#almost like a loop innit?

[sholb]

it's about how shiv is always framed as a villain at first glance, it's about how rebrov tells george that shiv waterboards suspects and how george assumes it's shiv who hit rebrov and shiv only denies it once to no avail because maybe shiv wants to be the guy who tortures suspects because "if you work here you cannot make a fucking mistake" because maybe if he was that guy maybe he would have gotten the intel that would have saved janet's son. and it's about how shiv chases rebrov down and when rebrov says "all you had to do was shoot the right man" we see shiv fire a shot at his back and the audience is left to assume that shiv killed him—except shiv is driving rebrov to the hospital and he's giving janet an hour until he comes for her and how this mercy is not enough because "you owe us, shiv" and yet they both escape and that's shiv's fault too. it's how shiv's cousin asks him suspiciously why he came to their family's shop in the middle of the night and it's shiv's response "i'm here to save you" and how the police probably ended up arresting his cousin instead. it's how this action of altruism gets him recruited to the project that can only serve the greater good by erasing millions of people and it's this excruciating empathy that endures inside him that makes him try to save george from himself without telling anyone and it's what gets him shot and burned from everything he knows and it's what dooms him every time on a loop

[leclsrc]

low down ✴︎ cl16

genre: porn w slight plot, humor, tad bit of fluff

word count: 2.5k

A lot can happen under an hour. You and Charles, self-proclaimed pros at sneaking around, can attest to this.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... smuuut,......,,, ... ,, dirty talk, charles is a bit dom-switchy, penetrative sex, handjob (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), semi public sex, yeah

req'd!!! title from this. leave it to auds to dip for 6 days n come back with another fic... i love u guys, my best friends foreva (dipping again for a bit after ths bec im headed back to ldn)

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh.” Lando pauses telling his story, spotting you and Charles sitting on the sofa of the lounge. “Hey, you guys.”

“Mmm,” you mumble noncommittally, both of you focused on the film playing. “Close the door, the light’s blocking the screen.”

“Right, sorry.” Lando pulls it shut and turns back to Carlos to finish his story. “So this girl, yeah? Proper fit and all. Hey, Charles, her friend’s single, if you’re into that.”

Charles mulls over it for a second, his lips warping into a pout. “Sure…? Actually, mate, no.”

“Both of you are going to die single,” Carlos chirps from the fridge, tossing Lando a can of beer, who receives it as he laughs.

You snort from your place on the couch, clearly amused. “You’re saying that like it’s wrong.”

five minutes earlier

Charles’ hands sneak up, underneath your thin tank top and higher to cup your breasts. You mouth his name hotly against his ear, your own fingers threading into his hair as you whimper. “You”—another moan escapes your lips involuntarily when one hand leaves to squeeze at your ass—“you’re sure Carlos won’t come in?”

“We’ve got an hour at the least,” he promises roughly, groping hungrily, blindly almost. You part from him to catch your breath, meeting his eyes. They’re dark, with want written all over them, so you pull him closer, to let your mouths meet in a wet, messy kiss.

You two haven’t hooked up in two weeks, record time for how good you are at sneaking around. You’re not usually so careless, but you’re both desperate. He breathes hard, urgent, the tent in his jeans rubbing against the seat of your shorts. So much pent up tension, weeks of lingering touches, of eye contact at the same table, of wanting each other so plainly, in front of everyone who thinks the two of you are just friends.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whimper, grinding downward, harder. Your top’s been pushed up so he can bury himself in between your tits. “But—mmmmf, fuck, I need it.”

“Tell me,” he says, demands, breathless. He thumbs at the cup of your bra.

“I keep touching myself thinking about you,” you confess. It slips easy when it’s him. 

You spread your legs wider from where you are on top of him, lying on the sofa, movie playing idly and forgotten behind you both. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much you want him, your body warm with desire, for him to bring his hand where you need it most. 

“Fuck, baby.” He hums, and it makes you so, so wet. Like he can read your mind, he mutters, “Wanna feel how wet you are.” Your hand loops around his wrist and you’re guiding it to your shorts, thighs clenching.

“Char—” Your breath tapers off into a high-pitched gasp when his arms suddenly wrap around your waist and gently, but urgently, push you off of him.

Briefly, you’re confused, your mind stuck on Fuck, baby and two weeks without all this and his promise of having enough time to fuck which has gone woefully unkept. You feel his fingers, quick to pull your top back down, feel him mumble a quick apology, and you sit yourself down on the other end of the sofa just as the door opens fully.

“You said an hour you asshole!” You manage to wedge it in before the chaos fizzles out.

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh, hey, you guys…”

—

“Leave it to her and Charles to swim even further off the beach,” George mutters to Lewis, both of them walking along the shore, feet sticky with water and sand. “Those two are always getting into trouble.” 

Lewis calls out to the blank bright sea. “Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving!” He scans the water for two heads, finds nothing.

Your head pokes out from the door of the yacht a few feet away, docked just by the pier. “Alright! Just a second!”

“What the hell?” He mutters quietly, just level enough for him and Lewis to hear. “Could’ve sworn they swam out…” The two exchange a puzzled look, but shrug it off. “Okay. Come quick!”

“Yep!” You shut the door again with a smile.

twenty minutes earlier

“Please,” you beg, fingers toying at the waistband of his shorts. It’s been so long, you’re implying. There was that one quickie three weeks ago and nothing else. Dry, dry, dry. It’s been ages. You blink, flirty, brows furrowed, lip red with how hard you’ve been biting on it. “Need you.”

Really, you are never this careless. The group—you, Charles, Daniel, George, Lewis—had all been drinking on a yacht, and then when everyone swam off, you both snuck back onto the boat and shut the door quick behind you so you could—

“I need you now,” you add, feverish, your head thrown against the wall.

“Slow down,” he grunts, a low, amused drawl. “So eager.” His hair’s a bit wet from the two minute dip you took to pretend you were both swimming like everybody else. It smells like the beach, his lips like beer. You’re addicted.

It’s killing you, the want. The hunger. The need. “Can you blame me?”

He brings his fingers up your skirt to push your flimsy bikini piece to the side, swearing gruffly under his breath when he pushes one inside of you slowly. A throaty moan leaves you, involuntary, drawn out by the slight stretch, the relief. You tighten around him, hands caging him closer toward you.

“You’re so tiny, baby.” He mutters something in French, amused, a bit in awe. “So good for me.”

“Just you, just you,” you whine, feeling him work another finger into your cunt. 

He laughs, vicious against your ear. “You like that? What if someone walks in, hmm?”

Your stomach lurches with excitement and you grow wetter. “I don’t care.”

“Atta girl,” he chuckles, low and hot. It’s so dirty, everything, all of it. The sneaking around, pretending you’re nothing but friends around everyone but claiming each other once you’re alone for even just a second. You’re desperate for him, more, more, more.

So he gives it, a third finger pushing into you and letting you feel more of the dull stretch. Your hand’s palming at the bulge in his shorts, ears savoring the whiny grunts coming from him when you squeeze at it, albeit distractedly. “I’m gonna—fuck—” You tense, the pleasure bubbling over, thighs shaking.

“Let me feel you,” he orders lowly. “Come on, ange. J’en veux. Cum for me.”

Like you’re on command, you do, toes curling and hands pulling him to latch against your neck so you can smell him, feel him everywhere as you cum. It’s hard, long, a direct result of the god awful dry spell, gushing all over his thick fingers. He slips them out, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheekbone, then your nose, then finally your lips meet again in a messy, slow kiss.

“How long do we have?” You ask, giggling. He smells good, like always, and having him pressed up against you is as comforting as it is arousing.

“I figure an hour.”

Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving! A disembodied English voice permeates the wooden wall and you screw your eyes shut tight, adjusting your pulled-up bikini top. You turn to open the door, head poked out, finding George and Lewis standing idly by the pier. Just behind the door, Charles’ big hand gropes at your ass and he laughs behind you, unseen.

“Alright! Just a second!” You chirp smilingly. They say something your mind’s too clouded to register, so you reply with a safe “Yep!” and shut the door, facing Charles with a stormy expression on your face.

“You are shit at timing these,” you scold, letting him lift you up and pin you up against the wall to savor a two-minute makeout session.

—

Daniel hands Charles a pickle jar, asks him to open it. You watch with mild amusement. This is an hours-long prank now, with Daniel proclaiming the jar to be fully un-open-able and garnering over fifteen failures over the morning. Lewis failed. Max failed. Esteban failed. Three engineers, two strategists, and one janitor failed. “Lewis failed?!” You’d asked when Daniel let you in on his secret challenge.

So you watch, eyes transfixed on his veiny, ring-clas hands wrap securely around the jar. And then it pops open.

Surprise etches itself onto your features—then warmth, at the realization that arousal had begun to boil in your stomach. “You should be proud of him,” Daniel says beside you, in awe. “Some friend you’ve got there.”

“Totally,” you say enthusiastically, elbowing Charles. “Nice one, mate.”

forty-five minutes later

“Your hands.” You feel them grope at your ass. “They’re wicked.”

“You’re weak,” he says. A menace.

“Just shut up.” In retaliation, he wraps a hand around your neck, but doesn’t squeeze. It just rests there, a promise of something more. Your breath hitches and you grow wet under your jeans. Your eyes flutter.

“Fuck me,” you breathe. And he does.

—

“What’d Charles say? Ring him, won’t you?” Alex asks, reviewing the reservation list for dinner. “He’s late.”

“He said he was good with 8PM. Let me call just in case,” Max hums, clicking at his phone and pressing his ear to it. “Charles?”

“Mate,” says Charles on the other end, voice muffled through the phone. He’s quiet. 

“You up for dinner, right?”

“Later, at eight,” says the other, breathy. “Bye—”

And the line’s clicked off. Max stares confusedly at his phone, turning back to Alex and shrugging. “Well, he said fine.”

“Does he knowit’s 8:15?”

thirty seconds earlier

Charles grabs your hair, knotting it in his grip as he sucks in through his teeth. “Fuck.”

He’s big, thick in your mouth, stretching your jaw out wide. You’re so pretty on your knees, like you have been for the past few minutes, head bobbing, bringing him toward and away from release. Your eyes are watery, pleading almost, and the farther you go the more you choke around his dick, unable to take it.

“Deeper,” he says gruffly. And you obey, like always, with a devious smile that translates mostly in your eyes, a raised brow.

He smiles back down at you, and then his phone is ringing in his back pocket. This has happened before—bosses, friends, family (God, family) calling during trysts, but Jesus, Charles will never ever—

“Answer it.” You pull off with a teasing smile. It’s a challenge, leaves your shiny lips that are currently wrapped around his tip again. You raise both brows. Go.

He does, presses accept without reading and then mumbling the first thing on his mind. “Mate.”

You cough around him, throat tightening as you deepthroat, humming sweetly like this is your favorite thing in the world. Above you, Charles is spilling nonsense. “At eight,” he says. “Bye—”

The phone clatters to the floor beside you and he thrusts roughly into your waiting mouth, good girl good girl leaving his mouth in thin, desperate, gritty moans until he’s pulling you off by your hair and cumming onto yout lips.

“Tastes like shit,” you tease menacingly, licking over them anyway and smiling. You stand up and button his jeans, laughing. He kisses you.

“I’m on a fucking time limit. Dinner at eight.”

“It’s 8:15.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “I’ll just fuck you, then.”

—

“Is sneaking around the best idea?” You ask. “For us, right now?”

The season’s almost over, and that means Charles has no time to sneak off. Between almost being caught with your panties in your mouth by Carlos, and Charles almost being caught eating you out by Daniel, you’ve both agreed the stress isn’t worth it. But it begs the other question: how long will you wait?

“It…” He meets your eyes, exhaling, bummed. “It isn’t.”

one hour later

“Harder,” you whimper, the plead leaving you softly and desperately. His hand’s heavy at the small of your back, pushing you into a perfect arch so he can pound into you the way he likes. 

“How could I say no to you?” He says breathlessly. You hear his smile, his teasing pleasure. You shudder when he goes harder, tightening around him, sinking further down onto his cock. Your brain’s all fog, dumbed down by Charles’ insistent, hot words, hands all over you. 

“Cumming,” you say, the words thin and whiny. Your thighs shake when you do, for the third time in the hour. This fuck is messier, more desperate, hotter than all the rest. He doesn’t usually handle you so roughly but you both know it’s what you want anyway. 

You’re so fucking cock drunk it’s crazy. So good Charles—I want to cum again, I—

“Come on, for me.” He pounds into you harder. “Before I fill you up with my cum.”

“Wanna be full of it,” you pant, crying into the pillows when you let yourself give in to the knot of pleasure again and cum, gushing all over his cock.

He feels, semi-blindly, for your lips, presses his thumb into your mouth for you to suck on. You sniffle around it, and clearly he’s close to release with how sloppy and rough his thrusts are now, the constant grunting music to your ears. “Gonna be good for me?” He asks. You nod. “Gonna be my good little slut?”

It’s too much, in the best way—it sends you both into overdrive, cumming at the same time. It’s so good, you’re saying, but it’s cloudy and faraway and dumb.

“I can’t,” he says through gritted teeth. His face is shiny and pretty when you turn over, feel his dick slip out, and press a kiss to his sweaty nose. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Me neither,” you admit. The confession is swallowed into a kiss.

—

“Are you wearing Charles’ shirt?”

Max is eagle-eyed. Nobody noticed for twenty-seven fucking minutes and then Max walks in, takes a glance at your shirts, and suddenly everyone’s eyes are like glue. Your Ferrari shirt, which you’d purchased to be intentionally oversized—Charles’ size, just about—had a plain collar. Charles’—his was a polo.

You are wearing a polo. Charles is wearing a plain, U-shaped collar.

twenty-seven and a half minutes earlier

“I love that bra.” Charles flicks the black lacy strap and lets it snap against your skin. You yelp, brows furrowed defensively.

“Hey.” You pick your shirt up off the ground. “Don’t get turned on, we have to go and meet our friends. Isa’s here today, and so is Lily.”

He does the same, clutching the red and black Ferrari gear to his bare chest. “You turn me on.” It’s teasing, flirty, and you smile, pretending to shoo him away when he crowds you against his room’s wall. Get away! You’re shout-whispering, but he presses a sure kiss to your lips, and you smile against them.

“We’re pros at sneaking around,” you say, giggling as you tug your tee on.

He fixes his collar, tugs the shirt to fit properly, winks. “We really are.”

And maybe you don’t know it now, or in twenty-seven and a half minutes, but one day you will realize that the only people you’re hiding all your feelings from are yourselves.

[elexaria]

si and johnny dating wasn’t as discreet as they had thought. “we’re best mates, innit. so.. i mean… it’s not really that deep if you wear my shit i guess.” simon gruffly says as he watches johnny pull on one of si’s old tshirts, grinning ear to ear at how it somehow manages to look baggy on him. “ye ken?” he says, an eyebrow raised as he swaggers over to the boulder of a man he gets the privilege of calling his boyfriend. simon grunts, shrugging as he loops a finger around one of johnny’s belt loops to tug him flush against him. “doesn’t matter, none of anyone’s business who i bone.” simon replies, his hands settling to the small of johnny’s waist.

and that’s how they slowly start to “introduce” ghoap to tf141. their clothes start to get mixed up, johnny’ll bring lunch for the both of them. “did’nae put any tomatoes in there, monsi.” he’ll say as he chucks a tinfoil wrapped sarnie at simon’s head. “you know me so well.” he chuckles, shooting a wink at johnny. gaz notices it, and that’s when the gears start to turn.

“ghost and soap are..??? did you know that?” gaz leans in close to price as they stand at a water fountain, his voice quiet as his eyes quickly glance over to where goap are stood in the distance— johnny’s pretending to beat the shit out of simon, while simon’s just stood there like 🧍‍♂️

“they’ve been together for almost a year, kyle.” price replies nonchalantly, raising a paper cup to his lips with a chuckle. “walls are thin. ol’ pricey hears and sees all.”

“what?? no way. they just come across as best friends, don’t you think?” gaz’s eyebrows furrow as he continues to watch the two of them, absolutely bamboozled at how he could’ve not seen it before!!

“believe me,” says laswell, leaning against the wall next to the water fountain. “they’re gay.”

[floral-force]

hey babes!!! I loved that one of Simon and the meet cute, it had me melting 🥹♥️ I was wondering if I could perhaps request a Simon Riley x reader where the reader is part of the 141, but before working with them, she was apart of a special ops group that focused on stuff like infiltration/sabotage, and she’s almost like a black widow sort of character? seduces her targets and takes them out when they’re alone? she’s usually a ray of sunshine with the group, but Laswell presents the mission and everyone’s like “????” and the reader’s like “fine, I guess we’ll do this again” and she’s just COMPLETELY different once she infiltrates??? it gives the whole crew whiplash, but I’m particularly interested in how Simon would react!!! I hope this isn’t too much!!! thanks for always blessing us with your amazing work, and I hope you have an amazing day!!! ♥️

thank you for loving the meet-cute!! this request was fun to fill. I took some artistic liberties and this one really ran away from me...I hope you enjoy this!

(requests are open! search the tags #prompt requests or #prompts and send me an ask!)

Honeypot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader (code name "Honey")

summary: You’re Task Force 141’s newest operator, and everyone knows you as bubbly and sweet, earning you the code name Honey. How will the team react—especially Ghost, your stoic but sultry lieutenant—when a mission requires your espionage expertise?

words: 2.9k

warnings/tags: my blog is 18+ only. innuendo, canon-typical violence (fist fighting, gun mentions), bamf reader, task force 141 being buffoons, protective and jealous simon “ghost” riley, competency and size kinks if you squint, reader has a code name and uses she/her but no other descriptors

read on ao3 | masterlist

“The coup in Luxembourg is out of our usual bounds,” Laswell said, “but a covert agent working under the deposed Grand Duke has requested our aid.”

“They’ve been an ally to us in the past,” Price added, looping his thumbs under his tac vest, “so I expect you lot to execute this mission with as much precision and urgency as you would any other.”

“Country’s smaller than Scotland, innit?” Soap asked. “How the hell are we s’pposed to be discreet?”

“That’s where you come in, Honey,” Laswell crossed her arms and gave you a pointed look. “You remember your mission in Morocco?”

You smirked. “Is the sky blue?”

She gave you a small chuckle. “We need your expertise.”

“Fine.” You gave a dramatic sigh. “I guess we’ll do this again.”

“”M sorry,” Gaz interrupted with a scoff. “Do what, exactly?”

You turned to look at where he sat across the table from you next to an equally confused Soap. Ghost was twisted in his chair to look at where you sat behind him. 

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes flicked between Price and Laswell. “They don’t know what I did in the States?” 

“No,” Price muttered with a hint of embarrassment. He cleared his throat and shrugged like a tired parent as he said, “I suppose it never came up.”

Gaz gave an exasperated sigh, his impatience getting the better of him. “Well, go on then!” He urged. 

“I was a contracted espionage agent for the Department of Defense, and—”

“The Yanks used contracted agents?”

You rolled your eyes at the interruption. “Yes, Soap. Now, as I was saying,” you continued, shooting the Scotsman a playful glare, “I was hired for infiltration ops. Ones that required a certain…je ne sais quoi, a more feminine touch you lads wouldn’t be capable of.” 

When they all stared at your smiling face with blank expressions for a few moments—even Ghost’s eyes were narrowed with confusion—you jerked your head forward and waved your hands. “Guys, I seduced the targets.”

The confused silence persisted, and you looked around, giggling at each of the guys’ reactions, looking at Ghost last. His gaze pierced you the most, his brown eyes never leaving yours. Your teasing giggles faded, and you severed the eye contact with a roll of your eyes. You looked at Laswell again and crossed your arms, bored of the topic. 

“Now that that’s settled, can we please finish this briefing?” you implored. “I have to make sure I have a dress that’s fitting for a date with a dictator.”

“You sure you’re gonna be alright?”

“For the hundredth time—” you swung a heeled foot on a worn curb with a huff and hiked up the fabric of your dress—“yes, LT, I’ll be fine.” You adjusted the holster on your thigh and smirked at Ghost’s silence. “See something you like?”

There was a pause, and you looked up to see Ghost quickly look away at the street. Guilty.

You knew he felt some sort of way about you; whether it was good or bad was still unclear. One thing was for damn sure: Ghost had his sights set on you. You’d felt his skeletal stare linger on you ever since the briefing a week ago, and he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought he was at stealing looks when you were at the range or sparring.  Anyone else might feel like his prey—trapped by hungry eyes and cornered by a hulking frame—but you were so used to being the predator that you didn’t let it get to you. It was a little…fun.

Sure, he gave you butterflies, but that was because you’d never dealt with seducing men like him—at least, that’s what you told yourself after thinking about him with your hand between your thighs.

For now, you’d innocently tease and poke and prod the masked man with Soap and Gaz’s support. For now, you’d holster your loaded M9 and leave your leg exposed in yellow lamplight as you made sure your clutch had everything you needed. For now, you’d pretend that you weren’t thinking about him trailing his hand up from your ankle to the holster and grabbing the meat of your thigh.  

“We’ll be able to hear everything through your earpiece. Soap and I will have eyes on you in the palace, but stay near windows,” Ghost said, interrupting your thoughts. “Gaz’ll be on the roof.”

You swung your leg back down, wobbling. Ghost clutched your forearm, and you gripped his, fingernails scratching the fabric of his sleeve and digging into it for stability. His large hand snaked up to hold your bicep right above your bent elbow, your ears heating up when you met his eyes and saw something akin to lust in them.

His grip lingered even after you were steady on your feet again, only letting go when you gave him a flustered smile. You busied yourself with smoothing out the full skirt of your dress and adjusting the discreet monitor in your right ear. 

“All you have to do is get ‘im to the roof. The lads ‘n I will take it from there, as planned.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “If anythin’ goes wrong, jus’ get yourself out alive, Honey.”

“Got it.” You adjusted your necklace, and sheepishly asked, “Is it centered?”

You could smell sweat and sandalwood when Ghost stepped closer, his broad armored chest just inches away from your body. His large, gloved fingers graced over your skin and hands, delicately centering the elegant piece with tactical precision. 

Brown eyes looked you up and down. “Looks good, Honey.” 

Ghost stepped back and his hands fell, one curling around his radio and the other limp on the rifle slung across his body. You burned underneath your dress.

After testing the comms and getting location reports, you gave Ghost a thumbs up and started walking to the palace down the street, rolling your shoulders back and taking a few deep breaths. You could feel his brown eyes burning a hole through you the entire time, so you made sure to sway your hips a bit more than you usually did while seductively strutting somewhere.

It hadn’t taken her long to reach the third floor and approach the tall paned window with the target, just as she’d been instructed to do in their final briefing. Watching Honey expertly navigate the gala and get the target attached to her side faster than the speed of light stirred something within Ghost. Whether it was admiration for her skill or arousal was unclear. Either way, he’d be lying if he said she didn’t look ravishing in her dress. He tilted his head and greedily peered through the scope one last time before tearing his eyes away and adjusting his position on the grassy hill.

Honey was as lethal as she was sweet, and if her saccharine smile didn’t instantly ensnare her target, her sugary tongue would. Instead of doling out compliments, she accepted them and kicked innuendos back; instead of making cringy puns and flashing finger guns, she bit her lip and tugged the target’s suit jacket. It was entirely different from who she was around the team on base, and Soap had made sure to emphasize that all bloody night. Even Gaz had chimed in a few times, both men trying to get him to comment. Ghost silently refused, skin flushing under his mask.

Now that she was closing in on the target, things had become even more heated. He looked at her through the scope again and listened. Ghost heard her laugh, the sound bubblier than the champagne in the flute she raised to her pretty lips. She took a sip right as Soap said the punchline of a joke, her shoulders rising and falling sporadically with a daintily covered cough. 

“Watch it, you twat, you made her choke,” Ghost snapped.

“Sorry, lass, sorry!” Soap crackled over the comms. There was a rustle. “In my final position. Eyes on Honey and the target, LT.”

“Gaz?”

“In my final position, LT, eyes on the extraction point,” Gaz replied, his voice set and sure.

“Captain Price will leave on your command to meet you and Sergeant MacTavish at the rendezvous point, Lieutenant,” Laswell buzzed in his ear. “Gaz, you go with Honey and the target.”

“Affirmative,” Gaz and Ghost responded.

“Affirmative. And, Laswell, you can call me Soap.”

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“Aye. Copy that, loud and clear.”

“Shut up, Soap.” Ghost grumbled.

They heard Honey giggle in response to another one of the usurper’s idiotic compliments, and Ghost saw her flirtatiously tap his arm with her knuckles. 

“Y’know, if she heard one of us say tha’ in the pub, we’d never hear th’end of it.”

Gaz hummed in agreement with Soap, and he couldn’t help but shake his head and smirk. Honey laughed again and clearly echoed another awful line the target gave her. Ghost could tell the grin splitting her pretty lips wasn’t genuine—her nose didn’t crinkle like it did when he deadpanned the punchline to a stupid joke or when Soap had called Price “Pa” a few weeks ago.

There was snickering over the comms. Ghost boldly asked, “Honey, take a drink if you meant for us t’hear that shite attempt at flirting.”

Soap cackled when the rim of the champagne flute touched her lips and her throat bobbed with a long sip.

“Well?” Gaz asked expectantly.

“Was a yes, Gaz,” Soap responded.

Ghost saw her eyes flutter closed as she pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, and he grumbled; hopefully nobody had heard him. He was itching to move, his finger hovering over the trigger and his jaw clenching each time the target touched her.

“Right, Honey,” Ghost said, focusing the team again and settling himself down. “Once you’re on the roof, I’ll call Price—Gaz, move on my word or Honey’s, or when Price arrives. Soap, get to the rendezvous when I call Price. I’ll watch Honey and the target. Understood?”

Gaz and Soap gave him their affirmatives. Honey nodded, looking out the window and winking.

She looked back at the target and seductively bit her lip. “Do you think we could go somewhere a bit more…private?” Her query was laced with something sticky.

The target gave her his piss-poor attempt at a sultry smile, resting a hand against her neck and disturbing the necklace Ghost had adjusted earlier. 

He’d be lying if it didn’t make him want to shoot the git dead where he stood.

There was a quiet yes, and Honey said, “I’ve always wanted to be kissed under the stars.” She forced a coquettish giggle. “Well, kiss, and…more, if you catch my drift.”

The target leaned in and pressed a kiss on her right cheek, the act on full display to Ghost.

“That can be arranged, my sweet,” the target murmured, his voice tainting their comms and making Ghost roll his eyes. 

When the target abruptly gripped her waist and pushed her against the window, Ghost heard the faint sound of glass breaking and heard Honey force a playful comment about dropping her flute. Now, Honey’s back was to him, one of her hands flat against the window, her fingers splayed out. His clear shot was ruined. Ghost swore and Soap did as well.

“Target moved too far to my right. Can’t get a clear shot. LT?”

“Negative,” Ghost answered. “Honey, make a fist if you need back-up.”

Normally, he would’ve already had someone storming in to help if he wasn’t already, but Price had made it clear that this mission required tact. Ghost was on edge, but he had to trust Honey, even if the sight unfolding in the scope of his rifle made his skin crawl.

Honey clenched her fist.

“Affirmative. Gaz, Soap, hold your positions. Comms are quiet unless absolutely necessary.”

“Affirmative, LT,” the men immediately replied.

“Extraction is ready on your word. Get out of there—alive,” Laswell stressed over comms. 

“Affirmative,” Ghost sighed, his trigger finger ready and aching to move.

“Not here,” Honey mumbled. Her fist remained clenched, the other hand still clutching her tiny bag. 

She squealed in surprise when one of his hands dropped to grab her ass and squeeze. Ghost sharply inhaled, and he heard Soap clear his throat, holding back from asking for a visual on Honey.

“Not here, Johann,” Honey snapped, the sweetness quickly melting off her voice. “I want you, but I want you to touch me on the roof.”

The target’s other hand grabbed the other hidden cheek, fabric bunching up in his grip. “Want you here, you lovely little thing. Roof can come later.”

Honey gave him the tinkling laugh she shared with the team after showing them a video of a puppy or some other baby animal. Sometimes, Ghost smiled under his balaclava when it was thrown his way—but he’d never tell a soul.

This time, the sunny bells were a warning, and if the target didn’t do as she said, Ghost had a feeling he’d regret more than the coup. 

“If you say so.” Her voice was uncharacteristically dark, its hidden sharp edges revealed.

“Gaz, Soap, be ready for my word,” Ghost said as Honey pushed forward, her heel pressing her dress’s hem against the window.

Just as they both responded, a howl pierced the comms, making Ghost wince. The target was doubled over, and Honey was kicking off her heels, sending them flying towards the windows across the hall. She took a lunging step forward over the broken glass and adjusted her body before throwing a punch to the target’s left cheek. He staggered up and took an angry, sloppy swing at her, but she dodged it and kicked her heel into his knee to destabilize him so she could gut-punch him. The target dropped to the floor. Ghost’s mouth went dry, and his cock twitched as she grabbed a fistful of the target’s hair.

“We’re going to the goddamn roof,” Honey gritted out. 

When the target gave her a sly smile, she took a step back and let go before punching him again. The corner of Ghost’s mouth twitched with a smile when he saw the target staring at her with fear. She’d literally punched the smile off his ugly mug.

“On your fucking feet,” she growled, and he obliged. 

Though he stood, he fought her the whole way to the stair entrance, and each time, his resistance was met with another blow to the gut. Ghost hummed in approval. This honeybee had a wicked stinger and wasn’t afraid to use it.

When she disappeared from Ghost’s sight—still swearing and commanding the target up the stairs—he made the call to Price, then barked over comms, “Soap, rendezvous. Gaz, be ready to assist if Honey calls for it—and, Honey, Gaz is ready to help restrain the target.”

“Negative, LT,” he heard her pant. 

He saw her push the target through the door and onto the roof’s hidden balcony. Gaz was crouching down where he hid, his feet ready to run and his gun in his hands.

Ghost heard her sharply exhale and barely tracked her hand fly up to the target’s bicep. Then, he saw the target slump down to his knees and fall face-first to the ground. 

“Is the target alive?” Ghost hissed, impressed but angry. “If you killed him—”

“Affirmative, LT,” she interjected, catching her breath and pulling an orange bag out of her clutch and depositing something in it. “Just a sedative. He’s gonna take a nice nap during the flight home.”

She hummed a random tune—her favorite song, Ghost noticed—as she put the bag back in her clutch. Honey waved at Gaz when he came out of hiding and walked over to her. Ghost saw her nudge the target with a bare foot and proudly put her hands on her hips.

“Bloody hell, Honey!” Gaz exclaimed, shaking his head. “Did Price know?”

“Affirmative,” Price boomed through the comms. 

The helicopter came into view and Ghost stood up with a huff, slinging his rifle back across his body. He could see them helping Honey up onto the hovering ramp, her dress blowing in the wind. He chuckled before turning running into the forest behind him towards the rendezvous point.

“Headed your way, Lieutenant.”

“Affirmative, Captain,” Ghost replied as he came to a halt next to Soap in the clearing. 

“LT!” Soap exclaimed, yanking his earpiece out, mouth agape. “Th’fuck I’d miss?”

“Ask Gaz,” he said simply, earning a groan from Soap.

The chopper thrummed overhead as it descended. They ran towards the ramp as it lowered, Honey’s triumphant face illuminated by the hold’s red light. Ghost climbed in and sat beside her with a grunt. 

Once they were airborne and starting their flight back to base, Gaz described the scene Soap had only heard. Ghost noticed her diamond necklace was askew from her skirmish and hesitantly centered it. She gave him a soft smile and turned her head so her chin grazed over his covered knuckles. The gentle hum she gave him coated him in sticky-sweet syrup. “Honey” certainly was a perfect codename for her, he reckoned, contrasting her innocent sweetness and cutesy smiles with her impressive—and, at times, lethal—infiltration skills. 

Yeah, Ghost was stuck in her treacly trap—and he didn’t plan on escaping.

masterlist

taglist (join here): @tizylish @dheet @sinfulsalutations

[player1064]

october 2023 <3 <3 <3

WIP asks but it's just the various sections of my happy (???) beville (/angsty carraville) WIP

---

October, 2023.

Jamie is normally a punctual person, but when it comes to things organised by Gary he tries to be just on the wrong side of late, because he enjoys how fussy he gets about it. Unfortunately, today the traffic was against him and the drive over from Liverpool was an absolute breeze, so now he’s sat in the THG car park wondering if he should loiter for another half hour or just get over it and go in early.

He looks over at Gary’s car, for once parked neatly within the lines, and figures that’s as good a thing to tease him about as any so he might as well just go in.

“And look, look,” he hears Gary saying excitedly as he approaches the studio. “This one’s my seat, right, and then –”

“Where’m I? Next to you?”

“Ooh, steady on,” Gary says, and Jamie can hear the stupid little grin in his voice. “No, that’s Carragher’s spot, you’ll be in the middle. Better camera angle there, anyway.”

Jamie stops just before the double doors that lead on to set, leans against the wall and drops his head back with a dull thud. He’s not sure how he’d managed to forget, Gary’s been pestering the podcast group chat about it for weeks. ‘Remember we’ve got Becks on tomorrow, everyone (👀Jamie) on their best behaviour!!!’

“That’s next to Keaney, right?” he hears Beckham ask. “Then who’s on my other side, Jill or Wrighty?”

“Oh, that’ll be Jill. Wouldn’t want to separate Roy and Ian, they’re fantastic together. And Jill is so excited, y’know, you’re her hero.”

“Aw,” says Beckham, with a bashful little laugh, “hope I don’t disappoint. Bit crazy that, innit? I mean, she’s the one with a European championship under her belt.”

The two of them fall quiet for a moment, which Jamie reads as his opportunity to enter the room without interrupting. This, of course, is a mistake; clearly luck is not on Jamie’s side today. He slips quietly through the door and is going to walk over but stops in his tracks when he sees them.

Beckham’s got Gary pressed up against the counter, his hands spread wide on Gary’s hips and Gary’s arms looped around his neck. They’re not kissing, it might’ve been better if they were – instead they’re stood there, heads tilted in close but not quite close enough for their foreheads to touch, and they’re just talking to each other, voices too soft for Jamie to hear.

That’s not the bad part. The bad part is that Gary and Beckham are laughing at whatever stupid little inside joke they’re sharing, and the smile on Gary’s face isn’t one Jamie’s ever seen before. It’s like he’s glowing, and Jamie’s stomach churns with guilt at walking in on something that feels far more intimate than just kissing.

He’s debating whether he should turn around and leave, wait for one of the others to arrive and walk back in with them, when Gary looks over and catches his eye, his smile faltering. Beckham frowns at him in question, then looks over with a polite smile when Gary nods his head towards Jamie.

Jamie watches Beckham’s hand squeeze Gary’s hip for a moment before he takes a step back, shakes his head at Gary fondly and walks towards Jamie with an outstretched hand.

“Good to see you, Carra,” he greets, and dear god Jamie hates him.

He hates him, he hates him, he hates him.

Jamie shakes the offered hand with his most charming smile. “You too. ‘s been a while, eh?”

“It has, yeah, but you know our Gaz,” he says, looking behind him to shoot a grin at Gary. Gary at least has the decency to be looking at the floor in embarrassment, hands fidgeting. “He’s never liked having crossover between his work and social lives, has he?”

Jamie’s not sure when he was relegated to just ‘work friend’. Maybe he never got out of that category to begin with.

Recording the podcast is excruciating. David Beckham is just a bit too perfect, everyone loves him just a bit too much. Even Roy relaxes around him, lets his guard down. He almost smiles, once or twice. The nation’s sweetheart David fucking Beckham, still thought of as their beloved England captain even now, ten years out of the game.

David Beckham, saving the world one corny inspirational speech at a time. David Beckham, one of the best technical players Jamie’s ever seen, whose talents are so often ignored in favour of the fact that he’s David Beckham. David Beckham who never boasts, who’s flash without rubbing your face in it, who always has time for everyone he meets.

David Beckham, probably the most famous footballer of his generation, who looks at Gary Neville like he hung the moon and stars. Gary Neville.

It’s not fair. He could do better than him. He should have done better than him, found another superstar to shack up with and left the poor mortals alone. Maybe then Jamie would’ve had half a chance.

He just really hates David fucking Beckham.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Letters

TW: Referenced human experimentation, mild dehumanisation, referenced torture, referenced abuse, obsession, possessive behaviour, extreme paranoia, and infantilisation

——

They come twice a week, every week.

Dream's not sure how letters manage to get sent to a brand new server, but like clockwork they end up on his doorstep regardless, “Dream” written on the envelope in scratchy red pen, spelt correctly maybe half of the time.

“Dear Dream,” they always begin, written more like the author knew vaguely those were the words used to begin a letter instead of their actual meaning, the politeness contrasting with the rest of the text, even the elegant, clearly heavily practiced font different to the childlike chickenscratch the rest was written in.

“Today I saw you on the telly and I thought you were poggers,” one might say, before going into naive fantasies about how cool it must be to be famous. “Wilbur said I shouldn’t try and be like you but I made my own mask,” another might, a mix of fawning idolisation and immature complaining about overbearing family members.

What first seemed like the ramblings of any young fan- he had plenty from his Manhunts- eventually turned into a fascinating puzzle. “Were you made in a lab too? I was. I got injected with a lot of painful shit,” one said, casually in the middle of complaining about having to learn maths. “Did you know Technoblade taught me to fight?” another said, something he’d have taken as wild bragging if it didn’t come with details about him no random kid would know.

Strange anecdote upon anecdote built up. “Did you know wolves don’t do that pack shit? They raised me for a bit, I know,” might come through one day, “Wil says I’m smart but I didn’t even know how to read before he taught me. I’m a Big Man but I feel like a stupid kid,” another.

And each one always, always, ended with “your new best friend, Tommy Innit!!!!!!”, written in big bold text that took up half the page. Even after months of no response, the enthusiasm shined through, that childlike wonder and adoration, that hero-worship.

How little he knew. Dream was no hero. No one was, if you lived long enough. But still, it warmed his heart and fascinated him both. Dream had always considered himself a scientist at heart, and this “Tommy” seemed like an enigma just waiting to be cracked.

One he wouldn’t figure out just through letters.

Smiling, Dream carefully loops through each letter in perfect cursive as he writes, ink bright green and glittery. “To my dearest Tommy,” he begins- after all, he doesn't know any other Tommys, so it's not a lie- “I have a spot open on my server, and your kind letters touched my heart…”

No letters show up at his doorstep anymore.

Some days, Dream dreams that they do. He opens the door to the prison, and there’s the same chickenscratch lettering. “Dear Dream, I'm sorry for being so ungrateful,” they always begin. “Always your best friend, no matter what, Tommy Innit!!!!!!” they end. When he wakes, they leave him feeling more empty and numb than the nightmares of isolation and pain.

It’s become a daily routine to read through them whenever he gets that feeling sinking through his stomach. He gets that feeling a lot, now, gnawing through him like a wild animal. If he were any more naïve, he'd say it was regret. If he had any hope in the rest of the fucking server, he'd say it was longing. But Dream wasn’t an idiot. Not anymore.

It’s almost like Tommy is right there with him when he reads those words. He hears his voice, the loud way he laughs, the softer tones as he shares the thoughts he tells no one else. One, Dream is sure he wrote while sobbing, and reading it in that sad, too-quiet tone brings back that same odd, all consuming satisfaction he misses from exile. That one is his favourite.

Once, it was odd little details and casual strangeness that drew him to the letters, made him keep them safe and secure so he could study them night after night. Now, it was the simple affirmations that stuck to him. “I know you’re a good person,” and “I wish I could be just like you,” and “I love you, man, I wish you were my brother unlike Wilbur he's so lame.”

Tommy admired him, once. Tommy trusted him, once. Tommy loved him like a brother, once. He wasn’t crazy, he wasn't, he was the only sane person on this Prime forsaken planet. Tommy didn’t hate him. Tommy doesn't hate him, he can’t, not the same Tommy who wrote such fawning praise in these letters, not the same Tommy who clung to him like a frightened animal in Exile. And if that Tommy was gone, Dream would claw him back if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Your new best friend,” they said. Always, that’s what they said. And they were right- Tommy, the only person to never betray him, never plot and scheme and grasp for power. He saw it in everyone else’s eyes- that greed, that desire. Even Punz, Dream knew, only followed him for convenience- what other reason could there be, with that power-hungry look, that eagerness for more? Thinking such thoughts was already a betrayal- what reason was there to want power other than to use it to hurt him? It was a knife in the back, every ambitious word, yet Tommy, innocent naïve Tommy, never had that glint in his eye, that hidden blade.

He misses that sweet Tommy, that childlike wonder poorly hidden behind an angry facade. The Tommy forever captured in letters, the Tommy he'd brought out through fists upon those beaches of Logstedshire. Kind, loyal, adoring. Practically worshipping the very ground Dream walked on, like the God he was. His biggest fan, his loyal protege, his best friend, his most beloved little brother. Not the angry, spiteful shell everyone else had twisted the poor thing into.

Dream would save him from them, soon enough.

Sighing, Dream struggles to quite get the words straight as he writes them, shaking hands pressing down too hard on the paper. He writes a million things he wants to say, things he can’t say. Things he will say once he had Tommy back safely, once he had his best friend back. “To my dearest, Tommy,” he always begins- after all, he had no one else left to care about, so it’s not a lie- “I have missed your letters dearly…”

[theluciansystem]

‘a million and you’ fic series ~ part 1, ‘wild spring’.

CWs: abuse, straight up abuse (if you know you’ll be triggered then please skip this fic or just skip the section beginning with a ‘—.—.—.—‘, once you see the second one those or the line beginning with “Marc’s eyes widen”, you’re fine to continue.), swearing.

Tags: Y/N is trans, Y/N worked with Marc back in the day, Traumatic Backstory™, Y/N got trauma, Marc and Steven are bi, Marc needs therapy, Y/N also needs therapy, the boys are sweet bbys and you can’t take them from me.

Word count: 2k

I’ve known Marc for a while, did work with him in the past, then found each other again in a gas station of all places. I always knew something was a little off about him, but I mean, I never questioned it. When I was introduced to Steven earlier this month, man; it took me for a loop. I thought I knew pretty much everything about him.. or so I thought, at least. Being perfectly fair, he- they don’t know everything about me either. 

I’m a trans man, pretty much always have been. Sure, when I was very young, I’d do the whole dress-up as a princess thing, but when I grew older, I just realized: this isn’t me.  With that realization, came a lot of confusion and stress. I didn’t quite understand what it meant to not want to be the gender I was assigned at birth, so when I told my parents, it.. I don’t like to speak of that day.

When I came over to the boys’ place for a history tournament with Steven, we played the tournament for several hours, until we realized what time it was, and it was late enough where I didn’t want to walk home alone. While I was considering whether or not to walk home or to just call a cab, Steven mentions something, “why not just stay here for the night, better than walking home in the rain, innit’?”

“I-I don’t wanna intrude.. I don’t mind.”  I say, but truthfully I would love to. Shit, I’d sleep on the couch if it meant I could wake and see him in the morning. 

“You sure, darling?” 

Fuck, his words effect me more than he probably realizes… I love when he calls me that, I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s the sweet accent, or the concerned tone, or maybe it’s just… him.  I’ll admit, I’m not the most communicative person, but compared to Marc, I think I’m doing just fine. And still I try my best.  

“Honestly I would stay..  the only problem is, I don’t have a change of clothes.” 

“You could borrow one of my sweatshirts? And I think I have some pajama pants that’ll fit-“ I nod, and he almost seems giddy as he starting to look through his dresser. He gives a laugh after a moment of searching his drawers. “Found it!” Steven pulls out a pair of pj pants that are apparently in my size and one of his favorite sweatshirts. I look in awe and honor of the fact that he’s letting me wear one of his favorites. He barely lets Marc touch them. 

“You alright?” He asks, holding the clothes under one of his arms. I nod. 

“S-Sorry. Haven’t had a sleepover since I was a kid”  I say, chuckling. He lets out a wholesome laugh. 

I walk into the bathroom to change, closing the door behind me and taking off most of my clothes, and stretching after I take my binder tape off for a moment to rest. I know you’re not supposed to sleep in a binder but.. tonight I don’t have a choice. I start to put my binder tape back, when I realize too late that the door wasn’t locked. 

Steven opens the door, probably not realizing I’m in here still, only to see me nearly exposed, my tits covered for the most part with my binding tape. He just looks for a split second before he quickly closes the door. He doesn’t say a word, and I think that’s what scared me the most.

I swiftly get my own clothes on, leaving the ones he left me with in the bathroom, I open the door and sprint out to find him. He’s at the kitchen table reading, I close my eyes and start to try to explain..

“I-I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you s-sooner and I was just scared-“  I continue to blabber on as I stop recognizing everything–every touch, every sound–around me. That was until I felt Steven’s hand placed firmly on my shoulder.

“Darling..” he says, “it’s okay.”  and I feel like it is.. he makes it okay.

I stare up at him, not even realizing there’s tears building in my eyes, but he sees it, and he pulls me in to hold me, I start to cry. We stand there, holding each other, with me sobbing into his sweatshirt. Slowly and eventually, I calm down, as he’s saying “it’s okay”’s and “I’m here”’s. My breathing evens out and I feel.. okay. 

I loosen my grip on my arms around his waist, and I look at him. He has a more serious look, but it still seems gentle. “Can I.. ask a question?” He inquires, and I nod.

“Are you.. transgender?”  

“I-.. I am.”  I say, somewhat nervous about his answer. 

“Well, uhm.. thank you for being honest with me and y’know.. just..” he fiddles with his hands, obviously nervous but seeming to try to hide it. 

“Is..” I’m not quite sure how to ask this, ��Are you both okay-?” 

A blank stare, then a look of puzzlement crossed his face for a moment before I clarified. “Are you both y’know.. alright with this?” and it clicked for him. 

“Darling, this isn’t about us! It’s about you, coming out to us, it’s a special thing, I’m so proud of you for doing so.” He says, and I feel the tears that have built up so quickly slip out, but so sweetly he’s wiping my tears away. 

Giving a light smile, Steven says “whoever you are or decide to be, we’ll be here, love.” And I’m beaming, probably looking like an idiot. 

I lean into his chest, and just breath. I can smell him, it’s odd how Marc and Steven can smell different sometimes, but it’s how it is; Marc gives off a more metallic, smoky fragrance while Steven gives off a more flowery aroma. And then it hits me. 

He called me love. He’s never called me that before. “…what did you call me?” I ask, flustered. 

“Lov- oh, oh!  I’m so sorry, I dunno why- okay, that’s a lie, I do know why. M’not supposed to say that-“ Steven says, and I know I’m looking perplexed.

“What do you mean, ‘not supposed to’ ?” I question. He’s fiddling with his hands again, I sigh, putting his hands in mine. “What’s going on?”

He gently takes my hands toward his lips, kissing them softly. My eyes go wide, and it feels like my world is flipped right-side up. “Steven..” I don’t know what to say. He leans in toward me, “I-.. we like you, Y/N.”

We look at each other, he’s grinning like the idiot he isn’t. I look him in the eyes, for any sign of this all being some kind of joke, but there isn’t. All I see in his eyes is.. love.

I close the space between us, capturing his lips with mine. The kiss is tender, but passionate. Delicate, yet heated. I’m running my hands through his hair as he picks me up, I wrap my legs around him, and he’s carrying me to his couch and setting me down, continuing to kiss me along the way. 

Slowly brushing over my skin, his lips move down to my neck. Nibbling on my skin, until I pull back, he looks up at me, desire ablaze in him. “H-hold on..” I start to say, breathless, “Aren’t you straight??” 

Steven lightly chuckles, also out of breath. “That’s what I’m not suppose’ to tell you.. I don’t wanna label us, ‘guess to say, we just like both-? Mhm, yeah.” He says, looking in the mirror I suggested he put out whenever Marc told me about Steven, and I’m assuming he’s talking to Marc about this.

He turns back to me, sitting down on my lap, briefly kissing me, and it’s sudden, but I realize something I somehow never realized before; I love this man, and every part of him.

We sit with him in my lap for a while, his head resting on my shoulder. He abruptly raises up, looking at me seriously. Uh-oh. The change in the way he holds himself, how tense he is.. “Marc.” 

“Hey, angel..” he says, changing position to sit to my side instead of on me. He’s always called me that, and I’ve always loved it, but tonight, the way he says it so seriously.. it makes me a bit frantic. 

He sees the nervousness in me, he caresses the side of my face, I lean into his touch and into him. Our lips touch for a split moment, he looks into my eyes before closing his. He kisses me over and over so gently, it’s almost like he’s afraid of hurting me. Then he pulls away, having that look his face of hesitation, of needing to say something but not being sure how, of- 

“I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be truthful with me, but only if you’re comfortable answering. Alright?” He breaks the silence with, and I nod. Curious about the question.

Marc seems uncomfortable asking, I adjust position so I can hold his hand. He takes a deep breath, “why were you so panicked when Steven saw you in the bathroom?”

Ah…

—.—.—.—

“Silence was my parents reaction when I first told them. My mother not-so-simply walked out of the room, my father began to yell that a girl couldn’t turn into a boy. That I was even dumber than I looked if I believed that they could. Maybe I was dumb, but I knew who I was. My mother returned with a boxer cutter in hand, she screamed a bible verse my brain refuses to remember, and told me to repeat it. I didn’t.

Silence was also my answer to the question she asked, after she assaulted me with that very box cutter. She asked me, “would a tranny slut like you want a new dress or a suit for your funeral whenever you die?” she asked my thirteen year old self. How fucked up is that, exactly..?

Silence also was my answer when my father banged my head against the concrete wall, begging me to take the lord into my life before it was too late and the devil consumed me. I remember I wanted to go home, but I didn’t know where home was.”

—.—.—.—

Marc’s eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly enough to form a perfect o. He looks at me for moment after the silence begins, then he pulls me in for a hug. Let me say; that’s the best hug I’ve ever gotten too. 

I look at him, confused. And it’s like he senses my confusion, “Baby, you were…  did this happen again?” 

“I don’t know-“ I chuckle, like the joke was is me, “my mind kind of filters off most of my childhood after that.” 

He continues to hold me, just tighter. I don’t quite understand why, I say something no one should have to say, “what? Isn’t that just the typical childhood years?”

Giving a look of pure concern, he holds me tighter, “No..  that isn’t ‘typical’ at all. That was.. horrible, to say the least.”

Not sure what he means.. “Growing up, I just hated b anything sharp really, it didn’t really effect me…”  then it kind of hits me, “..right?”. I say, questioning if I’ve just blocked out how much it hurt me this entire time.

Unsure what to say, and it seems neither does Marc. He laces his fingers in mine. “I.. I don’t know,” he starts to reply, “that sounds.. very traumatic.” and he’s right. We hold each other until it’s midnight and past. 

I’m tired, but I can’t sleep and it seems neither can he. I breath him in, still holding him tight. Through half-lidded eyes, he looks at me. “Baby..” he begins, “do you want something like.. therapy, maybe?”

Thinking for a moment, I decide that it may be a good option, I nod. He gives me a light smile. “But, I have a condition for me doing this;” I start to say, before Marc kisses me.

“Anything”

I lightly chuckle at that, “I want you to go to therapy too.” 

“W-what?”

[infinitethree]

A little silver light appears in front of Innit.

Curious, it reaches out one of its clawed hands out to cup that spark.

The light stretches, changing into a long, almost snake-like shape. It hovers in Innit’s hands, twisting around in little loops.

It can't help but smile at the sight.

Innit sucks in a sharp breath at the message. 

The mannequin-like figure is still showering it with affection, but that pales in the face of what it just heard.

Carefully, it pulls that silvery light so that it's nestled against its chest.

Emotion makes it almost impossible to speak.

This is what it’s longed for. It’s an answer to a prayer that Innit had thought would never be noticed, let alone answered.

Someone who understands. Someone who finally, finally, can see it as a person.

"I see you," it whispers, tears welling up in its eyes. "I see you."

Its mind is spinning. It’s not alone. It’s not alone.

Emotion swells and crests over its head, then is vented in the form of tears. Happy ones, for once– so happy that they make it nearly dizzy.

It gives a soft sob of joy, still cradling that twisting light against its chest. It twines around its claws, almost like a cat twisting around someone’s ankles.

The bitter, angry tears it shed over and over in its prison almost feel like a distant nightmare. It has woken up for the first time in its life, and it won’t ever be going back to sleep again.

[thankfulguy]

Using Tumblr for note-taking

I am the kind of person that takes notes in a haphazard, but frequent way. On average, on my phone, I add to or create 1-2 notes. If we count journal entries on my work computer, that goes up to maybe 3-4 notes a day on average.

My problem is not generating ideas, but ensuring that if I have the same idea twice, I don't accidentally write it twice.

This is similar to Joe Armstrong's talk at strange loop a few years ago, "The Mess We're In". I need a note reducing system.

Naturally, I looked into Zettelkasten, and nominally I still use it using Protesilaos Stavrou's excellent Denote package for Emacs. But when it comes to the linking process, it is really difficult for me to link the notes meaningfully. I have a feeling that this is why Luhmann was a genius and I am not. Perhaps I should reread How to take Smart Notes.

But Luhmann didn't think of himself as a genius. He said so repeatedly, and he likely thought that because he was following what was to him a pretty mechanical process. It just takes a lot of focus. I suppose this gives credence to the notion that genius is almost always the manifestation of one's ability to focus, and the degree of genius is proportional to the degree to which a person is able to focus.

I wonder if, however, what John Carmack talks about in his Facebook deep thoughts talk is related to this. That is, difficulty in refactoring notes is mostly the emotional attachment we have to our ideas.

Actually, I think it might be even deeper than that. There are lots of notes that start off small, but it feels like I'm just on a role and keep writing. (Is this blog post like that?) But atomic notes that make Zettelkasten go are the opposite of such a writing. However, the truth that I submit to suggests that Truth is static and stable. The Truth employed in a long essay is the same as the Truth encoded in a set of atomic notes that are linked together. So why do I find it so difficult to refactor a long, meandering journal-essay-idea-investigation into a set of reusable atomic notes?

The problem is two-edged. There is the doubt that doing so will yield atomized notes that are comprehensible at all, and then if the atomized notes aren't comprehensible, doesn't that mean that the essay's presuppositions are wrong via Occam's Razor?

There is also the difficulty of knowing at what level of analysis the notes should be atomized. Should a note title be a sentence? A single word? An assertion? A question?

At one point, I started putting tags on the notes in order to categorize them based on how confident I was that they were actually true, but that ended up being just as discouraging, and also difficult to stay consistent with.

Lastly, there was always the issue of personal duplicity. There would be days that I would think that a certain note contained a statement that was insightfully true. Then another day, after some strange experience, that note's truthfulness was cast into doubt.

But objective reality is objective reality? Innit? Well, yes, but that's not the issue here. While I believe by faith that objective reality exists, I have no way of proving this. My senses are not totally trustworthy. They're probably less than 99.999% trustworthy, which means at least 1 out of every 100,000 perceptions of mine are totally inaccurate. (What exactly a perception is is another discussion.) It's probably closer to 99.99%, actually. The reality-homunculus in my head, that is, my model of reality, is only accurate to a point. While I hope that it is convergent towards 100% accuracy, the simple truth is that any analog system has noise, and the brain is, I think, an analog system in the most literal sense.

Clearly, if a note that seems obviously true one day seems obviously false (or at least problematic) some other day, what do I do? Occam's razor would say, disabuse yourself of such tenuous "truths". Delete the note. Get rid of it. It's holding back better, even more obvious truths that might bolster the 99.9% of your perceived reality that hasn't changed.

Maybe that's why there were times where I felt like I was going insane: I was choosing to hold on to the tenuous 0.1% at the expense of the 99.9%.

-.-.-.

However, that leads to an interesting Question. With a capital Q.

"What if I told you that everything you believe is a lie, that everything you think is real, is fake, and everything you perceive as true, is false?" Matrix style.

The question then becomes, what subset of reality is necessary for survival? But that also presupposes that survival is a more fundamental good than the things in question.

How quickly can you rebuild your system of perception to a point where it presents a similar interface to the objective institutions that you, in some part of your soul, care about (society is what I'm thinking of in particular), so that you can effectively continue caring about them and enjoying them? I think this is sort of what Jordan Peterson was doing when he was in college, as he writes about in Maps of Meaning. I sort of think that this is what I was doing during my last job, when the only salient emotion I remember of that time was depression on the brink of despair, realizing that the job to which I was shackled for 8 hours every day was likely a net negative on society.

Questions like these invalidate the previous section if we assume that objective reality exists outside perceptive reality of our minds, and we subordinate perceptive reality's consistency to objective reality. What if you do need to risk the 99.9% if the 0.1% presents enough reason to claim that it is correct and the 99.9% is incorrect.

What kept me partially sane during that time were a few simple propositions:

God is Real

There is profit in all work

You don't know everything

Maybe you're just being proud and arrogant for questioning the system. Wait and see.

what I see now is that I was holding out at that job for something better for myself. I was resistant to asking questions because everyone seemed so busy. Wasn't I hired to be a help?

I had a lot of fear during that time. I was glad that I had a well-paying job, and I was afraid that life would become too difficult and that others' expectations of me would be squashed, and that who I wanted to be before others (as a good example) would be called into question. And I still can't decide if this was mostly pride or mostly humility.

Anyway... I'm not making any progress on this line of reasoning. And I didn't think I would really, but it needs to be stated in some canonical form. Of course, there are so many problems with how I've stated it; it's not very objective, and my biases are bleeding through these paragraphs still.

-.-.-.

Nonetheless, this is about belief in one's work and ability. I think the end conclusion is that truly, I don't know much. Each atomic note isn't created in service of building a system of truth for myself, but rather in hopes of revealing the objective Truth of reality. The moment it starts smelling untrue, I might see if it can be reworded without too many problems, but deleting it is probably the right course of action.

Yeah, refactoring a zettelkasten is a big project. Deleting a note or changing a note means potentially changing dozens of other notes.

As such, a very real question is about whether or not I should pursue a zettelkasten style in the first place. Do I find it fun like a hobby, or is it part of my "Christian Duty"? It's definitely not part of my duty as a Christian. I would be hoping to be able to write essays, keep track of ideas, and conceptually support my arguments.

But most of the time, conceptually supporting arguments lies in the realm of logical reasoning and mathematics. So maybe zettelkasten will work so long as each statement and idea is in some way linked via a logical or mathematically modeled relationship. Maybe we need typed edges between nodes in the zettelkasten?

[teddy06writes]

A Thousand Little Moments (That Help Me Heal)

Requested by @alphamoonlunala9391 "Can you do more parts of What Could Have Been Was Good, But What We Have Now Is Better please and maybe make the character a god hybrid reader"

and sort of @noctis-yeye

This is the Part three of You Didn't Need Us Then, We Don't Need You Now and What Could Have Been Was Good, But What We Have Now Is Better

Quackity x reader; Past mentioned Sapnap x karl x quackity x reader

trigger warnings: some swearing, existentialism? kind of? (Charlie being like, 'everything turns to dust so whats the point')

premise: it's like i said in the part two, its just gonna be a bunch of little scenes that happen in the two year gap, plus the wedding that would then happen at the end of part two for the last scene (no I don't really know how proper weddings go, all the ones i've been too were ~weird~ soooo...)

{to the asker who actually went in my inbox to request, I can't make reader a hybrid because its too late in the series to really change it}

{snowchester las nevadas conflict- we don't know her}

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"(y/n) from Las Nevadas?"

You glanced up from your work to find Charlie at your office door, "Yeah Charlie?"

"This place 'ill be around a while right? No- no explosions like L'manburg?" He slid into the room and dropped into one of the chairs in front of your desk.

You frowned, "How do you know about L'manburg?"

"I told you- I move slow, but I've seen a lot. L'manburg was nice- but then it was gone."

You sighed, "I know... I was there- all three times. L'manburg was my home before Las Nevadas."

"If you and Quackity from Las Nevadas want me to stay here- which it sounds like you do, I want to know: Las Nevadas will be around for a while, right? I don't want it to go to dust like everything else does."

"As much as we can help it Charlie," You glanced down at your desk, "I'm not gonna let another home get destroyed."

~~

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you made it to the top of the needle.

Purpled was still sitting near the edge of the deck where he'd stayed after you'd finished the tour. It seemed the only difference now, was that behind him the sky was dark, and speckled with stars.

"You got room for company kid?" You asked quietly.

He nodded, and you quickly moved to sit next to him, "So what do you think of the place?"

"'s alright." He mumbled.

"Charlie wasn't enough to scare you off?" You chuckled.

He shook his head, "Nah... Where did you find that guy?"

"Sneakin around one of the restaurants." You laughed.

"He's insane."

"Yeah no, probably." You sighed.

Purpled got quiet again, turning to look back out over the city, "Why'd you offer me a spot here? You said it wasn't a job, so why actually offer it to me?"

You frowned, thinking for a moment, "I guess- ever since L'manburg- I don't want to see anyone else suffering on this server, especially not any more of you kids. You deserve to have a place, and people looking out for you Purpled."

"You keep saying that- but why here? How come you two are the only ones that say that?" He snapped.

Shifting to lean against the railing, you sighed again, "Did you hear about Kinoko Kingdom, when it was founded?"

"Yeah. Karl, Sapnap and George did that, didn't they?"

You nodded, "You know we were supposed to marry Sap and Karl once, Quackity and I."

"Really?" He scoffed.

"Really. Cause we'd been dating, and they'd been dating, and then Karl started hitting on Quackity, and in retaliation Sapnap was hitting on me- anyway, it felt perfect and shit right?"

"Mhhhm."

"Well then one day, right before doomsday, Karl up and disappears, and of course we're worried, but there's a war on. So once its all over, Q was devastated, cause everything he built in El Rapids was gone. He'd always wanted to just make a place for us. He disappeared too.

"Sapnap and I split up to look for them, and planned to meet up here. But- they never turned up. One day we come to find out, they went and started there own place-" You stopped, clearing your throat, and shaking your head, "They abandoned us. I don't want anyone else getting abandoned. This server tried to abandon you Purp, but I'm not gonna let them."

When you looked back over at him, there was a small smile on his face, "...Thank you..."

~~

"(y/n)! Guess who showed up today!"

You chuckled as you looked up to find Quackity leading Fundy toward where you sat at one of the tables under the needle with Charlie, "Fundy! It's so good to see you!"

"Hey (y/n)!" He smiled.

"Hello Fundy From L'manburg!" Charlie greeted excitedly.

Fundy's smile seemed to droop, "How did you know that...?"

"He knows a lot more than most people think," You said apologetically, "Anyway, how have you been?"

"Pretty alright, pretty alright." He nodded, sitting down at one of the open seats as Quackity plopped down next to you.

"That's good. It's good to see you're doing better!"

He nodded, "How have things been going over here?"

"Pretty good," Quackity grinned, "It'll be great to have another official partner on property. So far the only big one we've got living here is Purpled."

"You got Purpled to come here? Wow." Fundy chuckled.

You smiled, "Yeah, I think he's starting construction on a new UFO soon. You got any big plans for being here?"

"I'm not sure yet- but I'll figure it out," He smiled, "I've got a feeling that this place will be better than L'manburg ever could have been."

~~ "Babe, I made breakfast!"

You yawned, slowly sitting up at Quackity's call, "What kind of breakfast?"

"Pancakes!"

"And Purpled From Las Nevadas taught me to make the orange juice!" Charlie exclaimed from the kitchen.

You chuckled, getting up and tugging down the sleeves of one of Quackity's long since stolen hoodies.

Out in the kitchen, Charlie was setting a pitcher of orange juice on the table as Purpled set out plates, and Fundy dug around in a cabinet looking for syrup.

You moved over to where Quackity was flipping the last of the pancakes, wrapping your arms around his waist, "Good morning."

"Good morning babe." He chuckled.

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, ignoring the overly exaggerated gaging noise Purpled made, "Keep it to yourself!"

"Keep what to myself Purpled from UFO?" Charlie asked.

"Not you idiot!" You could hear the eye roll in his voice.

Fundy laughed, sitting up and banging his head on the cabinet.

You smiled into Quackity's back, listening to the half chaos behind you happily.

~~ "Hey Ranboo!" You greeted cheerfully as he entered the office, "What brings you here?"

"Hi (y/n), I just wanted to ask you something."

"Mhhm." You nodded as he sat down.

"Well it's Tubbo and Tommy, I'm trying to help them with all the L'manburg Schlatt, Wilbur, stuff-" He broke off with a sigh, "I just don't know what I'm doing. They need help but- I don't even know how to deal with my own issues."

You frowned, "Is it nightmares? About the festival?- or Tommy's exile?"

"Yeah... how did you guess that?"

"I know a thing or two about nightmares," You sighed, "they don't really go away like that. You aren't doing anything wrong by not knowing what to do."

Ranboo stared down at his hands, "I just feel like I should be helping them more."

"You know what helped everyone around here? Creating a home- having a place or people, that helped Fundy and Purpled, and kind of Charlie? I still don't know his deal- Anyway! just be there for them, hell, bring them here, we'll all be here for you guys."

He looked up suddenly, "Why would you guys be- why would you offer us that? We're not in your allegiance."

"I know. But I don't think any of you kids deserve what this server gives you. Bring them here or not, you all have a place here if you want it." You assured him.

"Really?"

"Of course."

~~ "AYYYY Big Q!"

Tommy's yell cut through the semi loud sounds of the crowded apartment.

"Tommy! You came!" Quackity exclaimed, "Hey Tubbo! Hey Ranboo! And is that Michael?"

The piglin squealed, running past him into the apartment, toward Purpled's dog.

He laughed, "Well, come in guys, Fundy's getting the movie thing ready, and Purp and Charlie are getting snacks and things."

Ranboo followed Tommy and Tubbo into the room as Charlie came from the kitchen, carrying the bowel of chips Purpled had told him to bring out, "Hey! It's Tubbo Underscore Beloved From Snowchester! And Ranboo Beloved Underscore From {redacted}! And Tomathy Careful Danger Kraken Innit from L'manburg!"

Purpled, who'd stopped in the kitchen doorway, "Did he just make a bleeped out fucking noise with his mouth?"

"Yeah- yeah no he did." Fundy confirmed.

"Your middle name is Kraken?" You asked, shuffling out with a stack of blankets.

Tommy nodded, "Yup."

You laughed, "That's- kind of ridiculous, why would Philza saddle you with that?"

"Well 'es not my dad is 'e?" Tommy scoffed.

"Wait seriously?" Quackity asked.

Tubbo laughed, "You really thought...?"

You shook your head, "Whatever... Fundy what's the status on that movie?"

"I'm almost done." He reported.

"Right, everyone get comfortable then." You said, dropping the pile of blankets you had been carrying.

Quackity plopped down onto the couch, pulling you to sit with him as Tubbo and Ranboo began to make a nest of blankets between the arm chair where Purpled sat and the couch.

Charlie passed around snacks and Fundy finished setting up the projector as the move began.

~~ You sighed, turning and pressing your face into Quackity's shoulder, "Thank you."

It had been a week since Karl and Sapnap had left Las Nevadas, and your fiancé had insisted that you take time off of managing things.

"For what baby?" He asked softly.

"Everything. I love you."

"I love you too." He murmured.

You smiled softly, looking up at him, "How long until that wedding?"

~~ "You ready?" Charlie asked.

You turned to him, looking up from the paper on which you'd written your vows, "Yeah... I think so."

He grinned, "Let's go then!"

You nodded as he looped his arm through yours and you started toward the doorway.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Las Nevadas!" He announced, "Here we go!"

You chuckled as you started down the isle with him, grinning at Quackity, who stood, looking already close to tears.

Purpled, Fundy, Sam, Tubbo, Tommy and Michael stood in various places around the alter, Foolish glancing down at the book he held open.

As you reached the alter, he started, "Dear people, we are gathered here today to witness the sort of? holy matrimony of (y/n) (y/l/n) and Alex Quackity. If anyone here has any objections to this union speak now, or hold your peace."

There was a silence, Michaels tiny snort being the only sound before Foolish continued, "This journey, which you have started together, will continue on now, as you walk, side by side, step by step, together, now joined in such a way that you can't really get rid of each other without a divorce."

Laughs and chuckles filled the wedding hall as Quackity shook his head, "Nope, you're stuck with me babe."

You laughed, "Good."

"Now, would you recite your vows?"

You pulled the paper from your pocket, "I'm going first. So, ever since we started seeing each other, we thought it would be you and me forever. Even after everything we went through, and even after Sapnap and Karl, its still you and me. I would say that its just you and me, but," You looked around at everyone,

"It's not just you and me, it's you and me and these guys. When we started this place, I knew that it would be difficult, especially with all the hurt that the SMP caused us. But, even as I was helping everyone here heal, you were helping me. Because you helped me find this family, and you- you gave me a thousand little moments that made me feel again.

A thousand moments that helped me heal."

[littleredwritingcat]

Mother, May I: Part 1

A John Tyler Fic - 18+ only; trigger warnings and content include rape/non-con, mentions of suicide, child abuse/neglect (slight), ghosts, the occult, kidnapping, mention of firearms, painful sex, dark fairy tale elements, dom/sub elements but nothing is safe, sane, or consensual because...well, it’s Tyler, innit? This is a dark one, my loves. Act accordingly.

The glare of flickering red and blue neon, television screens, and overhead bulbs catch the glittering gold, looping pink letters on a white satin sash that read "Bride to Be!" as a woman laughs with three of her friends.

They’re sitting across the bar now, near the pool tables. She’s just a slip of a thing - thick brown hair and blue eyes, delicate features and skin that’s mysteriously sun-kissed even though it isn’t even spring, yet – and certainly not warm enough for trips to the beach.

A flimsy white veil sewn through with plastic heart beads droops lopsided over one side of her head, and there’s a Midori sour in one slender fist, electric green and hoisted into the air as she all but screams the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song.

...Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods yet…

She looks, he thinks, a little like Jane had on her wedding day - the gray afternoon his baby sister, all dressed in white and newly hitched, had told him they'd never be a family again. That he couldn’t even be around his niece.

Miss Bride-to-Be is an easy target, and John Tyler can't stop staring at the cleavage in her loose and lacy little tank top - can't stop thinking of how easy it would be for someone tall and semi-dashing in a nice new plaid button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow to charm his way into her little circle of gaggling idiot friends just to ruin all those pretty bright white dreams…

"Nope."

John turns, mildly annoyed, and notices you leaning over the bar's wooden top next to the stool he's standing behind.

Your index finger and thumb are tipped with dark red polish that’s almost black. They’re wrapped around a clear plastic swizzle stick between your lips. Your hair is a startling sight, shining and swept up, and you’d look more at home in a three-star bistro, or at a gallery opening. The black knit dress you’re in is seemingly modest - long sleeved and reaching your knees. When you stand, the effect reminds him of staring at the stem of a black note on a printed-out sheet of music. The posture reveals an off-the-shoulder neckline that exposes a collarbone with divots so deep he could drink liquor from their hollows.

That’s what you are – good sipping liquor – Campari, maybe? And you smell of something smokey that’s edging around his memory, curling it up at the corners like burning paper. 

Coral red lips strike him as garish, and they’re so slick it looks like the seam between the top and bottom are bleeding - but your eyes, large eyes look frightened and serious, the pupils wide like a cat's in the half-light.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't, Kid. Just don't.”

"And what did you think...wait, 'Kid?' I'm older than you, young lady. Gotta be."

He smiles and the crows feet under his thick eyebrows crinkle; he’s taken aback. Amused. But then you arch one brow, because you’re not that young and you understand exactly who and what he is. You’re still sucking on the swizzle stick, eyes looking him up and down. You’re appraising him, and it’s insulting. Finally, you give a cursory glance around the bar and sigh.

"She's the prettiest girl here, but she's also getting married in two weeks and she's well past shitfaced."

"And you're implying that…"

John let his voice lilt in the way that people usually found disarming. Maybe you'd feel foolish if you spoke with him for a few more moments.

No, you’re nothing like an aperitif. You’re scotch. The good stuff locked away for years at a time. Smell of deep smoke, of myrrh and resin conjure the memory of head shops he’d visit for incense used in meditation.

Yeah, the good stuff – non-synthetic.

"I'm implying,” you continue, still afraid but a tiny bit bolder now, “that I've seen that look on a lot of men's faces. So here’s the thing - she might be Little Red in this situation, but I'm the woodcutter. You got it?"

Ha. Of all the bars, he had to walk into this one.

And all the women every night in every bar probably represented the wronged and maligned to you. In your imagination, he thinks, you’ve saved them over and over, trying to reach through the past and make up for what you thought of as your worst failings.

That, or you were still trying to recover from some horrible moment that still gives you nightmares – that one time when you hadn’t been able to save yourself.

He hadn’t seen you come in with the others.

It doesn’t matter, though.

John is patient – always patient - because a direct approach would set off a bevy of mental alarms for most people. But you? Well, you’re one of those women who stays vigilant after everyone else gets too far into their cups to give a damn about someone like him looking on from the shadows.

Tonight, he hasn’t been dancing with his demons but he hasn’t been putting up much of a fight, either. He usually doesn’t these days. Not anymore.

Yeah, John knows your kind and avoids you all like oil repelling water on leather.

“Excuse me, but you’re very rude and I don’t like rude people,” he growls while pushing away from the bar.

“‘Kid’ is absolutely the right word,” you say, a slant of desperation tipping your words.

In your gut, you’re afraid he’ll go through with the half-stitched intentions that are still forming in his mind, pulling at baser urges.

You can’t see them clearly.

No matter how long you work with the gift, the sight – whatever Auntie Tess called it - it’s never like watching television or seeing the scenes of a play.

You can feel them, though. That’s what it’s always been like for you. Just an impression or feeling at first, then color and sound and something visual that develops like still, solid images on photo paper -

Those intentions bubble up and around him. It causes a noxious chill, then floats on a green fog, smelling of copper. Your hand is flat against the wood grain of the table now, palm sweating. You’re trying to reach for something – anything – to stall what you’ve uncovered, destructive, sickening force that it is. You grasp at whatever is on the surface of your mind, trying to find what is useful among the bits of this and that all flowing in one steady current…

Aha.

And just like that, you’ve got the very thing to sink his little battleship.

“Janice sends her love,” you call at his back, loud enough to be heard over the crowd, the music, the televisions. You are steady, and merely conveying a half-hearted message relayed off-handedly from someone almost too far away to understand. You’re a satellite and you’re redirecting a signal. Just sending it towards the nearest tower.

The reception is good tonight, and you’re grateful for that.

He – the Wolf - stops in his tracks, but the motion of the room continues as his swaying gait almost three feet away from you goes absolutely still. It’s eerie, and for a moment you wonder who Janice is.

You don’t have to wonder long.

“She’s kind of upset you’re out so late. ‘Early to bed, early to rise, makes a good boy wealthy, healthy, and wise.’”

Shaky breath, fists clench and unclench. Wolf turns. His eyes are wide, his countenance unreadable. He wears lots of masks, and you’ve caught him in the middle of a costume change.

His facial expression will return after these messages from our sponsors.

“Who…who are you? Who…?”

“Who! Who!”

You mock him a little, your wet, bright lips turning upwards.

“I’m no one. Who are you, Mr. Owl?”

It’s a flip answer, and the grin on your face is too daring. You could lose a finger to jaws like the ones you’re looking at right now. Strong bones under a set of what you’re sure are teeth that can do lots of damage to a girl.

Suddenly, despite the crowd around you, Wolf lunges, right at where you’re sitting – almost lays hands on you, but you’re quicker than that. Reflexes of a cat coupled with decades of existing in the body of a woman has taught you speed.

It’s made you sharp.

So many of your counterparts had fathers, brothers, mothers, and lovers to protect them.

You’d had none of that during your formative years. But now you can protect yourself – and future brides in bars who didn’t even realize they needed protecting.

“Woah there, John Hancock, John Doe, diddle diddle dumpling, my son John! Keep those paws to yourself. Maybe go home like the nice lady wants and lick your wounds. Live to fight another day, eh?”

You’re already on the other side of the bar’s open room, using people as obstructions to place between yourself and Wolf. He’s mirroring your movements, following you with black saucer eyes that are more like hungry pits than God-given tools for seeing. You’ve observed animals in zoos pace alongside the steel bars with less rage.

Thank God for well worn-in leather pumps, your, um, intimate knowledge of Rick’s Bar on West, and a decently adept talent for basic glamouring skills. Maybe it’s not really mystical, what you do. Maybe you’ve always been able to wend and wind your way through a crowd without much trouble.

Bouncing Souls, Distillers (and you’d had a massive crush on Brody Dalle, so of course Distillers), and Fugazi – their mosh pits were your training ground.

You’re not twenty anymore, but damn – when you have to, you can still move.

And you do, behind the door reserved for employees. Rick yells at you, his rectangle specs with heavy blue frames falling down his nose and jaw dropping in a bluster of anger as you go through. He won’t stay mad for long. You do readings for his customers on the weekends, and he knows it brings people in along with all their cash.

It’s a win-win; folks love having their fortunes told after a few beers or glasses of pinot.

And no matter what kind of predictions you make, they’ll drink more afterwards to ward off unease or punctuate their feelings of self-satisfaction. 

Hmmm.

Still need to tell Rick those new glasses aren’t flattering, though.

You haven’t quite gotten around to it just yet, but you’d better do it soon.

No one else ever will, but you can because the old asshole is fond of you. He knew Tess – was always half in love with her, and you have her hair, her glibness – her skillset.

You peek through the door to the alleyway, but you know –just know because it tingles the marrow of your bones – that it isn’t safe to go down that dark path anymore, so doubling-back it is, and then right out the front entrance neat as you please.

You give the doorman checking IDs a casual two-fingered salute, arch your neck till it cracks, and then hail a cab. Once you’re in the yellow ABC Taxi, you can’t help laughing loud. The man driving – you know that he’s thinking about the chips and eggs his wife has set aside for him after his shift – he asks you if you’re ok in a heavy, musical accent.

Everything is beautiful, you tell him.

Everything shines, and holy fucking shit, it’s fun to outsmart silly over-important monster-men. It’s fun to play and win.

At two p.m. the next day, a tall drink of a man in red wanders casually into Rick’s Bar on West during the post-lunch lull. His hands force themselves into his khaki pockets as he tells everyone his last name is “Miller,” then starts asking the waitresses about the weekly events in the taproom.

“Yeah, I’m – well, you can tell, right? I’m new to town – and I’ve got colleagues coming in from Atlanta next week. Haven’t been in the city long, but I like the…general vibe of this place. It’s congenial without being too neighborhood dive-y. I was thinking this might be the right spot for - for dinner on the first night they’re in town. Good beer list - and the staff is pleasant. Best servers this side of the eastern seaboard.”

He’s kind of handsome in a gangling “Mr. Rodgers” way, so when he winks conspiratorially at one of the waitresses, she grins all big and hands him a laminated card with a QR code.

Trivia Tuesdays, Thirsty Thursdays (with two domestic drafts for the price of one), then Karaoke on Fridays and Saturdays from 8 to close.

But. It’s the very last line at the very, very bottom of John’s phone screen that make his mouth crack open into a grin.

     "FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD! Let me see yours on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings. Specialties include the deciphering of palms and oracle card readings. Reasonable rates, legendary predictions, and satisfaction guaranteed. Ask for Y/A at the bar."

He’d grown fond of so-called “mysticism” over the years. Everyone religious in his childhood used the word “occult;” said it was of the devil. It would put you in the pit, but it was a comfort. After his mom had died, he thought that perhaps there was still some tiny, silvery thread still connecting her to him. And he’d loved her so, so much.

“Ok, little woodcutter – little fortune teller, mystic, witch, or whatever you are,” John thinks to himself, biting his lip as the pretty waitress says something about the addition of ten cent taco Wednesdays to the menu.

It made order of things. Provided structures without the judgement of bibles and hell and fury.

John never had use for anyone’s fury but his own.

For years – decades – he’d tried to find a path to that connecting thread, through meditation, or other spiritual advisors. He just wanted someone who could talk to her, who could give him one more moment with the one who’d ripped him in twain by her going.

No one had yet. Not really.

But then he’d wandered into Rick’s and there’d been a nasty pretty brat with bright lips who’d said her name – had recited the sing-song rhymes from his childhood.

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John -

His eyes have gone blank and he’s already making calculations.

Went to bed with his trousers on -

There are weaknesses in the windows and doors of your life he can pull and push on – the entrances you don’t lock or have perhaps even left ajar  – because maybe you do have a gift, and maybe you will feel him coming, but you’re not half as clever as you think. Not cleverer than him.

One shoe off, and one shoe on -

“I guess, little witch, we’re doing this the hard way.”

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John -

You don't read tea leaves. That kind of conjuration just isn’t your bag.

Auntie Tess always told you “half of being smart is knowing what you’re dumb at,” and you suck at kitchen witchery, so aside from the occasional sprig of Rosemary from the bodega two blocks away that you use in your famous roasted chicken recipe, you’re a stars-and-cards-and-skin-creases girl.

The day’s easy breezy.

Extra income is on its way this month as your client list picks up. That means you can fix the leaks in the old brownstone’s roof. You’ve inherited it from your aunt along with all its idiosyncrasies and broken down corners. But no more plastic buckets, pans, and plastic butter tubs in the entryway during rainstorms for you.

You’ll have all the money you need soon.

You sigh, and it’s a sound from your center that betrays the unsettled sparks you’ve been feeling in your limbs, stomach, and joints. There’s no reason for it, really. The sun is shining, you’re wearing a favorite pair of lose sage-green overalls with gaucho legs and your  favorite black crop top tank,

You’d applied your cat eyeliner perfectly – first try.

Your business parlor is also coming together after months of work – everyone said that black paint on the walls would look too morbid – that it wouldn’t do to have the set of purple satin wing backs near the fireplace right in front of the entryway.

It would all overwhelm.

But you think it’s got a sophisticated mystical quality. You hope your customers agree – besides, part of all your song-and-dance performativity hinges on atmosphere. But you don’t lie to people. You embellish a little here and there, but lying? That’s cursed. That’s disrespect.

Gold frames hold vintage pictures of Tess, her friends, their travels all through the years. Deco light fixtures, cast in frosted glass with delicate etching, lend the kind of quality you wouldn’t have been able to manage if you’d rented a downtown space.

Your aunt hadn’t known about you – hadn’t known you existed - until your late teens. Once your addict mother finally revealed your whereabouts, she spirited you away as fast as was humanly possible. Even though she was gone now, Tess used the time you two had wisely - had taught you how to harness what you’d inherited.

Now the chaos of stars and voices and satellite waves – well, it was still chaos, but it wasn’t as close. You could keep it to a low roar. It was like existing in a quiet room next to an apartment where conversations were happening – sometimes quiet, and sometimes loud. You just ignored it most of the time, unless you needed to hone in. Then you’d be a satellite – an empty glass to the wall.

You were brave now. So much braver than you’d ever been before.

Nevertheless, you’d brought your Ruger down from the bedroom this morning. Just in case.

During your afternoon tea break, you have a good black and cinnamon blend. A little lemon perks the loose leaves up, arches your brows for you. It will keep you alert. Warm. Ready.

But your stomach drops when you see a reflection in the brown and red liquid sloshing counterclockwise in the white bone china of your cup. There’s light at the top of the lip from above like the moon hovering overhead – some flame in the distance which might be fire or even lightening. Lunacy. Danger raging forward, fanned by what is foul.

Foul is fair and fair is foul.

Stars above.

You don’t know what you were expecting, really. No one that deranged would be willing to write you off – go away unsatisfied. You’d whetted his appetite, after all. It’s then that the smell of soggy dog fur and copper fills your nostrils.

You sigh, feeling so very tired.

It’s just a few minutes before your next booking. A woman from somewhere past the bridge on the opposite side of the city. She was worried about a financial decision she’d made and had set something up with your assistant yesterday morning.

Your personal assistant had added her to your calendar.

Emily, who has gone home early for the day – a pipe burst in her apartment, so she’d dashed out by eleven in an understandable panic. And now it’s your turn to feel unease. Had it been the simple wear and tear of time, shoddy plumbing, and bad piping that assured you were alone this afternoon?

Not fucking likely. 

There hadn’t been a booking at all - you know that now. 

You sit down teacup and saucer and reach under the heavy oak table you use for readings, laying hands on the Ruger. Shaking, you pull it up, fingering the thumb safety in anticipation. You’ve no more than flipped the latch when two hands emerge from behind, one gently taking the gun from you and setting it down on the table top.

“I don’t think there’s a need for that. You might hurt yourself.”

Then you’re being pulled, back and up until Wolf’s mouth is close to the shell of your ear.

Smell of copper, now so strong that you might be able to taste pennies in your mouth if you concentrate hard enough.

“Jeepers. You are the real thing, aren’t you?”

You try to throw an elbow straight into the waiting rib cage of the man you know is at your back, but it’s a futile move – there’s only a grunt, and then both arms are pulling you again, lifting your body as you struggle, limbs wriggling forward against the motion forcing you in the opposite direction.

“I should tease you. I mean, I’ve been here for around 30 minutes. You had to go upstairs to make the tea, remember? And Emily was so detailed about your routine after I…explained to her what I needed to know and why. I came right in.”

“If you’ve hurt her -”

“No, no, no,” and his voice goes a little softer. He might as well be comforting a child.

“She’s a little shaken. Not hurt. But you really should be more careful about who you hire. That one’s a real pistol, huh? Yeah, quite the past. It’s one I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want her parents finding out about it, so we made a deal.”

You twist and lunge, snarling into the air and Wolf makes more shushing noises from above your head. You’d already known about her second job at the club – it was actually a woman-owned establishment and is about as safe as those kinds of places can be. She’s working her way through nursing school, and you don’t care about the stripping.

Not that her ultra conservative Fox News-watching folks from Nebraska would’ve agreed. 

“A creep and a prude. Kid, you’re an utter dee-light.”

“Quiet. Be still for me, or this can get worse.” 

The last phrase grinds into the air, throaty and rough from a flash of annoyance. 

You’re hauled towards the front staircase, still kicking. In a last-ditch attempt to salvage your freedom, you manage to grab onto the railing - but long, dexterous fingers pry your hands from the wood, making your knuckles crack in the process.

You’re cursing so loud its almost screaming – long strings of punctuated sound forming into words that you’d know make the top of Wolf’s ears go red if you could see them.

The prick-and-pinch of a needle into the underside of your elbow – into a vein, you figure – almost goes undetected, but Gods, this is worse than you thought and he’s trying to sooth you – “Just let it happen. Just let go.” -  and the back of your head pounds once more into Wolf’s sternum before you start to slump into a dark, still place.

“There,” she says, her voice low and satisfied. Pleased with itself. She sits back up and twists the nob on the end of a lipstick tube, admiring her work.

   Then you’re sitting upright, ankles crossed, on a strange and uncomfortable couch with rust colored paisley fabric. It’s almost like the one Mom had in her trailer when you were growing up. You’d sit on that thing for hours, watching PBS and letting Trix cereal go gummy in your mouth while you waited for someone – anyone – to get home.

The light feels gold and dusty – it looks like late afternoon, and you’re sitting on this couch in a strange house on a quiet street somewhere in the past – but not quite. It’s a pocket you’ve been slipped into by an invisible hand.

The strong smell of stale cigarette smoke hits you, and a woman is leaning in, wiping something across your mouth…no, your lips.

“So much better than that garish orangy color you were in the other night.”

“Janice?”

You’re stunned - put your hand to your lips as she smiles. Her hair and eyes are dark except for little flecks of copper that you can see gleaming too brightly in the glow from an open window.

“If you want to know what lip color men will find most attractive on you, just take a look at the inside of your bottom lip - or your other lips…down there. You know. That’s where the skin can tell you most about your complexion. You’re better in a good glossy nude. Too bad I can’t actually sell you one anymore.”

She blinks, then smiles again. It’s a cold expression, and for a moment, you want to wash whatever part of your face she’s touched.

Gauzy cream-colored curtains dress the sill - match the couch.

“He’s going to start whining again,” she says, tone flat.

“Was always such a – well, I had to lock him in his room sometimes because he just couldn’t leave me alone. Jane was easier.”

You shudder. This had ceased being a cute homage to Donna Reed’s Mary Kay lady and had taken a hard right into Disturbia.

“Is…is there something you want me to say? To him, I mean?”

A dramatic sigh unleashes itself from the dark little woman’s mouth, and she looks upwards for a few seconds.

“I suggest,” she starts, “that you tell him whatever he wants to hear. He’s still going to hurt you, but maybe it won’t be as bad if you just…play along.”

You stare dumbly at this person you know isn’t actually a person anymore, and something icy in your chest begins to spread into the rest of your body. Your head hurts – Jesus, it hurts…

“And if he tells you anything about the cigarette, remind him that it was just ash. I didn’t mean to burn him.”

It’s the last thing you hear before the woman, the couch, the room, and the window are gone.

Moving your head feels like trying to do a pull-up in gym class.

  You come to and register the warm weight on your abdomen.

No real point in it.

So you stare through heavy-lidded eyes at your own ceiling and concentrate on breathing. It’s dark outside now, but the small table lamp next to your bed is on. Everything might as well be hidden by the cigarette smoke still lingering in your nostrils. Lines, edges, and shapes still blur, but you try to raise and crack your neck.

It’s gone stiff again. Your joints are more like hinges these days. If it’s not the conversations in your satellite ears, it’s the near-disjuncture of bone.

“No, no – still. Just be still. You slept a long time, but you’re not going to be able to move well for an hour or two yet. Just be patient.”

You swallow hard, drumbeat of your heart vibrating at the surface. Then you’re wrapped in what might’ve been a comforting embrace in other, better circumstances. You nearly cry, and dammit, if only you’d ever been held tight in a way you could trust.

Not like this, the shittiest substitute for true love in the universe. 

There’s no pan, sharp steel jaws, or the cut of an upper bow into your flesh but you’ve still stepped right onto the trigger of a nasty trap.

It takes a few moments to realize that someone is holding your right hand – rubbing your fingers and knuckles back to life, drawing circles thumb to palm -  mound of Venus, plain of Mars, sun line, heart line, the list goes on and you name each part as he touches the skin.

“I only wanted to talk to her – talk to you. Even though you were so rude and said mean things, I still just wanted to talk.”

Now a mouth and nose in your hair – deep inhale and hot breath out, still metallic but now there’s the choking fumes of nicotine, too.

“Easy,” he mutters, face in your hair again.

“Just lay back and relax. Just be my good little witch baby. You’re ok. You’ll see.”

You can’t help the coughing fit, and after a few moments of trying to breath, Wolf hauls your torso upright and positions himself behind you so that you’re lying on his chest, both of his thighs and legs boxing your body in.

Nope. Don’t like that.

Whatever term of endearment, nickname or fucked up turn-of-phrase he’s decided to saddle you with is unwelcome. In all the old stories, people only rename someone they have power over.

It isn’t fair. This is your home– you and Tess’. He doesn’t get to claim anything.

Begone, before someone drops a house on you!

You arch again, rise up.

He holds tighter, so no dice.

“You saw her. Spoke with her,” he says, a little dreamily.

“Did she tell you that she died when I was nine? Did she tell you that my sister and I came home after school and found her in the garage with the car running?”

You could feel his chest heave – heard a dam break, and felt Wolf’s head on your shoulder, lashes below salt-and-pepper curls leaving tears on the skin there. After a few minutes, you hear Wolf sniff, and clear his throat.

“I’ve only known you – known about you for, what, three days? But you already know so much about me. You really really really know me.”

Tell him what he wants to hear. He’s still going to hurt you, but maybe -

You lick your dry, rubbery lips.

He won’t believe she’s sorry. From the short encounter you’d had, you know that Janice – that Wolf’s mother hadn’t been an especially empathetic person.

You’ll try, though. Try to give him something. No lying. That’s cursed.

So you turn a key in the ignition of your voice box and wait  – at first there’s only a wheezing sound that comes out, but then you’re making words and the wheezing is at least audible. Still, it’s like someone else’s voice is traveling through your throat. Maybe that’s exactly what’s happening.

“She’s - she’s sorry about the burn. She didn’t mean to burn you with the ash from her cigarette, John,” you manage.

You feel him nod.

“I know,” he mutters.

“I know. Hey, do you want to see the scar?”

No, not especially – but he’s already undone his khakis and slid them off, one leg at a time. You’re left anchored against bare thighs, bunched up pants, and a pair of white briefs. You try to regulate your breathing - ignore a pronounced bulge poking your lower back. He takes your hand – your left hand, this time – interlaces his fingers with yours, and drags the digits over a smooth divot in the skin above his knee. 

The left hand symbolizes the past for most people. You wonder if he knows.

“It’s just there. Feel it?”

You try to nod, and there’s a surprised gust of quiet laughter above you.

“Oh my, your hands are so soft and warm. How do you keep them like that, Witch Baby?”

You think about all the times Tess told you to use coco butter on your skin, and how – to this day – the light, sugary smell reminds you of her. It’s not enough to bring you any real comfort in this moment, so you try to shrug.

“It’s swell to feel skin like this. I know you can’t move much, but -”

A verbal warning shot. It feels like a pang at the base of your neck that jolts you even further into consciousness. His pelvis presses forward while he hums a little to himself - you try to arch your back away.

“How long has it been, hmm? Since someone has touched any part of you, and it wasn’t at the bar – wasn’t just another day’s work.”

John’s hand is holding yours fast at your side now, and the other – the one at your right in what is already the future – still sits limp, a separate, traitorous thing disconnected from the whole.

“How long has it been since someone’s really touched you? My skin isn’t anything like yours, but- I can. I can touch you, Witch Baby.”

“Please,” you whisper, still forcing the sound.

“P-please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? No, that’s not the way this story goes.”

There’s a sigh and you feel the singular rise and fall of his chest. You imagine that he’s put out by your pleas. How many has he heard over the decades, anyway? They must all be like old songs now. He’s listened to them on repeat, the vinyl wearing down into the player bit by bit. There’s nothing particularly new about your song – just the woman singing it.

“Here’s the thing,”

You squint your eyes, recognizing the familiar turn of phrase from the other night.

“Little Red Riding Hood wasn’t really in danger. Might’ve been if there’d been more time, but some woman came along and got smart with the Wolf.”

John shifts again, and it’s like falling deeper below a waterline. Your heartbeat is the only rapid thing you have right now. Everything else is fuzzy, swimming.

“…But he forgave her because now he’ll never lose his mother again.”

Ah. There it is.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you start, but he hushes you, placing one finger over your lips, finally bending the first knuckle joint to trace the seam.

“The Woodcutter Witch Baby is good at saving everyone except herself. She knows things other people don’t – can’t. But I’m a seer, too. I’m the Wolf that can see in the dark. So she’s mine now and I’m hers. My mother would’ve told me so – showed up for a reason, don’t you think?”

He kisses your hair, smooths one side of it even as you jolt.

“I take care of what’s mine.”

And you knew this was probably coming, but you didn’t think it was going to happen quickly.

There had been at least…a dozen?

No, fourteen or more women and you can only catch impressions and flashes. It’s all on the river again, scraps floating with a current. You don’t try to fish for particulars - you don’t want to see or hear or understand more than you already do.

The most recent woman was from Missouri – was stuck on the side of the road. Less than a year ago. Her car had broken down, and she’d been thankful that someone in a suit with a nice, shiny, expensive red Dodge had found her.  

Money, manners – seemed like a gentleman if not awkward, but that was forgivable.

Any port in a storm was better than walking along the side of the highway towards town.

Her name was Miranda.

She’d had long, dark hair.

Dark eyes.

“I don’t want to go to the gas station anymore…”

Catching your breath and listening to your heart in your ears makes everything echo and split, then you feel something dripping down your face – tears? Sweat? It’s hard to know. There’s a low tutting, and the callused skin of one long hand wiping moisture away from the slant of your cheekbone.

“Don’t cry,” John says as he unbuttons your overall straps.

“This is our first time. Don’t ruin it by crying, ok?”

He peels your tank off next, and you curse your decision to forego a bra today. Next, he shucks your overalls onto the floor, leaving you shivering. Cotton panties – pragmatic and clean – are the only thing that cover you

Gently – so gently that it hurts, he works his way out from where he’s sitting, taking care to lower your head and torso against your pillow covered with your favorite set of sheets.

You’ll have to burn them now.

He likes taking what’s important, and he’s probably glad that the drugs haven’t worn off.

Yeah, consent doesn’t really seem like his thing. He gets off on the force – the bending of one will to another. 

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Stupid, but plausible. A last scatter-shot card trick to play.

Maybe it’s because you’re used to understanding what people want to hear, and therefore understand the inverse. Maybe it’s because your livelihood depends on the performance of grandiose suggestion. One more chance, then…

“John,” you manage, trying to make your eyes large and your voice pleading.

“This is exactly how I saw it – this is as it should be. We’ll be together forever and ever, won’t we?”

Everything stops down to the second, and you hold your breath to see if you’ve managed the most important performance of your fucking life. “You like me! You really like me,” cries Sally Field in your head. And anyway, why should he enjoy himself if you don’t?

Maybe this is as good as a kick to the groin. There’s a stopper in the bottle and a limp dick on the horizon, you know it in your gut. Ah, it’s fun to outsmart silly over-important monster-men, even now. Even like this.

…And that’s why you don’t expect the slap across the left side of your face.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls.

Cursed.

“You’re clever, but so am I. And you’re not a whore.”

“C’mon, Kid! What’s so bad about sex work? Oldest profession in the world…John.”

Another smack this time on the right side - then an index and middle digit straight into the back of your throat. His face is close, directly over yours so that both noses touch. John’s eyes are saucer-wide again, and he drips concern instead of fury. You consider how that’s somehow worse, then try to breathe through an obstructed airway.    

“It can get worse, see?”

He huffs a little, watching your reaction.

“I know - it’s going to take some time for you to get used to how things will be from now on, but you need discipline. Manners. I mean, just look how you’re coughing and drooling all over my hand.”

You vaguely register how he’s parted your thighs with his legs, one knee pressing against the gusset of thin fabric there as he finally removes his fingers from your mouth so that he can pull off his briefs.

He tugs – rips away - the barrier between his spit-covered fingers and your center, then works them into the scalding channel of your cunt.

No preamble, just control and the spread of warmth from some part of yourself that’s out of practice – the hindbrain whines, begs you to go pliant and stupid. The pace he sets all but orders your body to react to the twisting heat of his long fingers, now second-knuckle deep inside you – or, at the very least, have the grace to cut your losses and submit.

You refuse to make a sound and it’s hard with the force that he’s applying while pumping his digits in and out of you, but then you remember to lie back and think of England or the city park in springtime or the way you’re going to take a long, hot bath after this – plot and plan till you know just what to do.

He can have what he likes for now, but it’s not you. Not really.

Your body, horrible weak system of dumb nerves and flesh that it is - begins reacting to John’s ministrations – wet sounds and his low moans reach you in your daze. He cups the connecting space between your ass and inner thigh, then slaps it summarily - knows what spot to hit, damn him – then presses his fingers up and forward while watching himself work.

“You’re a messy girl, Witch Baby. Just – so, so wet. What am I going to do with all this? Does it taste as good as it smells?”

You’re fine – you really are – until he runs the flat of his tongue from where your opening to the top, then nips at your clit, worrying the nub with the edge of his teeth until you shout and all that’s left is the contrast between where he is, and where the air hits.

“She…she said,”

You can’t help it – there’s still some part of you that thinks the right information will make this stop. You keep feeding coins into the machine, hoping for a lucky pull of the lever.

“She told me that ‘if you want to know what lip color men will find most attractive on you, just take a look at the inside of your bottom lip or your lips down there.’”

And it’s just a satellite transmission like everything else you hear, but there’s a pause – there’s consideration. John hums from his position between your legs.

“Mmmm. Sounds right. It’s pink and brown. Mauve, maybe. Better than the shade you were in the other night.”

“Mah-auuu-ve? That’s not how you say it!”

The feeling is starting to come back to your limbs – you can tell because they twitch every time he hits someplace unused to touch. He’s laid your legs out nicely, all tidy like a good suit. Finally, he turns you on your left side facing away from him, then molds his body around you – part of the moon being swallowed, making shadows darker than pitch in the sky.  

“Shush,” he says, then slaps the outside of your thigh again hard enough to sting.

Your breathing stutters – it can’t be helped – frightened and unsteady in skin that does not feel like your own, and he’s much too close. His hardness and considerable heft angles between the crease where both your thighs touch, now sticky-slick against the skin there.

“So how does someone teach a Witch Baby manners?”

A moan or cry or both from your throat, and then John’s hips jut upwards. You feel the blunt touch of something solid at your entrance, pushing bit by bit until your body gives.

You’re pried open, fruit crushed and parted by someone who knows how to breach a rind – knows what such force can do to a woman. You think of little red, inside the wolf’s stomach, just like in the fairy tale. And you think of how greedy someone hungry can be. You aren’t used to this – to any man – but not this kind of length or hot girth, struggling to make room against your walls.

“It’s a lot, I know,” he purrs into your ear, kissing the side of your face. His arm is around your waist, pulling you flush – making sure there’s no squirming away, and you choke on a whine that leaks from your throat.

“It’s ok, though. You’re doing so, so good for me. And you’re going to lay here. And you’re not going to move. You’re going to mind your manners and be my pretty cock warmer. When you’ve earned it, I’ll let you cum. But you have to earn it.”

Not so bad, you think. You can do this. You can-

“Don’t clench, Witch Baby. I can feel you tighten. That’s cheating. Just lay here. Still – still. Let me feel you take me.”

Not enough salt in the wound yet, you think. He’s going to make you come undone. He’s going to make you hungry, just like him. You hiccup, trying to stay lax while your blood thrums and you feel something dripping from in between your legs.

“Soft and warm all over,” he muses, and absentmindedly cups one of your breasts, worrying the nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. Every so often, he readjusts – pushes a little deeper. You feel wetness seeping through the edges of your opening, then move, tightening ever so slightly - so he scolds.

“How long this lasts is up to you. Can you keep that mouth sweet for me? Can you be sweet for me, Witch Baby?”

Panic sets in – there’s a thrumming, hot pulse inside your cunt. There’s an itch that claws into the low part of your stomach. You want teeth on your clit again, God help you. You need friction.

And he’s not as clever as he thinks he is, either.

“Let me…t-tell you how this story actually goes,” you manage.

“You’re going to stop being a stupid brute and give me the orgasm of my life, or I’m never going to be the little go-between for you and her again.”

There’s a catch of the breath, and you know he’s heard you –hadn’t considered this outcome.

“Stars and fireworks, Kid,” you continue. 

“I better not be able to remember my own goddamn name. You worked hard to find a way to fuck me….so fuck me.”

You’re a little surprised when John laughs – like he can’t believe your cheek, his luck, or both.

He buries his face into the side of your neck.

“I don’t want to break you. Not yet.”

“I promise not to be disappointed when you can’t.”

He doesn’t need more goading.

Wolf snarls, then rolls the both of you over till you’re on your stomach, positioning you ass-up, violently slotting himself inside.

He pushes – battering-ram rough, and the air leaves your body; a snap of his hips back, and then another push on repeat. Fast – hard as he can make it. You (finally) bite your tongue; you can’t form words and now you know the taste of copper isn’t pennies but blood.

The wetness that built up inside you eases the friction – the hurt; he’s pressed so far in that you’re almost sure your cervix is going to break and bruise, but he hits just right and, oh, you hadn’t wanted this, but women who exist on high-up ledges and have conversations with the stars and maybe get burnt on pyres for their troubles – you all and must make the best of things.

He grabs part of your hair by the roots –  tugs up. Your eyes roll back, then go level - consider the headboard, the light from the lamp and distantly, you track each slap of wet skin and hear him getting breathy while a tightness in you builds. There’s no time to enjoy the climb – his fingers are circling your clit – lazily brushing around the nub then rubbing in mad circles. He’s unpracticed – doesn’t usually have to make an effort. He’s memorized the manual, but the muscle memory isn’t there.

It never mattered before. Making someone orgasm when they don’t want to – that’s the main thing.

But you…

His thrusts – they’re too hard and you can’t yet you can’t but there’s something just past what is pain and you lunge for it. Snap, crackle, pop; you tighten and release like a spring while spots cloud your peripheral vision.

Then your body sags, letting satisfaction settle in. Wolf eats the rest of his meal as you listen and watch from somewhere outside yourself. When the hot spurt of release coats your channel – when the sweating, heaving torso collapses onto your back, you know John’s finished.

The weight pushes straight down, so you place one cheek flat against the cotton sheet underneath while he catches his breath, takes his fingers and traces the length of your spine as if trying to read between the indented dip and the bones underneath.

 RCA TK-1test card pattern for monoscope viewing.

 We are experiencing technical difficulties. 

 The satellite glitches - everything goes darker than pitch in the sky.

 And John, the silly monster-man, mutters something that’s softer and kinder than it has any right to be – but then everything goes quiet.

Oh, Stars, palm lines, and space junk – just what in the hell are you supposed to do now?  

[tacom-literatureu-blog]

this question has been clawing at the walls of my skull for god knows how long but now i have lost enough dignity to ask it.

is red a scitties anti? like, does he completely hate scar or can he appreciate some good cleavage?

SCREAMING. CHAMBERS IS ASLEEP. BUT MY FUCKING GODS. THANK YOU FOR THIS.

P1nk. P1nk. P1nk. I have been stuck in a Sisyphusian loop of math questions and this question has stopped me from dropping out(/hj my dad would kill me). Thank you for restoring my faith in humanity.

To answer your question.

Red himself is almost always tits out. All his shirts have boob windows. They have either been pre ripped, or conveniently ripped. This man has TITS.

The number one qualifier to being a father figure of Tommy Innit is you have to have massive knockers. Phil, Red, Doc, Scar, Jimmy. They've all got big bazongas. Titties. Cleavage for days.

He does not hate the scitties. The scitties are the least of his concerns. - Patton

[cynamonowo]

“I’m worried about you.” with date and mizuki :)

sparrow i am going mental innit

(aitsf res route ending spoilers)

---

The hospital bed, even in comparison to her own at home, is extremely uncomfortable; hard and bumpy and acrid-smelling. Sniffing, Mizuki tugs the thin blanket over her head, trying not to move her leg too much, and pulls out her phone. There’s a new NILE message from Iris, a quick update on her condition. It’s from three hours ago, so she’s probably already asleep in her own hospital room. While she wasn’t hurt in their encounter with Saito, the doctors wanted to keep an eye on her, in case the trauma would mess with her tumor.

Mizuki’s heart sinks. Iris’s cancer, Moma’s gunshot wound, Date’s eye… Her chest hurts. Swallowing hard, she opens a dumb puzzle game to try and distract herself from the bad thoughts. With the dull pain in her thigh and beeping of the heart rate monitor, she’s not going to get any sleep either way. When a nurse goes to check on her, Mizuki locks the phone screen and relaxes, pretending to be asleep. Ha. As if.

The ache throbs in sync with her pulse. It’s better this way. It makes her focus on the hole in her leg instead of the one in her heart. Gaping, empty, like someone peeled away her ribs and scooped out the inside. She bites her lip and, blinking furiously, returns to tapping at her phone. Between the game and the ache, she’s almost able to keep the bad thoughts at bay. They're like — sharks in murky waters, circling around, their grey bodies coming in and out of view. Mizuki tries her best not to notice their hungry maws, waiting for her to slip.

After a while, she hears footsteps coming down the hallway, ones she doesn’t recognize as one of the nurses, and then the door to her room opening. Curled under the sheets, she tenses, anxiety welling up. Her pipe’s away, and she's too sore to fight, but, but...

“Mizuki?”

For a split second, the voice is unfamiliar, but then it clicks in place. “Date?” she whispers back, sitting up and frowning in his direction. “What are you doing here?”

Closing the door, he walks to her bedside and takes a place in a nearby chair. “What do you think, twerp?” Date says in this weird new voice. “Checking on you, of course.”

“The doctors let you do that?” Mizuki says, dubious.

“Nah, I snuck out.”

“And decided to creep around the pediatrics ward, like the old pervert you are,” Mizuki mumbles out. She kinda expects him to get offended, but Date simply sighs and shakes his head.

There isn’t much light in the room, only a splinter of cold shine coming from underneath the room, a few blinking indicators on the machines surrounding her. Mizuki has to squint to make out Date’s features; he’s wearing his old coat over the pyjamas, and his left eye is taped shut. He looks awful, gaunt and tired, but she doesn’t really have the energy to needle him about it. They sit in silence for a moment.

Finally, Date speaks out. “Mizuki, I need to apologize.”

That throws her off the loop. She tilts her head, confused.

“Did you steal my pudding again?” She offers it as a joke, attempting to bring some normalcy into this off-putting conversation, but Date doesn’t laugh.

“It’s… God.” He drags his hand over his face, letting out a shaky exhale. “No, it’s… about Saito.”

Her throat clenches. “Ah.”

“Your parents are — are gone because of him. Because of me. If it weren’t for what happened six years ago, you wouldn’t have gotten tangled up in all of my mess. I am… so sorry, Mizuki. I’m sorry.”

“Stop it.” She squeezes her eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling out. When she opens them, she can make out the regret on Date’s new face. God, this is all so weird. It doesn’t even feel real. “It’s not... . You couldn’t have known. I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t seem to buy it.

“Still. I’m worried about you, Mizuki. You’re just a kid and had to go through so much shit because—”

“I’m gonna be fine,” Mizuki repeats, more forcefully this time, wiping her nose on the back of her wrist. “Yeah, Mom and D-Daddy are dead, but, but…I gotta be a g-good...”

“Oh, Mizuki,” Date whispers, painfully soft. “You don’t have to be fine, you know. It’s — none of this is fine. Absolutely none.” The sound he makes is way too sad to be a laugh, and maybe that honesty is the final drop to overflow the cup.

She cries quietly, to avoid bringing any attention. When Date reaches out to her, Mizuki grips his hand, white-knuckled, and doesn’t let go for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps out, “I-I am s-so so-orry-”

“Me too, kiddo.” The strange voice is tight now, strained, as if Date was also about to cry. That makes even less sense. None of this does. “Me too.”

[a-non-ymouswriter]

Five Times Then One

Rewind Crossover Shot with Living In Circular

Living In Circular is an awesome DSMP looping fanfic that recently did a crossover with Rewind :D Yes I gave the author permission to use Rewind in their story and yes it is completely awesome. 

In honor of that awesome chapter, of course I had to write a shot for it involving Red (Aka, Looper Tommy) and Theo :)

It’s kind of a long one folks! 

TW: Language, Self-Loathing, Angst, Etc. Etc. 

it’s mostly hilarious, but the ending is very emotional.

Five Times Theo was Dragged Into Therapy + One Time He Wasn’t

First Time

You know, there was a lot of things that Theo hated now that he and Toby were in the present. His hate for those things varied and changed as time went by, but his latest subject to vehemently hate was himself.

And he wasn’t just being edgy, or anything like that but he really, definitely hated his alternate self.

His newest alternate self.

The damned Looper alternate self, or whatever they were. The ones who suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and just interfered with everything.

Which was kind of ironic given Theo and Toby had done just that months ago when they first arrived. But at least they weren’t as fucking chaotic as the new group- and it’d just been him and Toby that came, then Ghostbur who was there because of time-fuckery but at least it was just the three of them!

Now there was a whole group of displaced time traveling (looping) assholes that were really getting on Theo’s nerve. It’s easier to get on his nerves now that his mind was so... quiet. 

But Red? Aka his dickhead alternate looper self? Oh, he was the worst of them all. 

“The fuck do you want now? What? Not enough that you gave me one hell of a black eye and locked me up with Toby to talk about feelings and all that crap? We’ve... done that already. Thank you.” There was little gratitude in his tone, more tired vitriol and annoyance. Theo makes a face at the memories of being locked in a room with Toby the room was too small the room was too small fuck fuck to talk (actually talk this time) about everything because their initial ‘talk’ was interrupted. 

It ended with less bruises than the last but Toby had an insufferable smile on his face now. 

Red had his arms crossed and he gave Theo a look, “Puf-White offered therapy, she’s pretty good at it y’know. Thousands of years of experience and all that.” 

Theo narrowed his eyes, “I’ve heard.” He replied dryly, “But no thanks. I’m good. She’s not gonna force me to take her offer.”

“Oh yeah, she won’t.” The smile on Red’s face was practically malicious and Theo immediately turned around and started running.

“But I will.”

Fuck.

Second Time

“I stand corrected last time, I absolutely fucking despise you.” Theo hissed at the physically teenage boy but mentally ancient mother fucker that had him hogtied and was currently carrying him in a princess-carry. Purposefully trying to humiliate him every step of the way. 

It’s not the carry that he’s hating, he could’ve been fine with that. It’s the fact that he’s covered in pink. Hot glittery pink. He was covered in hot pink glitter that would take ages to wash off. If ever, the little bastard might make him be glitter pink forever. 

Red snickered, “Oh calm your tits man, it’s not gonna stay forever- sure it’ll stain for a while and you’ll find glitter everywhere for a while but not forever... Wilbur and the others forbade me to make it last forever. Shame but this is all your fault y’know, you could’ve just gone to Puffy’s next session on time but nope, you tried to skip out.” He gives him an infuriating smirk, “Can’t have that now can we?”

Theo really hated him. He did. 

Third Time

“H-How exactly is he doing that?” Someone among the group asked, watching Red tug on... nothing but thin air. He was clearly just miming on pulling on something, a rope which was presumably tied around Theo who was struggling against it- but there was no rope. A few people checked, nothing there.

Silver, Looper Tubbo, chuckled, “He’s had an interesting variety of loops- this isn’t his strangest ability in his arsenal. He did say he was getting rusty on his miming tricks.” Red let out a silent cackle as he hauled a very loudly swearing Theo on a horse that didn’t exist and rode off towards White (Looper Puffy)’s Therapy Office.

“I’m frankly quite terrified but ultimately glad it’s not me in his place.” Toby admitted, watching him go- his own session wasn’t set for today, and unlike Theo, he actually went on his own so he was safe. 

Fourth Time

“I hate you, I fucking hate you so damn much.”

Red patted Theo’s cheek, “The feeling’s mutual bub. Feeling’s mutual.”

Fifth Time

“Tommy, I’m not really sure if you should keep forcing him in here.” Puffy admitted to him after the session. Theo had immediately left without another word. “Just because I said I wouldn’t force him to take my offer doesn’t really mean you should.”

Tommy rose a brow at her, “I thought you said you were making progress with him.”

The sheep hybrid sighed, “Minimal progress. He’s actually talked-”

“Then I don’t see the problem-”

“Let me finish Tommy. He HAS started talking, but not much. He asked for water or for maybe one of Niki’s cookies (which not really surprising, my wife’s cookies are amazing) but other than that? Nothing.”

The blond looper scowled, “So what, you want me to stop? To just let the guy continue to be a traumatized bastard? Just leave him be?”

“Not really- look, all I’m saying is that Theo is already... distant, to say the least, with us all. Forcing someone into therapy can both be helpful and not, sure he does need therapy and we’re trying that. I’m trying that, but you constantly forcing him isn’t helping him. And I don’t think your methods to get him here are helping that too.” Puffy pointed out dryly, remembering the angry silence as Theo wrung out his red hoodie, completely soaked from head to toe.

She laid a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, “I know that you’re trying to help but you’re also angry with him Tommy. Which isn’t helping him, nor you.” She sighed, and gave him a pleading look. “At least stop humiliating him on the way here? He might get more comfortable around me if he isn’t so preoccupied by whatever you did and stewing in silence because of it.” 

Tommy didn’t look too pleased but begrudgingly nodded his head.

Not This Time

It feels like his head was going to explode.

Overloaded with thoughts that should’ve been held back the static kept him in check his head swirling with every thought being merciless to his focus and keeping distracted to the point of helplessness the static kept him focused his head was empty and yet so full.

Ever since that looping Callahan subdued the static and kept his enchantment from hurting him too much, his head...

Has never been calmer.

Paradoxically, it’s never been more chaotic.

Every thought he’s ever thought, everything he’s kept buried with the static floats into the front of his brain and he has no idea how to deal with it. 

Years worth of guilty thoughts, regrets and more keep appearing in his head. Not only that but everything seems so much louder than before. But muted too. 

It’s a confusing contradiction that has him reeling and he doesn’t know how much more he can take it. Every time he goes out, he feels like he’s being assaulted by just existing even though he’s doing nothing wrong he did everything wrong he fucked up so badly he deserves this punishment just standing there and his head threatens to crack open.

He can usually ignore it, carry on with his day what does he do now he was being useless what is wrong with him but lately it’s been getting harder and harder to ignore it all.

The static isn’t there to keep him grounded, he feels like he’ll end up flying off the ground. It isn’t there to keep him afloat, he’s going to end up sinking into the deep.

He should have said no, when Callahan subdued the static he needed it e-even if Dream said so he NEEDED it it’s so muted in his head and he has no idea what to do with the free space.

Theo has to let go of the static.

But he doesn’t want to.

Even with it muted, the absence and the less intense reaction of the static is throwing him off. 

He feels more tired than ever and on the verge of collapse.

Theo just wants everything to stop.

“You’re late to Puffy’s therapy session.”

“...”

Theo clutched his thighs, pressing them closer to his chest as he curled up even tighter against the tree trunk. He didn’t say anything to the blond god that stood not too far from him. 

He felt ridiculous. Here he was, curled up, hugging his fucking legs like a fucking child- as if it’d do anything to stop the more powerful better version of himself. Hell, he might as well be a child. He probably was compared to Red.

It’s almost funny.

Despite looking like an adult, Theo was a child, still a scared teenage fucking boy exiled from home. While before him stood an ancient old man, looking like a familiar teenage boy that Theo can only see in L’Manberg now. Two of them actually, but only one of them was Tommy Innit, a smiling teenager his own age.

Theo’s too tired to resist much this time.

The air was too much, or maybe it wasn’t enough because his lungs ached in his chest and it hurt to breathe. There was something in his eyes because they were wet and irritated. He was cold, even with his hoodie on, he was cold because he was shaking.

Everything was too loud. The wind, the cows, the rustling plants.

Everything was too quiet. The static, his voice, his own hearing.

He felt like he was going insane.

“...”

“...”

Theo doesn’t dare move from his spot, even as he hears the incoming footsteps. Dread and anticipation pool in his guts- there’s not enough room. He might heave and puke when he gets to Puf- to White’s office. He’ll clean it up maybe. 

Just what will happen now?

...

Nothing.

Theo doesn’t look up to see what’s going on, hearing and feeling someone sit a few spaces beside him on the ground. Red is suspiciously silent and it’s not helping the nausea that’s building in his throat. 

One minute passes.

Two.

Six.

Fourteen.

Twenty.

Fourty-five minutes.

“I just...” His tongue is heavy and bloated, soft but raspy and he’s struggling to speak, “want everything to stop.” 

“...” Red doesn’t reply. 

“I’m so tired.”

Silence.

“Please.”

“It’s not going to stop.” Red replies softly, for once, the hatred is not there as he sees the child underneath the mask. “And you’re always going to feel tired- but it’ll get better.”

“It does?” The child asks the old man.

The old man does not smile, “I swear, it does. It just takes time and effort.” He promises the young boy.

Theo is not fragile. Tommy isn’t. 

But everyone has their moments.

They stay there for the whole day.

[harryhandstan]

wonderful and warm

gif credit

I’m so excited to share this piece with y’all for @tbslenthusiast​‘s dad-a-thon!! I’ve been debating whether or not to expand more on I Want Your Belly for a while now, so I’m considering this part two to that, though you don’t really have to read it first to understand this one. Hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

thank you @peachybloomss​ and @tbslenthusiast​ for beta reading for me! love y’all both!!

word count: 2.6k

//

You had been adamant about not telling anybody for at least the first two months. 

Your mom’s complications with each of her pregnancies prompted a fear in you that you might share in that gene she carried, so you just wanted to be sure. Make it to your first ultrasound at least to confirm the baby was happy and healthy. Harry, of course, had agreed to whatever it was you felt was best. He wanted you to be comfortable and truth is, all the complications or things that could go wrong, terrified him too.

But the second you put this man in front of a crowd, all his previous filters go out the window and it was slipping from his lips easily, telling the world that you were having his baby. You were angry at first, spending half of the show trying to calm your shaky hands. Honestly, most of it was just nervous energy at the idea of so many people knowing. It was out, and you had no control over the reactions of the millions of people that shared in loving your Harry. He was quick to remind you that you were the one he loved, no one else’s opinion mattered to him and it shouldn’t to you either.

Making such a public announcement meant the news reached your families ears a lot faster than you’d planned too, and you just didn’t want any of them to be hurt that they weren’t told first.

Anne is the first one to contact Harry from his side, promptly inviting you to dinner the following weekend with a small group of Harry’s family. But the closer you get to the day, the more anxious you are and he once again reminds you how much his family adores you already, would now love you even more.

“Even more than they love me now, probably,” He chuckles, taking your hand on the drive to his mother’s house, “Gonna be just like any Sunday dinner at Mum’s, innit? We just have something a little extra special t’celebrate now, lovie.”

Gemma answers the door to let the two of you in and she tugs you in for a hug, pulling you into the house without so much as a glance to her younger brother.

“Nice to see you too, Gem.” He follows the two of you inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Ignore him..someone’s just jealous they won’t be Mum’s favorite anymore.” She giggles, rolling her eyes as she leads you into the kitchen where Anne mimics her daughter’s greeting, scolding Harry playfully that he spoiled the surprise so soon.

By the end of the night, the two of them are already making predictions about what the baby will be, giving family name suggestions, and planning a baby shower for you. 

//

Calling your family was a whole new level of anxiety you hadn’t experienced yet on this journey, and you paced back and forth in front of the desk where your iPad was already set up to FaceTime them. Harry sits on the foot of the bed, waiting for your nerves to settle enough to contact them.

“D’you want me to join you?” He doesn’t look at you, just continues to fiddle with one of the buttons on his shirt.

Your head pops up to where he sits, “Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, “S’just..sometimes I think you might still be a bit mad at me. For letting it slip earlier than we wanted. Thought you might wanna talk to them alone first..in case they’re upset with me too.”

“I was never really mad. And I don’t think they’ll be upset..just may take them a little longer to accept that I didn’t tell them before you told everyone. They may not have even seen it yet.”

That was a lie. Your sister had texted you last night saying that she was thrilled to soon have a niece or nephew, but your mom had cried for a two whole days after they saw a clip from the show and your dad refused to even talk about it. Your brother was normally so far out of the loop that you truly didn’t know if he had heard the news, so you make a mental note to call him later too. 

You wouldn’t tell Harry any of that though, not now anyway. Maybe later, when everything didn’t feel so tense. You knew your family wouldn’t be upset forever, they loved Harry almost as much as you did. The joy of having a new baby added to the family would soon override any hurt they were feeling now.

“Harry, whatever they say..this is still happening. I’m still having your baby. I can’t even begin to tell you how happy that makes me.”

The smile he gives you makes your heart flutter, drawing you closer to sit next to him.

“Say that again.”

“What? How happy I am..”

“No, the part before that.”

A giggle works its way up through your chest, a deep blush flushing your cheeks, “I’m having your baby,” You can’t resist, the tune now stuck in your head, changing the lyric slightly to fit, “It’s none of their business.”

“What? S’your family, of course it’s their..oh, right.” He shares in your laughter, melting away any tension that had settled in the room, restoring your confidence that everything would be alright.

//

As many changes as your body had gone through during pregnancy, one thing that hadn’t changed was Harry’s love for your belly. His obsession had grown with each month, constantly finding reasons to be close to you throughout your days spent together. Usually it was a hand nudged gently against the side of your bump, trying to coax the baby to kick or move for him.

Your child already adored the sound of their dad’s voice, would normally start to wiggle around the second Harry would start talking or singing anywhere around you. The first time it happened, the two of you were attending a birthday party for a friend and Harry was halfway across the room, animatedly telling a story to a group of your mutual friends. It was one of the many reasons you had fallen for him so quickly, his ability to have a room full of people so captivated by a tale you were sure they had heard at least 5 times before. 

But he doesn’t seem to care about anyone else’s reactions, his eyes continuously flicking back to gauge your feedback, knowing which parts make you laugh the hardest no matter how many times you’d listened to him tell it. When your mouth falls open with a soft gasp and a hand clutching the side of your belly, he hurries through the ending to weave his way back through the party to you.

“You okay, love? Somethin’ wrong?” The tears falling on your dress don’t match the glowing smile radiating across your face and he’s turning his head amusingly from where he hovers over you.

“Everything’s great, H. Think someone just loves the sound of daddy’s voice.” You take the drink he still holds in his hand and set it on the table in front of you, turning your body to face him and tugging his wrist down to where you had felt the kick moments before, “Say something else now that you’re closer. See if she moves for you.”

“She? You find out somethin’ you wanna tell me, darlin’?”

“No, just a feeling. Haven’t you thought about which you would rather us have?”

He shakes his head no, his eyes bright with a pride you’ve never seen burn so intensely, “As long as you and they end up happy and healthy in the end, s’all that matters to me.”

He scoots his body to sit on the bench next to you, bending his head to speak softly, “Hello, little one. S’daddy. Mummy’s here too. Wanna move around a bit more f’us?”

He rests his head there for a moment, a hand rubbing along the side of your stomach, not caring who at the party may see the two of you or how silly he may look. He looks like a child who’s just been granted his one and only wish when your baby responds, a foot landing against where his cheek is pressed.

“There you are, baby. You kickin’ at me? Cheeky little thing y’are already..just like mummy, huh?” He turns to kiss the spot where the foot had been, ”We’re g’nna have so much fun when you get here, angel.”

//

Harry watches your feet a lot more closely these days.

You didn't notice it at first. But today as you're coming down the stairs, you catch his eyes watching carefully as he waits for you. One of your hands cradles your bump that seems to be growing daily now, while the other glides along the railing to keep yourself steady.

"Am I wearing mismatched shoes or something?" You lean forward in an attempt to look at your feet over your belly, nearly toppling down the last few stairs. The look on Harry's face would have been comical if it wasn't laced with so much fear as he lunged forward to meet you and help you the rest of the way down.

"Careful!" Even with you settled safely now against his side, his voice is full of worry, "Nothing's wrong with your shoes, honey. Just wanted to make sure you made it down safely, know how clumsy y'are."

"You worry too much, Harry. I would've made it down fine if you hadn't been staring at my feet."

"My girl's carrying my baby..m’allowed to worry about you both. Y'sure I can't convince you to stay home and let me do the grocery shopping this week?"

"No, I wanna go. Last time you forgot the bagels."

"Are you ever gonna forgive me for that?" You're glad to see the fear has fallen away from his face as you both reach the bottom of the stairs together.

"Maybe." You shrug, "Might take a few more kisses though."

"Deal." One of his hands comes to rest warmly on the underside of your belly, the other one still supporting the small of your back as he bends down to place kisses across your face.

A kick from within your stomach has both of you giggling and looking down to where it's pressed between the two of you.

"Are you mad at daddy too, hmm? Already two against one around here, I see. Alright then, baby gets kisses too."

//

“Harry will you please get up? We only have an hour to get ready and make it to the appointment. I don’t wanna be late!”

He rolls over, intending to pull you closer to him for a morning kiss, an important part of his usual routine. He frowns when he finds you’re already out of bed, digging through drawers of your dresser to find what you need to get ready for the day.

You haven’t noticed he’s awake yet so you keep encouraging him, “C’mon, made you breakfast. It’s an important day!”

“You’re not allowed to do that, y’know.”

“Do what?” You’re only half paying attention, tugging a dress over your head and scowling at your reflection in the full length mirror when it doesn’t fit over your belly. You quickly pull it back off and toss it in the pile you’ve already tried (and failed) to stretch over your growing bump.

“Daddy’s s’posed to make breakfast for mummy while she sleeps in, not the other way ‘round.”

“Well, mommy was too nervous to sleep in so she’s up getting ready, as daddy should be!” You tug one of your maternity shirts from a hanger in your closet and throw it over your head, declaring to yourself that it’ll just have to do. Thankfully it pairs well with the black leggings you’ve already struggled through pulling on. You plop on the edge of the bed, a deep sigh falling from your lips as you look around at the mess you’ve made of your shared bedroom.

“Mummy needs to relax. She looks beautiful in whatever she wears, no matter what day it is.” He rubs a hand along your back, up to soothe over the pinch between your shoulder blades.

“Nothing fits anymore, swear this belly gets bigger by the day. If I find out today you put a set of twins in me, Styles, you are gonna be in so much trouble.” 

He throws his head back, a deep rumbling laugh erupting from his chest, “Aww c’mon, lovie. Twins would be so fun! Think we’d get lucky and have one of each? A boy and a girl?” He kisses your shoulder.

He’s pulling you in to rest against his chest now, the fabric of his well worn t-shirt cool and soft on your cheek. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing a kiss firmly to the top of your head.

“Just lay with me a minute, hmm? Did you get any sleep last night? Felt you tossing and turning for half of it.”

“Maybe a couple of hours. I was too nervous.”

“You should’ve woken me. Hate the idea of you being awake and nervous alone, honey.” One hand trails up to cup your chin, a thumb smoothing over the tension set in your jaw.

“I honestly don’t know how you got any sleep. I wasn’t alone though, I think I kept the baby up half the night too.” You shift to face him, resting your chin on his chest, seeking the comfort of his face, “Are you okay? You’re not nervous at all?” 

“M’fine. What’s to be nervous about? We get to see our baby today, find out what it is. I couldn’t be happier about that.” He brushes a strand of hair softly away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“Maybe it’s more excitement than nerves. I just felt..restless. Maybe it’s silly, but I just wanted to look nice today too and none of my good clothes fit me anymore.”

“You’ve always been beautiful to me, baby. But now? I’ve never seen anyone look as gorgeous as you look now. S’important to me that you know and believe that as much as I do. I’ll remind you everyday if y’need me to.”

“You really mean that, Harry?”

“‘Course I do. I know this has been new and scary for both of us, and I’m so proud of you. You’ve fallen into this with such ease and grace, already started gettin’ our home ready for our little one. I can’t wait to see you with them when they’re born.”

“You’re gonna be the most amazing dad. Teaching our child kindness and love, reminding them it’s okay to be whatever they choose to be. It’s important to me that you know how much I adore you and seeing you become the dad you were meant to be? It’s gonna be incredible. I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.”

“Me either. Think I’d be miserable if it were anyone else.” 

“Nah you’d get used to them eventually. Especially if they were having your baby.”

He laughs again, pulling you closer to smush his lips against your temple. 

“Alright, up we get,” He scoots away to push himself up and off the bed, offering you his hands to help pull yourself up, “Let’s go see if our little bub got blessed with your nose or cursed with mine.”

//

You’re over the moon every time you see Harry’s beaming smile when he passes the black and white sonogram photo now proudly displayed on the refrigerator; your son’s nose a perfect mixture of yours and Harry’s.

[autodiscothings]

Hello! I am quite new to your page and I love how you draw Kolyat. ♥️ Also, would you care to share some details about your characters?

I’d love to, thanks for asking! Funnily enough, I did a personality quiz for them recently, so I can just copy/paste the results here. Most of my content for Mass Effect is centred around Kolyat Krios and Oriana Lawson: 

I write them here: [AO3] I draw them here: [ART TAG]

Everything I do with them is post-war, and them as adults in their 20s navigating the shit heap that is a broken, post-destroy galaxy, and how they cope with their own traumas. They both want to help rebuild, but do it different ways.

KOLYAT KRIOS

Kolyat Krios has a lot to live up to and change, but prefers to do it on his terms.

Kolyat is a methodical man, and gentle and patient with the people who need it most. He possesses an unexpected depth of emotional intelligence, and becomes a protector of the small and the strays, from a galaxy that often forgets about them.

While Kolyat can be even-keeled, if he is left to stew in his feelings, his anger will get the better of him, and he will react. He has a reputation for salt, and for his surliness; he also has a tendency to hide himself from others as a defence mechanism, and is slow to trust.

ORIANA ‘ORI’ LEE

You might know her as Oriana Lawson, but she’ll introduce herself as Ori Lee.

Ori is a warm, compassionate soul who loves to be around other people and enjoys her work as a colony developer/civil engineer for Kellam Industries. She is quick-witted and smart, and funny with it; her taste in fashion and makeup is impeccable, as is her comic timing.

She is very good at getting to know you, but you don’t get to know her. Ori keeps her cards to her chest, and only lets her guard down around people she trusts completely, and has a tendency to care too much about what others think about her.

FISH (the cat)

Queen of everything, ruler of them all- well, maybe just Kolyat’s apartment for now.

Fish is a foul-tempered gremlin of a tabby cat, with white socks and a white belly. Her iron paw rules the roost of her home; she graciously lets others share it. Fish loves her food, her nap spots, and her soft piles of things to sleep on. She likes listening to music, and watching the traffic outside of her window.

She is a former stray with both PTSD and trust issues, and for this reason she lashes out without thinking, and needs her own space. When she trusts though, she really trusts. It will take her forever to do it, but once you win her heart, she’ll love you forever.

BATESEDA ‘Bats’ T’LORI

The man, the myth, and the almost legend- at least, in his mind.

Bats was always told he had potential, and rather than stay with the Huntress squad who trained him, Bats left for the Citadel. He is a firecracker of a man who makes everything he does seem fun, always ready to crack something- a joke, his glass, a skull. Pour another one out, he has stories to tell, and they’re mostly true- if he remembers them right.

He has a tendency to go through frequent bed partners, and never keeps anyone around for long. Despite the crooked smile and easy living, there is an air of melancholy around Bats he is reluctant to explain, but something shows through the cracks every now and then. He will take things too far -the jokes, his drinking, his anger- and fall down the holes he put himself in. One day he will struggle to get back out of it.

ARJUN PATEL

A man who borders the line between squad dad and gross uncle, Patel is a treasure for any crew to have.

Patel is content to stay in the background, and is more savvy than he lets on, willing to play the bumbling, easy-going fool if it’ll get him what he wants. He is essentially Columbo with a cooking habit, but is willing to share his snacks- if he likes you, and that doesn’t take much. He is a man with quiet passions, and they shine brightly when he gets talking; his food, his wife and daughter, his interest in history… ask him about them, and his enthusiasm will be boundless- much like his appetite.

He has a tendency to be lazy, if he can get away with it. Patel can also overspill the TMI details of his life even if you’ve heard them before, without a clue he’s crossed a line.

SISO VITACUS

Like most of the squad, Vitacus came to the Citadel for a new life, and another shot of something. He recently split from his bootcamp boyfriend, and is really not looking for anything serious- at least, not at the moment. Vitacus is neither as funny as Bats, as serious as Kolyat or as happy as Patel, but he fits right in as the jack of all trades of the squad, content to play everyone’s middle man and all rounder.

He has a reputation for awful, neon suits, a love of dancing and shitty action movies, as well as a fondness for lurid drinks, despite looking like the kind of man who likes none of these things from first glance. Vitacus is a tall, stocky bruiser of a man, even for a turian.

Vitacus can also be a pushover and too laidback for his own good, and can drift along with the crowd than go against it. He’s unsure why he’s like this, but as far as he’s concerned, ending up in law enforcement is already an oddity- all his family are engineers and scientists.

BRATHAN ‘Brath’ SEKET

If ever there was a man you were unsure of -even after knowing him for years- it’s Brath. The usual rags to riches story, heavy on the rags; Brath fled the grasp of his abusive family as soon as he was able to, taking on jobs across the Terminus until he built up enough of a reputation as a gun for hire.

He got his money from less than savoury sources to begin with, but absolutely no slavery. He has a personal honor code he will hold the rest of the galaxy to, even if you don’t know the rules. Brath might give off the appearance of loving luxuries and living well, but to him it’s just greasepaint and stage costumes; he’s learning that on the Citadel, a Terminus boy like him will never fit in, anyway- the four eyes see to that.

He will hold a grudge for decades, and it will smoulder, too. Brath can be incredibly petty and keep receipts, and if things don’t go his way, he will make them- for better or for worse.

LAETITIA PHALIA

A woman with a firm grip of the ins and outs of both her work and her neighbourhood, Phalia is the person to know when you need something, and if you don’t she’ll soon tell you, anyway.

She looks strict, but only when she needs to be. Phalia is just busy! There’s always some charity, pot luck, clawball practise, afterschool homework club, Galactic Scout cookie drive, donation pickup and volunteer work activity happening in her life. Phalia is always doing something, despite a full-time job and being a single parent. She gives and gives, because that’s what she expects people to do, the kind of person who will give you her coat and freeze.

There is only so much of herself she can give away. Phalia has had the very worst happen to her in her life, and she survives by constantly moving, not looking back. She just needs to remind herself from time to time she deserves to be taken care of too, and can rest every now and then. Sometimes Phalia also has a tendency to hold people to the same standards she has, but is getting better at learning the difference.

DEREK

It's Derek, innit? Just Derek. Not his real name of course, but he thought it sounded fancy. He has a full salarian name, but his clan mostly ignore his existence - except when they want money.

The eponymous Derek has a fairly sweet soul, but it’s one slowly corrupting under a mantle of the music industry and celebrity. He has an addict’s personality, and bounces from fixation from fixation- but music will always remain a constant. He is good at what he does too; his production skills are perceptively complicated, and he is an absolute master at looping and finding rich, interesting samples; there is a reason he is in demand both as a DJ and as a producer.

Derek doesn’t have the best social skills, despite befriending people easily. He’ll pick them up and drop them, and will often self-medicate his mistakes. His ego can get him into trouble too, but finding real friends -and not hangers on- will help him realise he’s not the centre of the universe.

***

(The quiz is [HERE] f you want to see which one you got.)