

 “It’s a pleasure to serve Panem and our shining Capitol citizens, including bright young ladies such as yourself. Had I known you were hiding such a nice girl, I would have had you working in my office weeks ago, Snow! Stop by on Monday and we’ll go over your position to make sure it’s to your liking. You’ll join us, my dear?”

   “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Coward.

Coriolanus led you away from the president and onto the makeshift  dance floor in the Plinth’s apartment.

   “I didn’t know President Ravinstill was capable of smiling that much. You’re incredible, you know that?” He whispered.

  “You haven’t seen my waltz yet, you might want to hold off on that.” You said, looking at your feet to get into position but Coriolanus tilted your chin to meet his eyes.

 “Eyes on me, darling.”

And then you were off.

Whatever the hell you were doing with Gaul could not compare to waltzing with Coriolanus, you were positive you were no longer on the ground but your eyes on him, you couldn’t know for sure.

The rumblings of a storm brought the waltzing to a close as the partygoers began to clear out to avoid the storm and your own driver/jailer had yet to arrive.

“Coryo, would you and your friend like to stay the night? The storm is really quite bad, dear.” Ma Plinth, asked and Coriolanus with his hand in yours, looked to you.

“Yes please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

As it turned out, Ma Plinth had extended the same offer to others and when you both arrived at the room designated for both of you, only one bed was there.

Coriolanus mumbled something about going to find a couch but you just took him by the hand and closed the door.

Whatever modesty mechanics occurred in the light vanished in sleep and while the attempt to sleep as far away as humanly possible was noble, somehow you had ended up curled up behind Coriolanus, head tucked into his shoulder, silk covered curls tickling his ear. 

    “I was waiting for a more opportune moment to say this but I would very much like to court you, if you’ll have me.” Coriolanus whispered and turned over in bed to face you.

In another life, you’d have him forever. 

   “I’d like that, Coriolanus.”

   “Coryo. You can call me Coryo, darling.”

With your arms wrapped around Coryo, you slept and for the first time you did not dream of your family.

You dreamt of him.

A dream that was interrupted some time in the early morning by the smell of smoke.

The Capitol was on fire.

That’s chapter 4! I’m not sure if this one was any good but as usual if you’d like to see chapter 5, please comment or reblog! Thank you for reading.

[catsandbats13]

Decided to put these in their own post lol

This piece ended up being way more work than I intended, I was gonna make my own background but I got lazy at the end and just edited a BG from the show, I still might do a background study later on though

This is based off of these two outfits I found on Pinterest that I thought suited Cass and Rapunzel

I am also currently open for commissions if anyone would like some custom art! My commission sheet is pinned at the top of my page, feel free to message me if you have any questions 😊

[beefboyandbabygirl]

Judas in the Window (18+)

pairing: priest(apprentice)!chan x fem!collegestudent!reader

genre: ANGST ANGST and smut (mdni), childhood best friends to..?

description: you return home from college, after not seeing your old town for three years. your childhood best friend has been waiting for you.

warnings: no. genuinely so sad. religious guilt, blasphemy ig, slutshaming, degradation (f. receiving), praise (f. receiving), desperation, fingering (f. receiving), humiliation, unprotected sex (do not do this shit), brief breeding kink, mentions of past unhappiness, reader has beef with her old self fr, alcohol consumption, pet names (darling, baby, some more i dont recall), LOTS of biblical references, i warned you this is incredibly sad and wether it's a good ending is certainly debatable, reader has both her parents (if u dont, same, just imagine the dad as adam sandler and the mom as gwendoline christie), the dad is the best character x

quotes from my proofreader: "i have a new pair of panties at the ready", "im horny and angry, some say hangry", "AAAAAA"

wordcount: 8.3k

a/n: it is 2:30 am. my proofreader is asleep and i might go crazy if i dont post this now, so if there are any mistakes in the last part i am sorry, ill fix it later lmao

Your room hasn’t changed a bit.

You’re not sure why the sight knocks the wind out of you. You suppose you’d thought your parents might do something with it - maybe give your dad a “man cave” or whatever other pained, heteronormative solution to hating each other. But it’s the same exact thing. Your bed, horrible orange wood, pink princess sheets, and your desk right beside you where you stand in the doorway, all cluttered with glitter pens and marker sets and a small mirror. 

“Isn’t this great, honey?” your mom squeals, old hands squeezing your shoulders. It takes you a second to reply. You’re not even sure you want to step inside the room. “Yeah, yeah, it’s great, mom.” 

“I’m getting dinner ready, you just settle yourself in!” she says, practically vibrating at your presence. She’s so happy, it jabs at your stomach with guilt, that you can’t even bring yourself to enter. You watch her disappear down the stairs, making a funny face when she catches your eye. You half-smile tiredly. Then you’re looking at it again.

It’s like a totally closed off time capsule. Your fingers play with the doorframe, looking at the stains in the carpet, that you vividly remember creating as a clumsy child. You see the stickers on your closet-door, and the faint outline of the stickers you’d taken down. You see toys, whose names you remember, you see terrible drawings over your bed, hung with glitter tape, and you see yourself. The you that you were certain you’d stuck in the dirt and buried. The one you’d worked over-over-overtime to never see again. She was somehow alive and well in this room. A part of you roamed with a horde of anxiety, birthed by the thought that once you entered, you and her would fuse together, and all the flaws you’d had would be reignited, and you would be miserable again.

“You not going in, champ?” you jump at your father’s voice behind you. You turn to see him exiting your parents’ bedroom, taking heavy, loggy steps towards the staircase. You shake your head: “No, I am, it’s just..” you pause and turn back to the room, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s weird.” 

Your father pauses. He has his reading glasses pushed all the way down to the tip of his nose, so he leans his head back and squints to study you. “Well- well- well, why don’t you just try out for a bit, champ, and if you don’t like it, Uh, well, we’ll situate you on the couch. How’s- how’s that sound?” 

You smile softly. “Sure.” 

“Alright, champ,” he pats your back and finally starts his descent down the stairs. 

You nod to yourself and exhale deeply, face now turned back to the super menacing not-at-all-menacing room before you. Your fears are deeply irrational. You wouldn’t just revert back to your old self. Once you’re half believing it, you finally break the barrier, and take a step inside. 

It’s not so bad after all. Everything is very still. Dust kicked up from your presence slows down around you. You’re standing under the overhead lamp, and it’s not that bad. Not so bad. You drop your duffel bag and sit down on your bed. 

You feel a lot bigger, sitting with bent knees in the plush duvet. You recognize that you can’t be that much bigger than when you last sat here, 18 years old, heading off to college in the big city. And this was the kind of town where neighbors a dozen houses over came to see you off, waving at you with big smiles on their faces, an american flag hoisted up to the blue sky. You remember the grins stretched on their faces, and how you’d been panicked to start the ignition on the car. They’d looked like they were made of wax.

Movement flashes in your peripheral. You turn your head, brushing hair out of the way. The movement is coming from the crack in the curtains. Like Moses parting the red sea, your fingers delicately brush the flimsy fabrics away. You know exactly what - who - you’re about to see. Your heart presses, red and wet, into your throat. 

Chan.

He’s there in the window directly across from yours. You almost don’t recognize him at first. He’s shirtless, pacing around and picking things off the floor, and, God, he’d gotten so big. His arms are so shapely and firm and his stomach is toned and when he turns his back to you, you see how it ripples with muscle, and your mouth is drooping open in shock. 

This is Chan, you try to remember (memories flit of him in his dad’s baseball caps, him on the playground, or on the sandy paths that fade out from the roads on the outskirts of town), but grounding yourself in the memories of him as a kid only serves to hurt you. No, you decide, eyeing his naked torso through the glass, better remember him like this. Like an adult who has faults and wrongs, not an innocent child that you abandon in your haste to grow up. 

He’s looking at you. Suddenly, he’s fucking looking at you. For a moment it seems like he’s confused, maybe fighting with the danger of recognizing you as a real, actual person in the window. Then his eyes are softened and he’s hunched over the paneled window, face split in half as he stares back at you. He used to fit so easily in the frame of that window - now you watch his shoulders press against the framework, unable to squeeze in. 

Your cheeks are burning when you squeeze your eyes shut and smile apologetically. Your childhood best friend who you hadn’t seen in three years had just caught you staring at his fucking abs through his window. You fear he’ll take offense, especially considering how you’d left things off with him, but when you open your eyes, he’s grinning softly and shaking his head. 

He walks away from the small window, and you take this as your cue to leave as well. You fall back on the bed and groan pathetically, body jittery with embarrassment. 

“Y/n, sweetheart! Dinner now!” your mom caws from the floor beneath you and you feel 16 again. This was what you didn’t want. All the power you had accumulated was slipping through your fingers by the minute. 

It’s just five days, you remind yourself. Just five, measly days.

“Coming, mom!”  _____________________________

The fucking bell tower is going. Over and over again and it shouldn’t be this loud, you’re not that close to the church, but it is. 

You lie flat on your back in the smoldering dark, completely still. It’s so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside your head. Like the curved, rusted sides of it are bashing against your skull. You don’t understand how anyone could sleep through this. You don’t understand how Chan could stay here all these years. Maybe that’s just because you couldn’t see yourself here.

You don’t want to think about Chan anymore, but for whatever reason - you can’t decide if it was seeing him (so manly) so suddenly, or if it’s the ever-ringing bell in the distance, like a marker of the apocalypse - he won’t leave your mind tonight. Part of you understood that what had happened with you and Chan was natural, and not particularly anyone’s fault. So why did you still carry the heavy burden of guilt? Guilt that pinched at your nerve endings like the delicate tunes in a children’s music box.

You and Chan had met as children in church. It didn’t take long for you to be best friends. You’d sit next to each other on the neatly lined benches during sermon, then you’d tumble in the grass outside, and then you’d go to his house and play until dinner, after which you’d see each other again, talking from window to window. You spent very nearly every moment with him.

Then you grew apart.

It was a slow death. Seeing each other became a sort of horrific reminder that it was ending, no longer bound by church or friendship, but a mutual understanding. There’d be a sort of solemn silence whenever you locked eyes. Is this the last time? You’d wonder, and the longer it went on, the more you started to wish that it was.

And then it was. 

It was your fault. You were 13 and suddenly you were wearing makeup and your dresses were getting shorter, and you wished you were much older than you were. You started forgetting the principles they’d taught you in church. Or maybe you’d never really learnt it, only tolerated it for Chan. But years passed and by the time you were sixteen, you were being kissed and groped at parties and you were having sex in cars and smearing your lipstick on the rims of shot glasses. 

And Chan was.. Well, Chan. Chan was a skinny, virgin christian. And you liked him, but suddenly there wasn’t much to talk about. From one day to the next, all discussable topics evaporated in your hand, and talking to Chan became a stumbling, bumbling mess. 

After that you were just…. Gone. 18 years old disappearing down the dirt roads in the 2009 Toyota Tacoma, that you’d gotten for your sweet sixteen. Chan was standing on the roadside that day, but he wasn’t sure you saw him. Your wheels kicked up dust and that was all you left behind. A cloud of sand for him to grab at, looking lost in between your tire tracks. At that moment it felt like those last years were two seconds. You just slipped right out of his hands. 

Lying in bed and your heart is so heavy. Maybe it isn’t Chan, you conclude. Maybe it’s what he represented. The face of the church; the face of goodness, of purity; the face of the life you deselected. 

The cry of the bell tower becomes a song in the night. You fall asleep in the devil’s hour. _____________________________

The following day you’re reexploring. The air is dry and the sun beating down on your shoulders. You’re walking through the suburbs and then later the small town square made up of mostly parking lots. You feel peregrine, but trudging through on the pavement, it becomes clear you’re the only one who feels this way. 

Every citizen, every single one of them - in polos, in flower-print dresses, in sandals, in sunglasses - stops you to welcome you back home. They’re shaking your shoulders and they recognize you and can tell you your name and your age, and they say that it’s good you found your way back. Every interaction leaves you more depressed than the last. You’re ducking your head, crumpled up like an unsent love letter. 

Your steps are heavy, your own sandals dragging into the uneven tiles of the square. Then you’re lifting your head from the ground, and your feet have betrayed you. 

You’re standing in the opening to another street of storefronts, and 5 rows of neatly planted trees down, the church sprouts from the earth like a stake. 

It’s not just any small town church. A few steps lead up to a plateau, supported by large, white beams. They may not be Roman, but they’re there, and they’re made of smooth concrete. The building itself is made of red brick, although the color varies and looks dappled. Each side of the church has two stained glass windows, which you remember from your childhood. The door, huge and oaken, ends in a point right beneath a round window, and the bell tower shoots up, a mighty cross at its peak. 

You’re left a little breathless at it. You don’t remember it being so menacing. But there’s also something beautiful about it. How it looks at you like it’ll kill you. And how blunt it is about it. You’re blinking at it and wondering how you got here. It’s as if something’s possessed you, because despite knowing better, you begin to take calm steps towards it, eyes transfixed and soulless. 

You’re walking into the courtyard, gravel underfoot, and then you’re traversing up the steps, fingers barely brushing over the railing. Idling forward, you’re opening the door. 

“And when Mary birthed the-” 

Crrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaaaaak!

Every head snaps towards you, as you’re cracking the door open, and the trance lifts from you. Oh, shit. Your gaze grazes over the stacked benches, smiling apologetically and bopping your head.

You clear your throat. “I’m-” 

You lock eyes with the priest, whose service you just interrupted, where he’s standing before the crowd, bible in hand.

It’s Chan. 

“I’m sorry,” you squeak, voice now much meeker, and you don’t even know what to do, so you just step inside and sit down on the nearest bench. Slowly (and with low scoffs) the sea of heads turn around. One pair of eyes don’t leave you though. Chan studies you for several seconds longer, searching for something in your eyes, but you’re looking away. You just want him to continue. He does.

This is crazy, you think, and you can hardly believe you’re hearing his voice say those words, and it’s him in the clerical shirt. You supposed it made sense. You supposed you understood. But actually you didn’t, not at all. Not when he was supposed to live and change and evolve and here he is years later, dedicating his life to the one and only thing he knows! 

You’re tuning out the rest of his talk, vaguely aware of how his eyes flit over to you a little too frequently. Soon enough you’re absently clasping your hands together in a prayer and then people are lining up to thank Chan for his stellar service. 

You watch them from your seat, debating whether or not to leave without talking to him. Leaving wasn’t a bad idea. You were only gonna be in town for a week more, surely, you could avoid him until then. 

But you know you won’t do that. You want to talk to Chan. You want to feel his hand in your own. Partially you felt like maybe you could save him from just being a decoration to this hellscape for the rest of his life. You’re not sure you could go on living your life, when you know he’s just back here - still here. 

So there you are, planted in the line and hoping to save him from some dull future, and he’s shaking hands and smiling, but you can see how he eyes you, coming up on the line. 

“Thank you, Chan,” you smile warmly, and his hand is grabbing yours and it’s so soft and so big. He’s smiling too. Then you’re coughing and correcting yourself: “Uh- Father. Chan.” 

He laughs at your sputtering, clapping your hand between his two: “Oh, thank you, sister.” Emphasizing with pursed lips and wide eyes. You laugh along a little, but it’s strained. 

His smile fades slowly, and his face relaxes. He wants to say more. His fingers are still pulling your hand to his, and you just keep shaking it, because if you stop, it’ll be weird. Officially. 

“Oh, do you two know each other?” A bobbed woman from behind you in line is purring, unfamiliar hand on your back, and she doesn’t wait for you to answer before she’s talking again: “So, how do you know each other?” 

“Childhood. Friends,” Chan stammers, almost looking at you for confirmation, and you’re nodding along when the woman “ah’s” and “ooh’s”. “Oh, that’s wonderful, you guys!” And then you’re listening to her talk about some trailer down in Cassandra, and how her brother is fixing it up with his old friend, but there’s water damage in the lining of the room, and it’ll mold if they’re not careful, and it’s such useless information, you’re wondering how you’ll ever forget it. 

“Mrs. Lark, uh, I think my,” he looks at you, lips pursed, “my friend here needs to go, so..” 

Mrs. Lark gasps, embarrassed: “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m babbling,” and usually Chan would reassure her that she wasn’t, but he has more urgent matters on his hands. “Good day, Mrs. Lark!” he says and sends her off with a bright smile. There’s a few more people in line and Chan sighs a little. 

“Can you-” he’s a little sheepish, suddenly self conscious about the clergy shirt that grips his neck, “Can you wait? Here? Just until I’m done-” 

“Yeah,” you say. He smiles gratefully. 

Chatter continues behind you with a slight echo in the large room. You wait by one of the stained glass windows, arms around yourself as you stare up at it. Each and every window was a different biblical figure, made up of small shards of colored glass. You always found it strange, looking back, how your small town church had this grand artwork. The eyes of the window peer down at you.

“Judas,” Chan comments, planting himself beside you. His voice echoes slightly in the now empty church. The whole place is both too big and too small for the both of you. “It’s an interesting choice.” 

“What?” 

“Why you chose this window over any other,” Chan breathes, eyes darting down to you, and he’s looking at you very intensely. Then, it dissipates: “I’m also drawn to this one.” 

A pause.

“I wonder why they’d make this,” you quip, feeling small beside him. “I think whoever made this wanted all sides of Jesus’ story illustrated,” Chan says. You shrug. “If it were me, I wouldn’t.” 

Chan tilts his head to the side and looks at you again. Your cheeks burn, so you smile a little cheekily. “Was that not the right thing to say?” 

Chan’s smile is gentle and bemused - almost adoring. “There’s nothing you can say in here that is wrong.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” you laugh and Chan follows along. “Oh, you don’t?” You’re both laughing together, glee filling the crevices of the holy place, while Judas eyes you from the window. Your laughter dies down again, and when the silence returns, your heart clenches nervously. There’s a beat. 

“You keep busy?” you ask and the two of you are now facing each other. He sighs and nods, looking around. “Yeah, yeah, I got a.. Like a church get-together thing in, like, two days. I’ll be.. Preaching."

“Preaching,” you repeat, smile a little too tight. You wish you could say he didn’t notice. “Big Mr. Priest..” 

He laughs: “Technically I’m a priest apprentice,” he says, arms crossing over his chest. You roll your eyes. “So humble.” 

“What about you? Keep busy?” 

“Yeah, college,” you sigh. “You done?” he asks and you shake your head. “I wish.” 

His expression softens until he’s frowning. You want to squirm under his gaze, only because he looks so sincere and worried and you haven’t seen each other in three years. “You look tired.” 

“That’s not-” you begin, covering the slight ache in your heart with a laugh, “I just- Couldn’t sleep last night.”

“I thought living in the big city had you sleeping like a rock when you got to our quiet town,” he teases with a half-smile.

You shake your head, looking upwards at the ceiling. “It was that bell tower, just ringing, all night.” You shrug. Chan’s brows furrow and he looks up as well, as if he’d be able to see it through the tile roof. 

“The…” he trails off, sounding lost, “The bell tower doesn’t ring at nig-” 

Beep! Beep!

“Shit- sorry!” you curse, when your phone goes off loudly. Chan stands still studying you, while you squint at your phone. “I think- I think I gotta go.” 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he coughs, index finger rubbing over his taut knuckles. You’re pushing your phone into your back pocket again, when he reaches an arm out to you. “Uh-” he pulls back self-consciously, “Would you want to-.. Maybe, come to dinner at my place? Tomorrow?” 

You’re a little taken aback, looking at him with a softly open mouth for a moment. “Uh,” you fight back a wide smile, “Yeah, sure. I’d- I’d like that.” 

“Great,” Chan smiles too and nods. “Just- just at the house right next door, or?-”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s that one. Still,” Chan blushes breathlessly. You chuckle awkwardly. “Okay.” 

“Okay. See you then.”  _____________________________

You’re not sure why the prospect of having dinner with Chan has you so nervous. And it is just a dinner, you remind yourself, as you’re picking out your dress, just two friends catching up. After some 45 minute debate you pick out a pretty sundress.

You’d like to think there’s more to it than just the fact that Chan is suddenly very pretty and muscular. Maybe it’s the chance to make a wrong right. Maybe it’s to find out who this boy is, that was a key part of your life for so many years. Maybe you think you can change him.

Either way you’re just waiting for it all day, ignoring your dad trying to lure you out with trick shots from your garage. “HIYA!” he screams, throwing ping pong balls at your window all afternoon.

At 6:30 PM you’re standing at his door and hoping you don’t look too dolled up. His house also looks mostly identical to your memory of it. There’s something off about it though, and you study it momentarily, only to realize the front garden has overgrown. The grass comes up jagged and sharp, and the bushes bulge over the fence gate, brushing you when you waddle inside. You click the doorbell, wait a few seconds, and then begin to suspect that it didn’t work. Then you knock and you hear him fumbling around inside: “Coming!” 

He opens the door (with some struggle), and then you’re standing before each other. He’s so domestic, in a striped, brown sweater and dark blue jeans, and curly hair is framing his face like a crown. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He gives you a once over, smiling shyly: “You look great.” 

“Thank you,” you bow a little, “you too.” 

Then he’s letting you inside and you’re kicking off your shoes haphazardly, while he fusses back to the kitchen. “I made bolognese, if you don’t mind!” he calls and when you enter into the living space, he’s stirring a pan vigorously. You giggle a little, smile falling at the sight of a cross on the wall behind you. “Uh, yeah, of course.” 

Slurping tomato-sauced pasta and drinking a half-expensive wine that Chan had bought, you two laugh together. You mostly talk about when you were kids, then he’s talking about joining the church and you’re talking about college. 

“Is it hard? Out there?” Chan slurs a little, both of you tipsy and warm from the wine, having moved to the couch after eating. Now, full and face burning hot, you’re looking at each other differently. Chan’s got one arm on the couch rest, the other swirling the wine in his glass. He’s smirking a little and you hate how hot he is.

“It’s.. Exciting,” you counter, a little confused at his tone. He's close enough to radiate warmth onto you, when his eyes dip down to your lips for a second. “Yeah. You like exciting,” he drinks down the rest of his wine and sets the glass on the couch table. The moon, that’s been slowly traversing the star-speckled sky, gives the glass a faint halo. Chan basks in the moonlight, half lit and half shadowed. 

“I do. I do like exciting,” you giggle dumbly, still unsure where he’s steering the conversation. Chan smiles adoringly, because there you are sitting all blushing and warm in a sundress on his couch. The warmth disappears from his eyes then. 

“Was it exciting to watch me undress?” 

Oh.

Shit. 

You almost spit out a half-drunken sip of wine, gulping it down painfully and shaking your head. You set the glass down. “Chan! I’m-” you’re scrambling, “I’m really, really sorry. I- I was just- It wasn’t about your body, I was thinking about-” 

“Shut up.” 

Your mouth falls agape at his tone, offended and caught off guard. He’s still beside you, eyes much sharper than you remember, much colder. “Stop treating me like I’m still a kid.” 

“Well, you haven’t changed much, Chan,” you scoff. 

“Yeah, that’s why you were looking at me through your fucking window,” he scoffs as well, “because I haven’t changed.” 

You sit in quiet disbelief, trying to stay mad when his face is so pretty and so close to yours, and his jaw is clenched and his cheeks are flushed from the wine. You’re deciding whether to spit back or diffuse the situation. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry.” 

The hand that was previously holding his glass lands on your knee. He leans in even further and you smell the sour air of wine on his breath. You shudder under his touch when he whispers: “I want you to be honest with me.” 

You’re looking up at him with wide eyes, heart beating in your chest like nails being knocked into wood. “Tell me what you want from Father Chan,” he muses, smirking slightly, while his thumb brushes back and forth on your knee. 

You’re completely out of breath and squeezing your thighs together, as slick begins to build up in your panties. “Come on,” he encourages, “Let it out. Tell Channie what you want.” 

“I want,” you’re shaking in humiliation, gaze cast onto the floor, “I want you to touch me.” 

“Come again?” he teases, grinning.

“Please touch me, Chan.” 

“There you go,” he mutters and finally gives in, hand brushing the skirt of your dress up your thighs, until your white, cotton panties are visible to him. The sight of you is so pornographic, he groans and dips his head into your neck. “Spread your legs for me, baby.” 

And you do, one of them drooping over his legs, while the other bends on the couch beside you. You’re already so worked up, because Chan is so beautiful and you never, ever thought you’d experience him like this. “Shh, shh, calm down, pretty girl,” he kisses your temple, as his fingers brush over your clothed core.

“Baby,” he tuts disapprovingly, “you’ve soaked through your panties.” 

You can only whine as his fingertips ghost along your dripping slit, and he’s nosing into your cheek like a big puppy. “‘M sorry,” you hiccup, and he grins and kisses your lips tenderly. “So polite for me.” 

He finally dips his hand into your panties, fingers rubbing circles into your pussy. You’re mewling and thrashing into his chest, basking in the sound of his strangled moan, when you thrash the leg in his lap and brush over his hard cock. 

His fingers move lower to dance along your slit and you grab his wrist strenuously. He hums a little. “Gonna put my fingers in your pussy and my tongue in your mouth now,” he’s mumbling and you can’t tell if he’s telling you or himself, but either way he does as promised, two fingers plunging into your sopping wet heat, while he dips his tongue in your hot mouth.

You're moaning into his lips. He’s kissing you so sloppily, spit spilling down both of your chins, and noses rubbing together, breathing scorching air into each other. His fingers are pumping in and out of you, then curling into that sweet spongy spot inside you. 

“Fuck!” you cry when he pulls away breathlessly, “so, so, so good. Chan- Chan, fuck!”

Your orgasm is building up in your stomach, with a pleasure that is simultaneously torturous. He’s looking at you so intensely, you feel like you might unravel under his gaze. “Fuck, Channie.”

“Yeah? You feel good?” he pauses his words, still curling his fingers in and out of you. His next words are somewhat uneasy: “Is this better than those other guys?” 

“Huh?” you mumble, chest arching and his mouth is watering at how inviting it is. “Back then,” he says, and it finally clicks what he’s talking about. 

“Pussy so good no wonder they all wanted a piece of you, hm? Such a slut,” he’s rambling now, fingers plunging in and out of you impossibly fast, while his other hand splays over your stomach, thumb tapping your clit. You cry out in ecstasy, unable to form coherent words to respond with.

“But you’re my slut, right?” His voice is raspy and right next to your ear. The thumb tapping your clit begins to rub circles into it. “Y/n,” he’s suddenly very serious, “say you’re my slut.” 

“I’m-” your voice crack in humiliation, cheeks fiery and eyes squeezed shut, “I’m your slut!” 

“That’s right,” he pants, trying to stop his hips from bucking into your calf. “And my slut is gonna cum on my fucking fingers right now.” 

Your orgasm feels otherworldly - maybe godly - and your whole body shakes in his hold, chest bouncing in his face and moans melodic in his living room. Chan works you through it, finally pulling his fingers out when your hands weakly push at his own.

You’re sighing heavily with hair messy and teased, slumped back on his couch. “Holy shit,” you say, grinning from ear to ear, completely dazed. Chan is watching you with a proud smirk and a tent the size of Texas in his pants. 

A thought strikes you then, and your grin is fading and your brows are furrowing. “Wait- Wait, Chan? Where are your parents?” you ask suddenly, sitting up and straight and pulling your dress down hastily. You snap your head around self-consciously. 

“Relax! Relax!” he laughs, “They don’t live here anymore, I bought the house from them, like, six months ago.” 

Your jaw drops. You wait just a second, hoping to catch a cheeky glint in his eyes, that might tell you he’s joking. You find nothing but blackness.

“You bought the house?” 

Chan looks at you quizzically, shrugging. “Yeah, I mean, they wanted to move, you know, see new things and I.. I just. Didn’t.” 

You can hardly fucking believe your ears.

“Chan!” you cry, frustration blooming in your chest and pounding in your head. “Why did you buy the fucking house? You’re gonna spend the rest of your life paying off the fucking mortgage, and you’re never gonna get out of here!” you shout, flailing your arms at his absurdity.

Chan narrows his eyes at you. “Sorry, city girl, we don’t all wanna pack up and live in a closet space for three years-” 

“Wha- Chan, this is not about me! How can you just.. Surrender to this place?” you shout and suddenly he’s raising his voice too. “Surrender?” he repeats, spitting it back at you.

“Yeah! Jesus, even your fucking parents wanted to leave, Chan. But you’re just- You’re gonna live out the rest of your life in this shithole and be some sort of- of priest?!” 

“I can’t believe you right now,” he stands up from the couch, and you follow suit. “In what world do you have the morality to come in here and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you scoff, crossing your arms. 

Your voices are echoing in the empty house, wine glasses and sauced plates standing idly on the tables nearby. Your silhouettes are confined to the large living room window, standing on either side of the moon. 

“You know what that means, Y/n,” he laughs bitterly. “No, please, tell me,” you invite him challengingly, wondering (or perhaps fearing) whether or not he’d actually go there. He prods at his cheek with his tongue, and hesitates.

“You were a fucking slut, Y/n.” His voice is quieter, maybe ashamed. Tears sting at your eyes, when you look at him incredulously. How could you think you knew this man? How could you think there was anything left to salvage? 

“Fuck you, Chan,” you spit, spinning around before the tears can fall. He says nothing, just stands alone in his living room while you dash out his door, hands wrapping around himself. 

Exiting his house into the cool, summer air, you realize one thing. The bell tower had been the call of the apocalypse.  _____________________________

You were the walls of Jericho that night, crying and tumbling in your childhood sheets, muffling your cries in the fear that he’d hear through his creaked open window. What was this pain, you couldn’t decide. Was it how he stayed steadfast or how you metamorphosed, dying only to return once again? 

In the morning, you’re dull and gray. You’re drinking coffee out of your dad’s old tourist shop mug from a visit to Niagara Falls, sitting at the dining table with puffy eyes. Your mom eyes you worriedly from the counter, leaning into your dad to whisper not-so-discreetly. 

“Sweetheart, you wanna go with us to church today? They’re having this whole event, the kids’ choir will be there!” she suggests gently and you just want to shrug off all her affection. 

“No,” you deadpan. Your mom gives your father a look. He sighs. 

“Alright, champ, that’s- that’s your choice,” he nods, mustache scrunching up when he pouts. You sigh, feeling like an asshole. “Sorry, I just-” 

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart, you just rest!” your mom shushes you, scrambling around the kitchen, ever in the hunt for some lost appliance. “All that college must wear you out, you should rest while you can, hm?” 

They’re gone by noon. You sit in the shadowed corner of your bed, avoiding the strip of light that dances across your room from the crack in the curtain. 

You’re bored, scrolling on your phone, cheek puffed up against your pillow, when it slips out of your hands and hits the floor with a loud bump. You groan, feeling like the whole world is against you today, and throw your arm off the bed to grab at it on the floor. 

It’s halfway under the bed, and when your fingers finally remark the smooth surface, they brush against something else. It’s hard and it feels dirty. You lift your head to look and tug it out.

It’s your diary. 

Phone long forgotten, you lift it carefully, like an old relic, and push open the faded pink cover. You feel like you’re about to snap in half, when your eyes survey the graphite-smudged pages of your horrible, horrible handwriting. The pages emanate a mysterious air that has you leaning back in your seat.

You’re skimming through angst entries, that has you cringing and wanting to put it down, before you freeze suddenly, inhaling sharply at the scribbled out words before you.

‘3. august 2016

God, I miss Chan.’

The words come with the promise of stinging tears in your eyes.

“Fuck you,” you whisper angrily at the page, because you’re crying again, and you close the book and hold onto yourself so tightly that it hurts. “Fuck that. Fuck this.” 

It’s perhaps the worst feeling you’ve ever felt. It’s anger, it’s sadness, it’s humiliation, it’s confusion. How did it end like this, you think. It would be so much easier if you were kids again. If he was that dorky kid from your church, who wore his father’s baseball caps and had chubby little hands when he prayed. You can do it better, you think miserably, if you get another chance. But you don’t. 

For about fifteen minutes, you curl into yourself and wait for the feeling to go away. It doesn’t. The heavy weight of realization pools in your stomach when you realize you might carry this with you for the rest of your life if you don’t do something. It doesn’t have to end like this.

Suddenly you’re light as a feather, grabbing your jacket and your keys and sprinting out the door and down the street. The cross atop the spire watches you run to it, awaiting you ominously.  _____________________________

You’re disheveled and pulled apart when you arrive at the gathering, and for once the townspeople look at you like you’re out of place. You’re late, you know, because people are taking their leave, scattering and dissolving towards the town square, and the entertainment (the kids’ choir), all robed in white, are marching away together. 

You’re panting, stumbling further into the church garden, jumping at the sound of grills being closed and rolled away onto the pavement. 

“Y/n?” Chan can hardly believe his eyes, when he sees you standing between a bed of lilies. You turn around and see him, melting a little at how tired and sad he looks. “I can’t believe you came,” he whispers, a little sparkle of hope in his gaze. You smile fondly, “Me neither.” 

Chan moves to embrace you, but freezes when he suddenly remembers where you are. “Uh, I can’t, I have to-” he stammers, scrambling for a solution, for something better than turning you away, when you’re here, close enough for him to hold. He looks around, gaze following the churchgoers as they pass through the gates, before he’s bopping his head down to whisper to you again: “Go into the church. I’ll be with you in a second.” 

You walk through that heavy, wooden door, and when it closes behind you the scrambling of metal and people and footsteps and crying children is gone. With the door, you’re sealed in here, with whatever fate follows.

All the light in the church is filtering through the stained glass windows, and once again you find yourself drawn to him. Judas. 

Part of you would expect such an artwork to depict Judas as greedy and grim, as glutinous and gloomy; that he would be hunched over with a pouch of shillings, giggling at his evildoing. But the Judas in the window is so.. Sad. 

He’s blue and gray and his eyebrows are upturned and for the life of you, you can’t figure out how the unknown artist must have managed to portray such despair in glass. You stand in the middle of his reflection on the floor, all blue and gray yourself, and you’re not sure it’s really because of the light.

That’s all the church inhabits at that moment. You and Judas, and your shallow breaths, and the stirring of dust in the air. There’s nothing holy in there with you. Just you and him.

You hear the door open to your right. You know it’s Chan, somehow you can just feel it. He must sense something in the air, because he says nothing, just walks up to stand beside you, and only then do you speak again.

“I always felt a bit like Judas,” you muster a breath.

Chan pauses and you can feel him looking at you. “Me too.” 

You furrow your brows, and finally look up at him, and there he is in his clerical shirt and his matching pants, his right cheek glowing bright blue. The whole room is so heavy, you lean against the bench behind you. 

“That’s not.. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Chan doesn’t ask you to elaborate. He understands. “God made it that way,” he’s nodding with a pained expression on his face, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself. You laugh a little and hate how much love you feel, when Chan half-smiles at the sound.

“God.. Yeah,” you half-gesture to the sky and Chan giggles. Then you’re both quieting down again. “I can’t tell if it was you or God I turned my back on,” you say and you’re looking at Judas again, and how one, jagged hand holds onto his chest.

“Maybe it was both,” Chan says and there’s this unreadable expression on his face. You’re laughing again, cheeks apple-round. “I’m pretty sure it’s blasphemous to compare yourself to God.” 

“Yeah?” he laughs, “I think so too.” You’re looking at him again when he’s gulping hard and the joy drains from his face. A small frown curve his lips. “I’m sorry about yesterday, you know.” You look away.

“Me too,” you say. Chan can’t help the way his heart leaps when, without sparing him a glance, you grab his hand in yours and squeeze it. He squeezes back.

He gasps painfully and when you turn to him again, he’s choking back tears, face turning red. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I just wish… Fuck, I mean, we’re too different, aren’t we?” 

You nod. “We are.” 

“When are you leaving?” 

You smile disingenuously, hoping it’ll cheer him up. It doesn’t.

“Tomorrow.” 

Chan is crying, there’s no denying it now, no chalking it up to sniffles. Tears, turning yellow from the sun behind Judas’ back, trail down his cheeks and he wipes them aggressively, but they just keep coming. Deep, despaired moans bounce off the ceiling and walls of the church.

“Can I-?” Chan begins, unable to form words between his heart-rattling sobs. “I just- I need to-” 

“Yes,” you say, and there’s not a single doubt in your mind, that this is what you both want, as you take a step forward and pull his lips into yours. 

Chan’s lips taste like every color of Judas, of blue, of yellow, of gray, of green. Salt hits your tongue when his tears trail down to where you’re connected, and he’s still crying into the kiss, hands finding your waist and clutching so, so hard. 

“Please don’t cry,” you whisper in between kisses, “you’re gonna make me cry.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t stop. He’s too caught up in memorizing the way your body feels under his hands, the way you’re moving against him, the way you’re pulling him by the collar of his clerical shirt, and how your nose feels shoved into his. 

His warm hands slide your shirt upwards, burning against your newly exposed skin. You pull away only to tug it over your head. Chan whimpers when he sees your chest, cupped by your bra and he pulls you into his chest to unhook the back, head looming over your shoulder. Ear pressed to his neck, you can feel the way it contracts, when he hiccups. 

As soon as he’s done, straps sliding gently down your arms, you’re pouncing on each other again, lips meeting rhythmically in the blued sunlight. Blindly, you’re unbuttoning his clerical shirt, fingers shaking against his chest. His hands clasp over yours soothingly, urging you to slow down. 

The whole ordeal is strangely silent, even Chan has stopped crying now, and the only sounds filling the church are the brush of fabric and your muffled moans into each other’s mouths. You’re whining though, when his shirt finally pushes off his shoulders and his torso is right in front of you and under your hands. 

You whimper at the sight alone, running your hands over his arms and over his chest down to his abs. Chan smirks at you. “I knew you liked it,” he mumbles to himself, almost childishly. 

This comment slows you down, as you’re pulling back to laugh, and you’re both shirtless in front of each other, hearts huge and glowing. Chan smiles at you adoringly while you laugh, face scrunched up and eyes crescents. 

“You can’t say that when I’m trying to fuck you,” you say finally, hair a mess on your head and lips pursed to keep yourself from laughing again. Chan loves your dumb face. He takes your hands in his and rubs the palms with his thumbs. “I know.” 

“Can I-?”

“Yes,” you whisper, agreeing before he can even get it out. Chan nods and holds you, gently guiding you onto the floor, where your entire body is marbled by the light hitting the glass. Chan stands over you for a moment. 

“You’re just gonna stare at me?” you joke, but your arms are sneaking their way up your torso. “Yeah,” Chan responds, but he’s already kneeling down in front of you, moving your arms away. 

“You are so beautiful,” he says it as if it almost pains him, but he’s straddling you and fumbling with your jean-buttons, beginning the tedious task of peeling them off your legs. You want to say something snarky, but he has you breathless and blushing, all you can muster is a meek: “Thank you.” 

He looks up from his work on your jeans at that, smiling at you fondly. 

You kick your jeans off your legs, while he begins to undo the buckle of his own pants, shoving them down his legs at the first opportunity. You’re both almost naked, you in your panties and him in his boxers, and you’re wondering why he’s showing no signs of moving them off you, dick hard and scorching fucking hot against your clothed core. Then he plants his arms on either side of your head, and rolls his hips into yours.

The moan you let out is coming from deep in your fucking soul. Only something godly could pull that out, you decide, sopping fucking wet from the star-like heat it has against you. “You sound so pretty,” he whimpers and does it again. Then again and again and again, and you’re arching your back and the both of you are moaning and groaning, filling the church with humidity. 

“Chan,” you muster, sounding on the verge of tears. His head is lowered onto your breasts, panting hard into the impossibly soft skin. “I-Inside. Now.” 

Chan wants to say something sexy, but he’s so desperate for you, that all he can manage is: “I agree.” 

He’s scrambling wildly to tear his boxers off and you do the same, lifting your hips to remove your drenched panties from your core. When you’re left bare, he lets out a choked moan, because immediately your hole clenching and gushing slick onto the tiled floor. The church floor, no less. 

“So fucking beautiful, and mine. Belongs to me,” he babbles, eyes wounded, but fingers spreading your folds open, as he lowers his head to remark on them. You mewl, fingers clawing at his shoulders. “Miss you,” you squall and he looks up at your face again. “Okay,” he responds, body moving back up to your face. Then he mutters against your lips: “Miss you too.” 

He’s kissing you again, so warm and wet in your mouth and humming into you. You claw at his back and whine wildly, when his hand steers his dick through your folds, lubricating itself in your plentiful wetness. 

He pulls away and you chase after him with sorrowful eyes. “I need to see your face when I push in,” he explains very sincerely, and you somehow understand that, yes, he needs to see it. You nod.

Then he’s pushing into you. He bursts through your gates, all thick and veiny and totally raw against the walls of your pussy. He’s slow, studying your face tenderly for any signs of discomfort, even when he grimaces from the euphoric feeling. And God, your face is so perfect, all scrunched up and twisted in pleasure, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut. He will remember it forever.

He’s rocking in and out of you, and it’s slow, and it’s love, and it’s mature, and you’re moaning simultaneously, foreheads pressed together, as he fucks you into the floor. 

“Are you close, darling?” he pants against your cheek and you nod, because you are. Because it feels like your body has been working its way up to this final point, and every other milestone has just been a hillpeak on the way to a mountain. “Yes, yes, yes, I am.” 

“Good, so good for me,” he’s speeding up just a little bit, working the two of you closer and gaining leverage from his bruising grip on your hips. Your hand slides up his neck, from where he’s nuzzled into the side of your nose, and you whisper breathlessly in his ear: “Please cum inside, please, please.” 

And Chan’s head spins at that, thrusting so hard you’re entire body jerks. You, all filled with his kids, all soft and big stomached. The thought has his thrusts - now quite swift - becoming sloppy and has him spurting cum. You come at the feeling of him spurting inside you, spluttering you full of white seed, so much that it’s spilling out at the base of his cock. 

You’re both stilling, bodies expanding eagerly for air, and he’s still so close to you, still inside you, still buried in your hair, nose huffing breaths into your ear. The church is so painfully quiet, you begin to hear your own heartbeat. This was it. This was the narrow end. There was no other way. 

Lying your head on the tile and tilting it, so your eyes dance over the floor beneath you, you realize that Judas is no longer the artwork, no longer the masterpiece: It’s you and Chan on the floor, arching into each other and bathed in his light. To an unknowing outsider, the expressions you carry would also seem misplaced, just like Judas had to you. But you both know, still clinging onto each other like angels that flutter from the sky and into hell, that it was because of the end you had ensured for each other.

“I love you.” 

Chan whispers the words into your neck, voice thick. You realize he’s crying again, because you feel burning hot tears dribble down your neck, and his shoulders are shaking. You curl your arms around him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I love you too.” 

[alienstarzz]

୨୧┆Alien Onceler Au update or smth idk.

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He now has a new design/concept sheet. I still hate this what In the world is bro doing.

Here's some information about this au so far:

This au centers around the intergalactic alien creature named "Space-ler." Later nicknamed "Star-ler."

Of course, he was the inventor of the thneed. Made millions from it. The lorax trying to stop him multiple times.. bla bla bla...

(Btw in this, au truffulas do not produce air at all. They live off of Stardust pollens.)

Here are a few things that caught my eye from @articskele reblog of my previous post!

(Answered from top to bottom.)

Yea alien Viktor :3

I don't play any kirby games, I didn't know that lol

The truffula flower can be made into tea— however, aliens can not drink or eat anything at all. They have no organs. No form of digesting their foods. They are only pure bone, skin/meat, and hair. ^_^ if you were to cut them open. You would only see bones. If you would like to see something like that, I would be more than happy to draw it!

He could be a mix of a shark and alien. I'm the one mainly in charge of the alien features and everything. He's part of the shark ones. I might have to ask him a few things abt his sona :3 I'm not sure how to answer this

I was actually going to add some sort of biology in this au, I'm studying a few things abt it, so if I find smth, I consider interesting, I can add it into the au or add it as a fun fact!

Yes, unless if you're closer to the sun or have a star nearby you, you have no form of light. But aliens don't need light. Picture this. You can see the person in front of you, but only... "White outlines?" You can't see their colors, just a shade of black with outlines of what they look like. I'm not sure if this makes sense.

This is going to be a bit disturbing. But, if a dead astronaut is found in an abandoned space shuttle, aliens can use the dead body and "harvest" it to wear the skin. When space-ler wanted to do this, he was scared at first, so he asked his brothers to do it for him.

The glowing blood is actually a cool idea! I may consider using that :3

Their are aliens with curly antennas. When I first used to make alien ocs a year ago around June, my art style was very different. Around April, I changed my art style to look like a cartoon! My art style was inspired by invader zim, Panty and Stocking, and Randy Cunningham 9th grade ninja! Which explains why my art style is blocky and stuff 😭

Nightcore? I love nightcore pls link it or idk

I will check out the color pallettes!! Thank you so much!

Thank you for these wonderful questions :3 it gave me a few more ideas for this au and it was fun to answer them ^_^

NOTE:

I have a few ideas for the story to this au, or well space-lers overall backstory ? Ig??

This au will contain topics such as suicide, family issues, and neglect. I will ALWAYS add a warning before posting abt him if they contain these!

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[hroscek]

✎📃Dottore studying headcanons📚

Back again with more Dottore content. This is a bit of a mix between a modern au but still somehow compliant with Genshin? Idk I just wanted to write ab him studying and projecting finding inspiration in my own life without having to explain how he has access to YouTube in his akademiya days okay? Anyways enjoy and make sure to study if you happen to be procrastinating at the moment (I will know)!

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Dottore study headcanons

Probably the type that ultra-focuses on the material in front of him leading to generally neglecting any and all other needs until he physically can't anymore (nearly burnt down his dorm via hair catching fire from a candle when he fell asleep at the desk)

Thinks he's above attending lectures so he'd definitely be that one student that never shows up but still ends up acing the exams.

Fully believes that he must achieve a state of total focus to optimize his brain. This starts as threatening the other students into leaving him alone as he studies, drawing the curtains and shutting out all other distractions. Probably spent too much on finding a good noise-cancelling headset.

After getting kicked out gracefully parting ways with the akademiya he devoted some time to trying to find ways to improve his focus even more. I'm talking full blown rounds of experimentation with different methods such as binaural beats (actually works tbh), sensory deprivation tanks etc. Sort of how greater lord rukkhadevata would shut herself away to meditate, but he would never admit how similar their methods are.

Honestly I wouldn't be surprised if the original Dottore is just floating in a state of meditation rn trying to achieve max brain power (legit a headcanon for me now lmao).

Seeing as he probably doesn't sleep much, especially when in the thick of experiments he tries his best to compensate in other ways. He drank an inhuman amount of coffee or energy drinks (or both at the same time tbh) until he grew a tolerance to all forms of caffeine and is now forced to actually sleep once in a while.

He is intimately familiar with is work area and instantly knows where everything is. To outsiders it looks like a mess of various documents, piles of paper, supplies and mechanical parts. Often he asks a new intern to fetch him a sheet or something and they'll spend hours looking for it in the raven's nest that man calls an office. Then he'll show up pissed as hell like "It was under the desk next to the 3rd used energy core. Are you really that stupid?".

When he's in the zone he's deathly silent, his eyes laser focused on whatever page or machine he's trying to figure out. An observer might be afraid he'll burn a hole trough the object with his eyes. This is probably the only time he doesn't wear his mask as he doesn't want anything to obstruct him. Archons couldn't help the unfortunate soul who dares to interrupt him in this state. Instant volunteer for his next experiment.

Pantalone once decided to gift him with an expensive stationery set in a desperate attempt to get him to organize his study. It included quills, ink, various highlighters and organizers all in pastels with cute motifs. "To bring some positivity to the gloomy atmosphere around you!". Dottore claimed to hate it but was seen months later using a kitten-themed notepad at one of his labs.

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Another post, another slay (probs a flop). I'm currently taking a half-voluntary gap year because I decided to switch universities a little too late in the year oops. And honestly in this time I've realized how much I thrive in the academic environment and I miss studying so much! Idk might sound a bit too optimistic coming from someone who's currently not under any pressing deadlines or tests but I really do miss it. As much as I hated crunching the night before a test and stressed about the material I believe it's an environment I truly thrive in. I really do find such comfort in being able to take notes, discuss with classmates and professors. It's probably one of the many reasons I find Dottore relatable. We both share such a thirst for knowledge and focus way too much on our favorite subjects. I'm rambling, sorry. Thank you so much for reading and please don't be shy to send me asks or comments with ideas you'd like me to expand upon. I'm still pretty new to writing in fandom space so I'd really be grateful to get feedback and see what the community wants lol.

Have a good day! ❀

[mpchev]

Update on fanbinding dissertation: more typesetting, more test prints, more guillotines!

I’ve now spent 23 hours learning how to fanbind! Having SO MUCH FUN, despite the tiny bit of panic that has started to settle in — everything else also takes a lot of time, and these fanbinding hours could have been spent reading more of the abundant fanbinding / fan studies / folklore research, or working on transcriptions, or getting some writing done. Going for equal parts of “it’s all about balance” and “fuck it we ball”.

I ordered some supplies from Ratchford a few days ago — I’ll need to order some more because I was mid flare-up when I did it, so brain was mush and I forgot a bunch of things, but! I now have enough supplies to do some of the next steps.

My new best friend the blue guillotine from the last update? Not such a good friend after all, test signatures were very uneven. Mentioned I was looking for an alternative to one of my profs, and he lent me his own! (Thanks Tom!) It is also blue, I’ll miss it dearly when I have to give it back. Walking around campus casually carrying a guillotine made me feel like the most interesting person in the world, many opportunities for French revolution jokes, highly recommend.

Spent a day at the library finishing up the typesetting, and doing some more printing and cutting tests. With the actual fic on the page instead of the SFW version, so here’s a title reveal if you squint (I’m binding 5 short fics together, had to come up with something). Was worried about regular printer paper looking way too blue-white for a book, but that printer had recycled paper as an option and it looks so much better. Huge thanks to Kait for the moral support, the carrying of the guillotine when I couldn’t, and the pictures of me doing things.

Spent the night making a punching cradle out of millboard (using embroidery scissors as an x-acto knife?! do not recommend) and PVA glue, after seeing someone else posting about how easy it was. (Now, is it somewhat functional? Yes. Should I maybe have googled it a little instead of just eyeballing it in a trance state of Must Do Something Now? Also yes. Later found a great youtube video of what I should have done instead, might give it a go later.) Then punched some holes (so far, feels like I didn’t need to get an awl/my awl is way too big, but we’ll see), and then sown my two more test signatures, one with more embroidery floss and one with the linen thread I now have. Something feels a bit off in the very-thin linen thread + recycled paper + big awl + wonky punching cradle combo, not sure which one to blame, probably a bit of everything. The collection of test signatures keeps on growing!

Went back to the library the following day, printed one more test signature (in case the printer had decided to grow a new personality overnight), and then the two copies of the actual book! Sliced all the sheets in half, put them in the right order, folded the pages, arranged them into signatures, and sliced them to the actual size. Thought I messed up by folding the signatures before cutting them to size, but that turned out to be a better way to do it. They look SO GOOD and SO REAL, I am SO HAPPY, this is SO SATISFYING, I desperately want to learn how to make paperbacks next to carry them everywhere. Also want to bind bigger books. Look at that happy autoethnography face.

Next steps: sewing the signatures, getting the missing supplies, attacking the terrifying ordeal of casing those bitches.

[anonymatt1]

another story of mine! this is fiction and i’d never condone anything like this irl, but hopefully you sick perverts (affectionate) can get off to it

CW: stalking, cnc, creampie, bondage, drugging, intoxication

I first saw you when we sat next to each other in class. I’ve always been a shy person, most of the friends I’ve made already know someone else in my friend group. So it took me by surprise when you took an interest in me. I know you were just being nice, but when you introduced yourself I knew you were going to be my girl. We got closer over the semester, and you even invited me over to your apartment a few times to work on a project or to study for a test. I fell more and more in love with you the more time I spent with you, but I could tell you didn’t feel the same way. I didn’t want to scare you off, so unfortunately I could only express my feelings for you in more secret ways. Sneaking a little card into your bag that says “I love you so much it hurts”. Putting in a mobile order for your coffee when I notice you going to Starbucks (under your name of course, I can tell you’re still not ready to accept my love just yet). Scaring away anyone else who shows interest in you so I can save you all for myself.

It was over Thanksgiving break that I had a realization. If I couldn’t get you to fall for me regularly, I would just have to make you fall for me. After that I started to plan the best way to make you love me as much as I love you. I remembered you saying you didn’t have the best family life, and how you really dreaded going home for the holidays. Using that, I was able to convince you to stay on campus later than the rest of your roommates. By this point you also trusted me enough to confide that you thought someone was stalking you, and you’d feel better if you weren’t alone.

Now I just had to figure out the best way to break you apart, so that I’d be able to mold you back together as my own. You’d mentioned how you enjoy smoking weed, and I said I’d get some alcohol even though we were both still underage. What better way to begin our break from college courses than relaxing in a way that just wasn’t feasible during the semester (at least not for honor students like us). I told you that I’d stay a little more sober, to make you feel safer from this “mysterious” stalker, and that you could just let yourself go for this one night. You’d gotten pretty cross-faded, but I had to make sure I didn’t mess up my only chance to make you mine. So I roofied your next drink and gave a toast. You didn’t notice I wasn’t actually taking my shot alongside you, and you certainly didn’t notice me picking you up as you blacked out.

I took you to your bedroom and laid you out on top of your neat sheets. You looked so cute, just laying there, so peaceful. I had to shake myself out of my reverie so that I could secure you before you woke up. You wouldn’t be awakening any time soon, but I needed to make sure everything went perfectly. Another sign that we were meant to be together were the posts of your bed. They were thick, perfect to tie you down to until you realized what I already knew, we were made for each other. I spread your limbs out so I could have easy access to all of your body, I wanted to be able to explore every inch of you. Next I had to gag your mouth. I hated to do that to you, but unfortunately I couldn’t take the chance that you might panic before I could show you my love.

Now that I had you positioned correctly, I could move on to pleasuring you. During some of our more risque conversations, after we’d finished studying and you got a little tipsy or high, you mentioned how sensitive your tits were. It was obviously meant as an off-handed comment to a friend, but it gave me an idea on how to convince you I was the only man for you. I taped little bullet vibes onto your nipples and turned them onto medium. I wanted to make you as aroused and sensitive as I could before you came to. Next I set a vibrator to rest on your clit, but this one I left on low. At that point I couldn’t help but take a taste of your pussy, the sight of it too tempting to pass up. You hadn’t worked up much arousal yet, but just the taste of you nearly drove me to madness. I had to take a second to calm myself, and then I started slowly rubbing the outside of your vagina. I knew it’d be some time still before you’d wake up, so I just gently stroked up and down your lips, swapping which arm I was using a couple times so that I didn’t wear one out too much. I started to hear some moans coming out of your mouth so I quickly moved up near your face. You were still unconscious, but it seemed my ministrations were doing a good job of getting you worked up. I took a bit of a chance, but I had to hear those moans straight from your mouth. I removed the gag, and hearing your sweet voice was the most erotic thing I’d ever experienced. You still weren’t waking up, so I took another chance and had my first kiss with you. You couldn’t kiss me back, and yet it was still the best kiss I’d ever had. Then I noticed your eyes shifting, a small sign that you would soon awaken.

It took a large amount of restraint to pull away and put the gag back on, but the thought of losing you was enough to make me break our kiss. As your eyes fluttered open, I reached back down to your cunt to find that you had become soaked. The continued stimulation of the vibrators had made you start to leak arousal. The alcohol, weed, and drugs had fogged up your brain, and all of the sensations you started to feel as you woke up didn’t do anything to help clear it. I slapped your face. Not too hard, just enough to help jump start your consciousness. The first thing you saw after coming to was my face. I couldn’t help but have a smile on my face, I was just so excited to finally be able to express my feelings for you. I saw the fear enter your eyes as you realized what was happening and rushed to reassure you. “Don’t worry baby. I know it’s frightening right now, but soon you’ll understand I’m just trying to help you realize we belong together.” This didn’t do anything to calm you and you started to struggle against the ropes holding your limbs. Seeing that I hadn’t done enough to convince you yet, I turned up each of the vibrators and started to suck on your nipples. I continued to rub the outer lips, but I also started to gently finger you as well. You had already gotten aroused enough that I could quickly add another finger and start to stretch you farther. When you became aware again your moans had stopped, but the increased stimulation began to force you to let out sounds of pleasure once again. Once I noticed this moved to be face-to-face with you once again. “See princess, I just want to make you feel good. If you stop struggling then I can start to make you feel even better,” I murmur.

Tears had started to roll down your cheeks and I quickly licked up the trails. Your face was too beautiful to be marred by such things. At this point I couldn’t hold back any longer. I pulled off my pants and boxers, revealing my rock hard cock. Your enticing body had gotten me stiff as a board and leaking pre from the tip. “Now I’m going to start making love to you, darling.” My loving tone and words were at odds with the rape that was occuring, and yet somehow they still felt appropriate. I replaced the vibe on your clit with my hand so that I could thrust into you more freely. With one smooth push, I fit the entirety of my cock into your snatch. I saw your eyes flutter once again, but this time it was because of the rush of pleasure you were feeling instead of your groggy state of mind. “That’s it princess. Let my cock push all those silly thoughts of resistance away.” My voice washed over you. The calm, smooth, and kind tenor mixed with your growing arousal, battling with the logical side of your mind saying that this is a bad thing.

I saw that I was starting to make progress, so I went back to your weak point. I pulled the vibes off from your nipples and left them untouched for a minute as I continued to make love to you. Then I took one in my mouth as I gently rolled the other between my fingers. The small period of sensory deprivation had left them extra sensitive, so this managed to bring another moan out of you. This time it was more long and drawn out, everything came together to push you over the edge into orgasm. As I felt the walls of your vagina start to clench around my cock, I pumped into you faster. I wanted us to orgasm together for our first time, bonding us together. The sensations from your pulsing cunt, and the knowledge that I was the one that gave you all this pleasure were just enough to set me off as well.

We orgasmed together and your cunt milked me for all it was worth. Your womb hungrily swallowed my semen until I was utterly spent. As we both came down from our highs, I shifted so that we were face-to-face once more. “I’m sorry that I hid my love for you for so long, but I couldn’t take the chance that I’d push you away. Can you forgive me darling?” I muttered. “I’m going to take off the gag now. Please don’t make me have to hurt you, I only want what’s best for you.” I held eye contact with and reached up to pull out the gag. Your eyes were still watery, tears building up but not falling. You weren’t able to say it out loud yet, but you did manage a small nod to show you accepted my love for you. Another smile broke out across my face, what a wonderful night this was. Content that I was able to show you how we were meant to be together, we laid down and fell asleep, my cock still resting inside you.

[screeching-0wl]

Hi! I know it's been a while. I missed you all so much!

I'm long overdue with this post. I apologise for leaving so suddenly. I've been on hiatus since creating content for this blog became difficult for me due to being overwhelmed with studies, work and frankly, just life in general. I felt like I could no longer manage this account as well as I would've liked and might end up burnt out sooner or later, so it was best to step back for the sake of my mental health. I am doing better, though I'm still currently quite busy taking care of university, trying to move to another city and overall adapting to some changes in my life.

Thank you so much for your understanding, kind words and support. It really means the world to me and I'm immensely happy to see someone still enjoys this blog and finds it helpful.

I would like to continue posting here, although I'm afraid I can't say when this will be exactly. For now, I'll continue to be on hiatus. Though, perhaps, if I happen to have some spare time and energy, I might log on to say 'hi' once in a while and answer some of your asks or post some fun facts about antiquity.

On a side note, I did peek at some of the asks and messages, so I'll answer the most common questions:

The cheat sheet series might be continued at some point in the future, or at least I hope to do so.

If you have any recommendations for resources about a particular deity feel free to drop them in my inbox.

You can absolutely translate the deity cheat sheets into other languages, link them on other platforms and use them to suit your needs. Please just make sure to leave the credit.

Lastly, I would only like to say that it's been an honour to be a part of this community. I've learnt a lot and was fortunate enough to meet plenty of wonderful people. Thank you so much, once again!

I wish you all a blessed New Year full of joy and good health! May the gods guide your way and keep you in their care 💜

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

I have a character I'm working on whose body is mostly just bones ('cause he died and was revived a few decades later) and ice he forms and controls with his magic. I know ice can make a wide range of sounds (based on videos of people ice skating on YouTube), but would he be able to use it to mimic (some) spoken words? What would his voice sound like if he spoke or sang?

(Note: He's also going to use sign language, but given that he's an elk skeleton and missing half his limbs, that might be a bit challenging for him to use a full vocabulary of sign. And also singing is important to him, so he'd really want to be able to if at all possible.)

that is a fascinating concept, I love it.

as for sound through ice, not my expertise but I can find some resources for you!

here is a forum post about weird ice sounds

here is a study on the effects of ice on sound in the arctic ocean

and here is a video about the sound of cracking ice on a lake

it's also worth a note that whenever you see videos of ice making funky noises, it's always somewhere with a very large amount of ice in a big area, like a frozen lake or a glacier or an arctic/antarctic ice sheet. the amount of ice needed for an elk-human sized body may not produce the same volume of sound! but animating a skeleton with ice in place of flesh is a purely magical thing that has zero realism, so you can handwave all sorts of things with this concept. I think the best place to look for "how would you make a voice out of sounds like this" is actually early computer voices!

like the Voder maybe or the IBM 7094

here is a video on the evolution of computerized voices

here is an article on the history of synthesized speech

and a video about the Curiosity rover singing Happy Birthday

the tldr of how this sort of thing works is just Vibration. if you have the right materials to create audible resonance, you can vibrate them to create different sounds. this is also how many musical instruments work! making it sound like speech is harder, but possible. your ice elk dude might have a very unusual voice that other people find difficult to understand. maybe he can embed some metal pieces in a hollow chamber in his icy throat and focus whatever magic keeps him "alive" into vibrating those metal pieces to create sound. the exact method of it can be handwaved, it's magic. but it adds just a little bit of plausibility and unique flavor to the way he communicates.

have fun!