#and don't get me started on the state of my apartment

[earthrealsvn]

taking care of you when you're drunk

in which the Haikyuu!! pretty setter squad take care of you during/after a night of drinking.

category: post time-skip!!! (except Suga bc that’s a college!au), fluff, crack

warning(s): mentions/use of alcohol, vomiting in Akaashi’s, perhaps Suga’s and Kageyama’s could be seen as suggestive at parts but i promise they’re not meant to be

w.c: 3.5k all together

a/n: hello! i haven't posted in forever but don't perceive that. most of these are based off of things i’ve said and/or done, except i didn’t have a partner to care for me during or afterwards. as stated above, this is post time skip, aside from Suga’s which is a college!au, so all the boys are a legal age to drink. anyways, enjoy the boys taking care of a drunk reader!

—

Sugawara Koshi

you laugh as you nearly tip over on your way to the bathroom, the sound of your friends cheering behind you ringing in your ears. you had all just started your last year of college and decided that it was worth celebrating. so, you offered up your apartment for the night, fully intent on having a good time before stress came to kick your ass.

another laugh bubbles in your throat as you misstep, landing on what was thankfully your bed. though now, your predicament is how you were to get back up. you give it two attempts and whine when you’re unsuccessful. it shouldn’t be that hard to stand, you do it all the time! planting your feet on the floor, another try is made, but you’re still incapable. tears spring into your eyes despite the fading rational part of you knowing it’s really not something to cry over. the drunken majority of you, though, is ready to throw a full-on fit.

but before you can even make a sound, someone’s taking your hands in theirs and gently pulling you to your feet. a stupid grin makes its way onto your face when you realize it’s your boyfriend, Sugawara Koshi.

“Ko!” you squeal, throwing your arms around his torso and squeezing. his laugh is as gentle as his return of the hug, but the teasing undertone is obvious. “didn’t think you’d show.” the words are muffled due to your cheek being squished into his chest.

“i got off early enough, so i figured i’d come see what my baby is up to.” his lips press themselves to the crown of your head to lay a brief kiss before he’s pulling away. “why were you on your bed instead of having fun, hm?”

you gasp when your original quest is remembered. “had to pee.” you begin a definitely not straight line towards your bathroom, laughing. you nearly slammed your hip into your nightstand along the way, but Suga’s hands placed themselves on your waist, guiding you the rest of the way to your destination.

there’s a brief fumble for the lightswitch until your bathroom light turns on, Suga having pressed it before you. he closes the door to give some privacy whilst you take care of your business, and you appreciate it until you come across a hurdle.

“hey Ko?” he hums from the other side of the door. “i can’t unbutton my pants.”

he can’t stop his laugh, and it only increases at your impatient whine. he steps through the doorway and tugs you closer, deft fingers unbuttoning your pants for you. he steps out again afterwards, letting you relieve your bladder in peace.

“can you button them by yourself?” he asks once the sound of the sink goes off and you groan at his teasing. he gets his answer once you open the door, pants already taken care of. “good job, sweetheart.” he coos, cupping your face and squishing your cheeks.

“shut,” you don’t even finish the rest of your sentence as you pull away and toddle back to the living room. he follows behind, hands hovering above your hips just in case drunk you decides to take another tumble.

“hey, Y/N, we’re taking shots!” your friend shouts from the kitchen and you squeak in delight. the silver-haired male walks into the kitchen with you to find your friends gathered at the counter with the shot glasses in front of them. “you want your favorite?” you nod in response, leaning against Suga in order to have some support.

as the shots are being poured, a noise of realization leaves you. “oh, Ko, you should take some too!” your head tilts back to look at your boyfriend, a drunken grin on your face.

“alright, but not too many.” he agrees, pecking your forehead.

“lame,” you laugh and an endearing smile plays on his lips as he stares down at you.

“well, someone has to make sure you don’t die,” a hand comes up to pinch your cheek and you shriek, trying to pull it off. you’re unsuccessful, obviously; you don’t have much strength when drunk and Suga still has all of his slight muscles from high school volleyball and working out regularly.

you still accept the shot glass he gives you, though, and a friend gives a half-assed toast and a countdown before everyone knocks their shots back, the familiar tingle of alcohol sliding down your throat. you also don’t protest the water Suga raises to your lips afterwards either, taking a few sips to help neutralize the taste.

it’s midnight but Suga knows the party’s just begun.

—

Oikawa Tooru

“i’m on the floor,” you mutter out once more, head falling against the wood of the island. “‘m drunk ‘n on the floor.”

“yes, you are drunk and on the floor, sweetie.” the familiar hands of Oikawa Tooru, your boyfriend, settle in your hair and massage at your scalp. a happy hum leaves your throat and you raise your heavy head to smile at what you think is his direction.

“‘s’all blurry,” drunken laughter laces your words and Oikawa can only shake his head endearingly. “wanna nap.”

he barely manages to catch you as you topple over sideways, body desperately trying to meet the ground. the rest of your friends laugh at your antics and Iwaizumi gives Oikawa a shit-eating grin. everyone knows you’ve drank too much too fast, but your week leading up to the New Year’s party had been stressful and you wanted to forget. so now, here you were, collapsed in your boyfriends’ arms, too intoxicated to do much.

“do you wanna move to the couch, sweetie?” your boyfriend asks, hand rubbing your side. he has to lean in to catch your mumbled response, but he’s able to detect the agreement. “okay, i’m gonna lift you now, alright?”

“uh-huh.”

he lifts you up into a princess carry and makes his way to the couch. as soon as your back meets the cushions and Oikawa’s arms move, you snuggle yourself onto your side, barely able to remember that laying on your back drunk could kill you if you start puking. your boyfriend settles himself onto the floor in front of you and pulls out his phone. he starts to scroll through social media but is quickly distracted by the incessant poking at his shoulder your fingers are doing.

“can i help you?” he raises a brow as he turns to face you, holding back a coo at the sight of your squished face.

“wanna watch—” the rest of your sentence is mumbled but Oikawa figures you’re wanting to watch your favorite show. he decides it’s better to entertain you than have a drunken partner complaining at him for however long. so he obliges, switching to the streaming service and holding the phone where you can see it comfortably.

a delighted laugh slips out of your mouth and the hand that was poking him falls limp onto his arm, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweater.

as you watch the show, he watches you, internally hoping you don’t throw up on him you’re sober enough for a New Year’s kiss.

—

Kenma Kozume

your panicked yells cause Kenma’s eyes to leave his game and travel up to you, the spike of concern diminishing as soon as he realized why you were making said noises. in your current round of Just Dance, you’re barely able to keep up with the moves showing on the screen, body tilting dangerously to the right. the friend that’s joining you is doing better in terms of score, but they’re practically in your space, nearly punching you every time they move their arm.

the cat-like boy shakes his head with a sigh and returns to his game, determined to finally beat the boss that’s been killing him all month. he’s so focused on the battle that he doesn’t realize your round is done until someone drapes their body over his, distracting him enough to lose. eye twitching, he turns to yell at them only to see a large, stupid grin on your face.

“Kyanma, come dance with me!” you exclaim through hiccups.

“i don’t want to. i’m trying to beat this—” he starts to turn back to his handheld but stops at the sound of your voice.

“you— don’t you love me?” tears spring to your eyes and Kenma whips his head back around to look at you again. “i love you Kenma, i want you to dance with me!” you’re wailing now and Kenma panics, setting his handheld down so he can pat your head. it doesn’t quite work, however, and the sound of your cries are drawing attention.

“Y/N,” Kenma sighs and takes your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “i’ll dance with you after this boss, okay puddin’?”

sniffling, you quiet down before hiccuping again, “promise?”

“promise,” he agrees, pulling your face closer in order to press a kiss to your forehead. “just give me a few minutes.”

he lifts his handheld back up and returns to his last save before the boss, once again determined to win. from beside him, you wipe your nose on your sleeve (something you can only stand to do when you’re drunk, he’s noticed) and fit yourself into his side to watch. just before entering the battle zone, Kenma glances around to see if anyone’s watching before tucking you under his arms and into his chest, ignoring your giggle of delight.

as the battle goes on, he lets you babble drunken advice, laughing quietly if he finds it funny. you cheer when he lands hits and gasp when his character takes damage, hands clinging to his sleeves in excitement. although he’s ultimately focused more on the game, he still gives you fleeting kisses on your head.

when he finally wins, you applaud him before bouncing up, tugging on his arm to get him to stand. he makes sure he saves before turning the device off and stands up to follow you to the center of the living room. you hand him a controller with a beam while your friend bounces up to join. just before you select the song, Kenma silently sighs to himself.

he hates doing too much physical activity, especially things he doesn’t enjoy doing, but he loves you too much to say no.

—

Tobio Kageyama

a sigh and a “oi, stop squirming!” echoes in your ears as Kageyama tries to help you change. he’s been trying to get you into pajamas for the past three minutes, but you’re making it difficult by moving every time he reaches out to remove your clothes.

“but Tobio, it tickles!” a whine is laced into your words, feet kicking lightly.

“grin and bear it then, idiot. you can’t wear this to bed.”

“watch me you a—” you don’t get to finish your sentence as Kageyama lightly pins you down, forcing your clothes off you and tugging on your pajamas right after. “Tobio!”

he grunts in response, tossing your clothes into the laundry basket. you continue to pout and whine as he lifts you off the bed so he can carry you to the bathroom, setting you on the counter. he prepares your toothbrush and turns back to you, offering a ‘open’ as he holds it to your lips. although a part of you wants to refuse, you’re starting to get sleepy, so you oblige, letting him gently brush your teeth, spitting out the toothpaste when told.

you fall in and out of sleep as he goes through your night routine, and the next time you fully come to, he’s lifting you again to bring you to bed. you hum contentedly, grinning at him when he places you back onto your bed. he returns it with a rare smile that he reserves for you and gets under the covers on his side. he lets you find a position that won’t be uncomfortable for your drunk self before he lays with you. it’s quiet for a while, the two of you taking in the comfortable silence until you speak up.

“i’m gonna be so fucking hungover tomorrow.”

beside you, Kageyama snorts, “yeah, you had way too much,” his hand pats your head, “but i’ll take care of you, i suppose. make you some eggs or avocado toast or something.”

“you can barely cook. you burnt water.”

“that was one damn time!” he snapped, giving you a squeeze, “you distracted me!”

“whatever. jus’ don’t mess up my breakfast,”

“i won’t, dumbass. i love you,” you feel his lips on the top of your head and you finally succumb to sleep.

—

Akaashi Keiji

you dart up from your comfortable position on the couch, hand clamping over your mouth. everything is still blurry and your head is pounding, but the need to throw up is fast approaching in your throat.

“Keiji! Keiji i need—” you pause to breathe, hearing rushed footsteps as your boyfriend pops into view from the kitchen.

“darling? what’s wrong?”

“bucket,” you mutter, hand returning to your mouth. thankfully, Akaashi is a quick thinker, and he realizes what’s going on. turning back to the kitchen, he cringes when he realizes the only thing large enough is the freshly washed popcorn bowl. biting his lip, he tries to find something else, anything else, but your whine has him snatching the bowl and running to you.

he gets there in the nick of time, and you lean over the bowl as everything you’ve just ate and drank came out. he rubs your back in comfort but ultimately isn’t too surprised — you drank a lot without the ideal amount of food in your body.

“ew,” you lift your head and Akaashi moves the bowl to the ottoman in front of you in case it’s needed again. “Keiji, why does alcohol tase funny?”

“i don’t know, love,” he sits next to you as he replies, letting your body fall onto his lap. he knows it probably won’t do much, but he places his hand on your stomach and gives it little rubs, hoping it can at least supply comfort.

your friend rounds the corner and lets out a whistle upon seeing the bowl. you hiss and flip them off tiredly, trying to sleep it off.

“how long do you think they’ll be like this?” your friend asks.

“i’m hoping it’s just for two to three hours, any more and i’ll be concerned.”

“well… they really went for it so i’m just hoping they don’t die.”

a huff of agreement comes from Akaashi. before he can say anything else, you’re launching yourself back up and hunching over the bowl. your friend audibly cringes and returns to the party in the kitchen whilst Akaashi resumes rubbing your back. both of you know that this is the last thing either of you want to be doing at a birthday party, especially the one for a specific owl lookalike.

thinking back to how smashed Bokuto is, though, Akaashi doesn’t think he’ll mind if the two of you are missing for a few hours while you spill your guts into your popcorn bowl.

“i think… i think i want a… a new popcorn bowl Keiji,” you pant as you settle back onto his lap. he feels bad, but he can’t help the grin on his face at how small you look and act right now.

“yeah?”

“mhm. don’t wanna think of puke whenever i eat some.”

“understandable,” Akaashi leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. when he sits up fully again, he mentally prepares himself for the next few hours of your misery.

when you next sit up to vomit, Akaashi is there to rub your back. he’s thinking it might not be so bad until a shout from the kitchen has him groaning.

“hey hey HEY, Akaashi! i threw up, man!”

—

Atsumu Miya

you stared blankly at Atsumu as he doubled over laughing, slapping his thigh repeatedly. on the other hand, you had no idea what he found funny enough to cry over.

“why are you laughing? it’s true!” you give his side a gentle kick while carefully trying to avoid spilling your alcoholic beverage.

“yeah, but yer so honest ‘bout it, babe,” he chuckles and grins at you, “yer gonna make me choke or something.”

“good.” you grumble before chugging the rest of your drink. “but really, it’s not my fault they’ve been annoying me recently.” and before Atsumu can laugh again, you whip your head around to glare at your friend.

it takes Atsumu a moment to realize you’ve said the last part loudly, and your friend definitely overheard. they stare back at you, equally as drunk and aggravated, and the blonde panics. it’s true that you and the friend you’re staring down have been on rocky terms with each other the past week or so, but doing something while drunk is the last thing your boyfriend wants you to do. there’s no chance of a physical altercation (neither you nor your friend can move correctly enough for that), but it doesn’t mean words won’t be said.

“oh, c’mon babe, ya don’t mean that.” Atsumu’s laughter is now uneasy as he takes your shoulders in his grasp, trying to turn you away.

“i’m pretty sure i do mean it, Tsumu.” he winces as you swat his hands away.

“what? that i’m annoying? please,” your friend scoffs, “what about you? you’re the annoying one!”

almost immediately, a shouting match ensues. a desperate Atsumu is trying to stop you from drinking more as your friend berates you, and the rest of your friends are trying to calm the one down.

“i wouldn’t be surprised if Miya breaks up with you because you’re so damn needy!”

“HAH?” he sees it in your eyes, and before Atsumu can hold you down, you’re staggering towards your friend. everyone is launched into a full-blown panic as your friend stands up too.

it’s a good thing you’re both drunk, Atsumu decides, because it’s much easier to catch up with you and stop anything from happening. your friends are dragging the one out, thanking you both for a good time, and Atsumu’s arms are caging you against his chest, ignoring the weak punches to his arms you’re doing.

“babe! what were ya thinking?! ya can’t just start something when you’re drunk, it—” he stops when he realizes you’re now crying, gripping his arms as you struggle to stand. “h-hey… Y/N? baby, what’s wrong?” Atsumu sits the both of you down, pulling you into his lap so you can comfortably bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“you—you won’t actually break up with me, right? you don’t… don’t think i’m needy… do you?” his heart breaks. he knows this subject is a sore spot and as much as he tries to show you otherwise, it still plagues your mind from time to time.

“i don’t think you’re needy, Y/N. i check in on ya when i can because i want to, not because i think ya need me to. if they think you’re needy and annoying for wanting to talk to someone when it’ll help, they’re not a good friend.” you sniffle as his fingers rub at your temples. he presses kiss after kiss to the crown of your head, and soon enough, you’re calm.

and when you pull away from the embrace, the genuinely appreciative face you give him sets his heart aflame.

—

Semi Eita

your water bottle in hand, Semi entered the kitchen to refill your water when he noticed his phone light up in his peripherals. he makes sure he finishes his task of getting you more water before moving to where his phone is charging on the island. he hopes it’s not important — the party you’re throwing at your shared apartment is too loud for a phone call. he’s surprised, however, to see a text from you. you, who’s currently smashed and curled on the couch with your drink.

setting your water down, he pulls up his messaging app only to see something that tugs a soft smile onto his face.

my muse

eita where are u :( ily

the silver-haired male looks up and towards the couch where he can see you pouting at your phone. he watches you type and turns his attention back to his phone.

my muse

i can c ur reeding theis coward

ah yes, your drunk spelling. a laugh bubbles in Semi’s throat as he grabs your water bottle and makes his way back to the couch, sitting next to you.

“what’re you doing?” he asks teasingly, passing you your now refilled water.

“texting my boyfriend,” you say as you take the bottle, taking a few sips. “he’s reading the texts but he won’t respond.” he watches you type again.

my muse

eeeitaaaaaaa :(

a grin appears on his face as he finally replies to you.

Semi

yes, my muse?

he hears your squeal of delight from beside him and you perk up. it’s almost as if subconsciously you know he’s right next to you because you stretch your legs over his and settle against his shoulder. while you have no qualms with showing affection to your friends, you’ve never full-on cuddled up to them like this, and Semi can’t hold back his laugh.

his phone buzzes with more misspelled texts from you, and he makes sure to respond so you can keep looking all joyfully cute whenever he does.

[nicosraf]

It's my birthday! And Angels Before Man's second birthday from the original publishing! And almost three years since the original draft of it! Wow! Thank you all a million times for being here. Really, genuinely

I'd like for this extremely long post to be happier ! But a lot of people are really troubled by the United States election. There's a lot of fear-mongering online about what'll happen and a lot of real threats to marginalized people in the U.S. and abroad. I don't talk about my own identities a ton. I'm a gay, trans, Mexican from the US-Mex border. The vast majority of my family, community, and friends are immigrants of varying legal statuses. I could lose everything!! I fear for my family! My friends! For my body and my heart!

My mom called me yesterday morning, though, basically asking for an explanation. She told me she was shocked, she was scared, and I said that so was I, then we said, "Pos ni modo." Ni modo!! Oh well!!! What can we do now? We can keep doing what we've always done. Survive. That's all you really have to do at the end of the day, you know, survive.

My family is from a rough Mexican city that fell apart when I was little, a place where my own family has been kidnapped and bodies have been left mutilated in the street for everyone to see. The radio spoke in code to let you know not to go outside when things got really bad. There used to be mariachis in the street to greet American tourists but by the time I was little, they were mostly gone. Boarded up, abandoned stores and boarded up, abandoned homes. I remember being scared, and I remember not knowing what to do listening to a shoot out right outside. I remember my heart stopping when my family was stopped by the soldiers and they demanded money out of us for the first time.

(And I can talk also about living on the other side. The hyper policing, ICE, the racism when my school played against other schools, my parents forbidding me from speaking Spanish outside our Mexican enclave and to stay close to them, and I can talk about the aggression from the white nuns at my catholic school toward the latino kids, I can talk about having to see the border patrol every day just to go to school, I can even talk about Trump-supporters coming down to the border and making a mess of the place and I can talk and I can talk but why? what for??)

My family is all (mostly) still around. I'm here also. We're still here. All of that horrible stuff happened and is still happening to us y ni modo!! Ni modo ! The fight continues. You'll be fine if you allow yourself to be, and if you're not, then you really gave it your best shot, and the people around you will see that you did.

I know for a lot of people there might be the urge to spiral into doom and grieve, but you don't need to borrow the grief of the future. Today you can get up and roll up your sleeves and clean the house. That's what my parents tell me to do when I'm sad. Ponte a limpiar. Ponte a trabajar. I used to get mad at them for it, but in the end, you're only in charge of yourself and the places/things that you upkeep.

I was raised around nopales (prickly pear cacti) and, many years ago, I threw one out of my parent's house because I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't want it. I figured it'd get eaten by something or die somehow. The nopal started growing instead, and it's still there. It even grew a flower, though it hasn't given us a pear yet. My dad doesn't like the pears/tuna but my mom does, so we went out to check on it and while we were there, we heard a bird singing. He looked up and he told me it was a cenzontle and that it was singing a little song for the nopal. I had this thought about how even though I basically tried to kill it, the nopal was growing, thriving. it's an easy metaphor to make, but the earth gives you simple lessons sometimes.

(The monarchs pass by every year. They don't even do it legally. They cut the border line and don't wait their turn to talk to the Customs guys!!! They just fly overhead then look back at us like we're crazy. How can we explain this to them? How do I tell them that there's a place that hates us both)

All you have to do is survive. Whatever happens to me or my family or my friends, we will find a way to grow and find birds to sing along with. If there's so much grief in the future, then we can grieve when that time comes. In other words, canta y no llores. All you have to do is survive. Take it hour by the hour. Pick up the broom and get to work while you can.

Because I've talked too much, I wanted to remind everyone that my ebooks versions of my writing will always be free to read.

Maybe it'll come as a shock to you that a lot of ABM was about coping with losing a home forever, of remembering the feeling of wall paint that you will never feel again. But it's about survival too. I hope you all take care of yourselves as much as we can. This isn't a sad post! Go out and enjoy what you have! Go for a snack. Protect yourself however youre able to. I'm so lucky to have a birthday, to have lived this long. I hope my work will live on no matter how much the world might despise it. I've survived this far despite the world too, and so will ABM... I hope ! :)

[redrandomposts]

till narrowly missing ivan in every universe, either literally or figuratively, makes me giggle and cry at the same time AUUHSHSJSH if he was a regressor/reincarnator and og/alnst!till was watching his later incarnations, mans would be bald from tearing his hair out in frustration

"LOOK BACK MF LOOK BACK, YOU JUST MISSED HIM"

"THATS NOT WHAT HE MEANT AND YOU KNOW IT"

"NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO HAVE YOUR NTH SEXUALITY CRISIS, IVAN IS MOVING AWAY TOMORROW. MOVE IT"

and imagine his previous incarnations from other failed lifetimes watching the current lifetime with him and theyre all in the same frustrated state 😭

"can we PLEASE have one lifetime where we dont end up breaking his heart ? can we PLEASE—"

— 🌦️

HAHAHAHAHA LMAOOOOO

doomed lovers and tills watching it all happen, kicking and screaming

everytime an incarnation pops up in their little hell, he is kicked and beaten up and treated as a less-than-human being until the next one meets ivan. and then they're too focused watching how till (yes, that's you, a dumbass) misses every smile and glimmer of eyes and heartbreak that ivan shows.

"what the fuck?! what's he doing?! ivan is right there, don't go hitting on her - fuck! who is that idiot!"

"that idiot is you! do you remember how you made ivan your best man at your wedding?!"

"says the one had an arranged marriage with him then went to war and came home in love with a nurse!"

"all of you are idiots!"

and none of the tills know og till's backstory. most of the time he's writing songs and playing the guitar, as all of them do, but in a more extreme way. there's a little library with all the songs the tills have made, each shelf a different life. og till's is a whole bookshelf, but the ones about ivan only starts after he first appeared here.

(there's also the songs each and every ivan has made about till, for till, to till. those are treated much better than the ones the tills haphazardly throws into their respective shelves. they're encased in gold and glass, just as unattainable as ivan seems to be.)

extra reactions according to some of my aus (except it's all the bad ends and ooc??):

omegaverse

"...what the fuck?"

"WHAT'S A PHEROMONE?! ALPHA? THAT'S SO CRINGEY? WTF"

"GUYS!!! IVAN CAN BE PREGNANT-"

"-SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP-"

"holy fuck"

"it was indeed a fuck"

"did you know ivan could moa-"

"fucking hell we're all tills we're all here we all know!"

"BLOOD! GET A TISSUE YOU FREAK-"

"HALF OF US HAVE NOSEBLEEDS WDYM"

"please please please till hE IS PREGNANT-"

"..."

"what the fuck."

"HE'S DEAD?"

"guys i don't ever wanna get ivan pregnant if that's what's going to happen"

android au

"...he owns ivan..?"

"THAT'S NOT FAIR?? WHAT DID HE EVER DO TO DESERVE IVAN??"

"surely they fall in love, right?"

"don't fucking jinx it, you moron!"

"ivan's so cute... look! he's cutting the veggies into flowers!"

"hey! till! say thank you to ivan!!"

"ugh, can't he just get out the studio so i can see ivan??"

"till, can't you just be a stay at home musician?!"

"aww!! aren't those flowers in the stitching?"

"oh my god ivan hand sewed him clothes?!"

"that's not fair! ivan! you can't just give things to the idiot! or else!! ...or else."

"...you fucking jinxed it!!! ivan!!! you can't die!"

"how'd i know that they'd just shoot and never stop shooting?"

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM??"

"i'll fucking BEAT THEM UP I SWEAR."

"??? why's he only just checked the cameras now since he got ivan?"

"...ivan's voice is so heavenly."

"..."

zombie au

"is it another boring one? haven't we already seen till and ivan have normal lives and drift apart or something else?"

"maybe this time, till will..."

"shut UP! CROW'S MOUTH, I SWEAR"

"nevermind that is nOT NORMAL FUCK"

"OH MY GOD HE IS ROTTING AND MOVING??"

"IVAN GET AWAY FROM THERE -"

"...ivan?"

"FUCK! HE DID IT AGAIN!"

"TILL YOU FUCKER GO BACK FOR HIM!!"

"...at least we still have ivan."

"...and till knows he loves ivan."

"...and they kissed."

".....oh fucking hell, why are you so happy?! ivan's basically till's dog! till doesn't deserve him!"

"well, as long as they cure ivan, they'll be together for real, right?"

"..."

"YOU FUCKING JINXED IT-"

"WHY'D THAT RANDO JUST SHOOT IVAN???

mermaid au

"oh my god he's a fish -"

"- ivan looks like a prince!"

"??? how can you be so rude to ivan!"

"why are his thoughts so weird? ivan's a human, not some pearl! he has dignity!"

"he's much better than some pearl, too."

"till knows he loves ivan, right??? surely??? with those thoughts..."

"i wanna see ivan's eyes...."

"i wanna see ivan's smile..."

"fuck! till, just speak to him god damnit!"

"oh my god!!! ivan!!!"

"??? where's his fishy parts?? ow, don't hit me-"

"...he looks so fine."

"hey! he's sixteen! you are definitely not sixteen, you fucking homewrecker!!"

"homewrecker?! i didn't cheat!!"

"you wrecked your and ivan's house life!"

"what?"

"where'd the letter come from??"

"how's there sea foam???"

"IVANNNN!"

"HE'S DEAD? JUST LIKE THAT?"

"HE DESERVED MORE YOU FUCKER-"

===

anyways im going to edit my masterlist to be better ig

[cartoon-buffoon]

A thing I noticed immediately when watching Finding Frankie and was an inconsistenty is the footage not used from one of the earlier trailers because THIS was the trailer I saw that got me properly excited for this game. In the official game trailer released 7 months ago (not the release date trailer which features the fall guys inspired characters dying before it switched to game footage). You can see some stuff NOT used in the final game and I wanna show them, break them down, and give my opinion on why the ending we got feels a bit... Weird? Disjointed? Yeah disjointed, let's go with that.

Okay for starters we see an sequence where we actually are in our apartment and the cereal box is poofed onto the counter, I'm assuming this was placing it on there and this entire environment was scrapped for what is now the ending cutscene where we see our apartment as Real Frankie talks to us

I'm assuming this was cut for time constraints and to get straight into the action. Who cares about a sequence where we have the player physically opening the cereal box when we ya know—can solve everything by simply showing a cutscene which gets the point across better and is a thousand times more cinematic? But ya know in the ending area we do get to walk through our apartment so they didn't COMPLETELY wanna scrap the environment so they repurposed it.

Okay second off is the character who I'll refer to as "Buddy" (like Boris in BATIM)

Now this comes RIGHT AFTER you put on the suit and we can clear as day see this was a section almost entirely cut from the game. This isn't the starting line and another contestant awaits us. I find this interesting because it leads me to believe Buddy over here was gonna be some sort of helper. During this sequence where we see Buddy during the trailer a voice line Real Frankie has goes unused but it's in this trailer, he can be curiously heard saying "The mask conceals your voice and identity to avoid cheating with other contestants!" Which is kinda an odd thing to say which leads me to believe Buddy was gonna be possibly our version of a tutorial however Buddy would still be killed because as well all know: Frankie hates cheaters. The line "the other contestants have mysteriously died... Not sure how that happened but oh well!" Meaning the idea of us being the sole survivor was always set in stone but sadly Buddy was nothing more than a corpse in the current game we got.

Third is something I wanna note because this line appears in the old trailer, went used in the game, but makes no sense? Now we all know of the whiteboard with the status of the contestants on it

We are lucky contestant number 3, yet for some reason contestant number 4 is MIA for some reason... Now the reason why this makes no sense is because the broadcast states 3 bodies were found yet only 2 are marked terminated??? This is weird because we actually only see 2 death's on screen (ehhh 1/2)

We all know of the CRUNCH Monster Frankie gives the one cheater who gets a headstart, but after he dies it's at this point the player probably gets jump scared so they don't see it but an animation plays of Monster Frankie reaching over and plucking the second contestant up like a piece of candy. Now while this is happening the fourth contestant actually WALKS BACKWARDS AND OUT

My man does a back pedal, immediately avoiding this and seemingly leaving. According to the police report though that's not the case, we never see it but it seems after Frankie munched on the first 2 he went for the fourth contestant leaving us, lucky number 3, alive. Now the reason why I find this so interesting is because despite what the police report says, Real Frankie has yet to mark contestant number 4 as dead which wouldn't make sense? If Real Frankie saw the first 2 die logically he'd also be able to witness Monster Frankie pry open the shutter the 4th contestant is hidden behind and kill him. But he doesn't? This is where my theory comes in about the very odd ending:

I don't think we were meant to survive, but rather contestant number 4 was supposed to steal our winnings?

Like the ending of us plummeting into the incinerator REALLY does make it seem like we die and this bitch comes in after hiding behind a door the entire time and goes "lemme get that 5 million" because everything is already taken care of. Consider contestant number 4 is MIA and we don't exactly know why it really does seem the intended ending was that we die and number 4 steals our cash prize. However the police report contradicts this seeming like contestant numbers 1, 2, and 4 all died by Frankie leaving us all alone and alive. My explanation?: the devs just didn't really bother recording lines or redoing cutscenes to fix any mistakes they had when scrapping this idea, it's why ya know in the ending cutscene it's made apparent we ARE the winners as contestant number 3. Like all things considering, and I'm definitely not calling them lazy, I think this was a case of not exactly caring about the lore because ultimately this game wishes to set itself apart from other horror games thus the VERY LITTLE lore and concrete explanations we get.

Idk that's all for now, just some neat stuff I thought I'd point out

[hford0311]

In my silence I adored you

*Avenger's Tower Fanfic*

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Hey girl, what-cha doing down there? Dancing alone while I live right above you; I can hear your music playing; I can feel your body swaying

It didn't take a super soldier to hear the music that came out of your apartment. However, the one above you did understand the lyrics, not like most of the others that lived in the tower. He didn't mind it, sometimes, it became a soothing thing when the nightmares woke him up. The vibrations of the music and lyrics gave him was a micro-confirmation that he was no longer in the Soviet Union. No longer trapped under any ice.

"Okay, but how come you can't go one day without it?" Sam asked about your music during breakfast. You shrugged, "I have my space. It mostly stays in my space. Just like Redwing." Bucky snickered. Sam slightly aggressively turned towards his best friend-enemy man. "You live above her! What are your thoughts?" Bucky was slightly started by the question. "I-I don't mind it." You stuck your tongue out at Sam, putting your dishes in sink, and walked away. "You said you only like forties music." Sam accused as soon as you were out of ear shot. Bucky avoided eye contact before he cleared his throat, "I have to train with Steve."

One floor below me, you don't even know me, I love you

When that and a combination of other things didn't work, keep falling back into night terrors, Bucky would sit in front of his glass windows, curtains pulled back. At first, his eyes would wander the city lights. Eventually, his eyes would shift down below and see your shadow swaying and dancing to the music that was nearly never ending. It was a constant, consistency made reality easier to believe in. You were starting to become that in Bucky's word, even though you never would've known. He never mentioned it.

If you look out your window tonight, pulling the string with the note that's attached to my heart; Read how many times I saw you, how in my silence I adored you.

Sure, Bucky and you met occasionally during missions and Avengers' (aka Tony Stark's) parties. However, neither of you ever got beyond glances, brief introductions, and the incredibly rare argument-- sorry polite conversation-- that Steve, Sam, or Nat would drag the pair of you into. Both of you would roll your eyes at the dragger and their "opponent." Plus, the pair of you would almost always be against whatever Sam was arguing. Bucky appreciated the team effort from you. You were also a bit of a history buff which sometimes led to his ears pricking up to some type of familiarity that he could confidently nod along with or it would help him connect the dots with events that didn't include the Winter Soldier.

It took one of these little rantings of knowledge you had, Steve and Sam saw the captivated look that Bucky distantly gave you. They both also knew it wasn't just the words coming out of your mouth that Bucky was interested in, either. The pair of men shared an look. They knew their mission.

"Alright boys, it's been fun." You said getting up, heading towards your apartment. "Don't have too much fun without me." You waved as you hit the stairs.

The duo of men encircled Bucky. "You have a problem." Same stated as if it was obvious and something much worse than actuality. "Sam-" Steve tried to soften the blow. "No, he is in love with that girl and he hasn't said more than five words to her." Sam insisted. Bucky gave them both a confused stare. "Y/n, Buck, we can tell." Steve cleared up. Bucky's face went to complete denial. "No, I don't."

"Those eyes you gave her earlier tell a different story, Buck." Steve softly argued. Bucky groaned and put his hands in his face. "So what if I do? She's living a happy life...why.....why should I enter it more just to ruin it?" Sam and Steve gave each other soft looks. However, both of them were not going to give up that easily. "You're different now. You've said it yourself, you're not the Winter Soldier anymore." Sam stated. "Even if that's true...who said that she's going to....want me back." Doubt filled Bucky's entire body and mind. The pair of men were not going to change his mind in one night.

Only in my dreams did that wall between us come apart

Another night, Bucky added to looking down at your shadow. He wanted to go down and dance with you. Over seventy years ago, Bucky wouldn't waste another second to do. He would've swept you off your feet, literally. He would hold you close during the slower songs, inhaling your scent. Softly kissing your forehead, cheeks, lips... Bucky heavily sighed out loud, walking away from the window.

Oh my darlin', knock three times on the ceiling if you want me; twice on the pipe if the answer is no.

Sam and Steve showed up at your door. You gave them both a confused. "Come in...stop lurking at my door." You responded, letting them in. "So, how long have you liked Bucky?" Sam got straight to the point. You scoffed and slouched in one of your chairs. "Who said-" "Y/n, you never mentioned your knowledge about your so-called fascination with the 1930s before your first mission with him." Steve confronted you. You shrugged, "A girl can learn new things." Sam rolled his eyes. "They're both impossible, Steve." You sat up a little. "What do you mean by both of us?" For the third time that night, Sam and Steve shared a smirk and an idea.

Oh my sweetness *knock, knock, knock* means you'll meet me in the hallway; twice on the pipe *clang, clang* means you ain't gonna show*

You hummed the song you left playing in your room as you approached Bucky's door. You took a deep breath before knocked with the beat that Bucky could perfectly hear from your apartment below. He hesitantly answered. Then saw you, a small smile etched across his face. "It means that I want you, and that I want to meet you in the hallway-- granted next time it'll be on the ceiling but-" Your breath of words was stopped short by Bucky pulling you into his apartment.

~~ Sam looked at Steve, stifling a laugh, "There isn't really a pipe for her to say no to."

[velvetvexations]

Ive seen at least two responses to your antigonism post saying that the word would be divisive because “transfems who are normal about transmascs are the norm” and I really truly do believe that’s probably the case but at the same time it personally feels a little dismissive?? I cant speak for all trans people obviously but I know A LOT of trans people, basically everyone in my life is trans- my blood sibling, all of my friends, my 2 girlfriends (im poly) I am regularly in contact with other trans people/trans communities in several cities across my state, and for me it really does not feel like its a “small vocal minority” of transfems who hold anti transmasculine and exorsexist beliefs.

I want to make it clear I absolutely love the transfems in my community, they are my dearest friends, and I deeply treasure our relationships; but absolutely every one of them that I have gotten close to has ended up saying something to me that made me feel really weird. They either mention something about how transmascs have it easier/transfems have it the worst, or they feel the need to gatekeep things from other trans people& borderline accuse other trans people/intersex people of copying transfems, or they joke and complain about “theyfabs” or justify the use of the term (both of my gfs did this- mind you I was afab and exclusively use they/them pronouns), or they invalidate feminine transmasc and afab enby people (again something both of my gfs did despite me being genderfluid and sometimes presenting feminine).

And thats just some of the things Ive experienced IRL in my own home and within my own communities! If I were to start listing my experiences online Id be here all night!! I honestly want to go on about the shit I see online but I dont have the energy for it- but when I see exorsexist or anti trans masculinity coming from transfems (and self proclaimed tmes) online, the comments/notes/whatever is always filled with sometimes hundreds of other trans people agreeing and venting their own frustrations about “tmes” and it just. Again doesnt FEEL like its a minority. You are literally one of the only TWO transfems I know who makes content actively CONSISTENTLY standing up for transmascs and pushing back against anti trans masculinity. Its not that I think its transfems job to dismantle anti trans masculinity but the ratio of transfems who complain about tmes vs ones who actively push back against that rhetoric feels so disproportionate to how often I see transmasc and afab enbies pushback against trans misogyny and the exclusion of transfems in queer spaces.

This turned into a very long winded vent and Im kinda struggling to conclude my point but i guess I wish it felt like more people cared to pushback against TIRFism. It just feels kinda dismissive to hear people say that transmascs who are hesitant to interact w trans communities just need to touch grass or whatever when in my personal experience it feels like I cannot escape anti trasmasculinity or exorsexism in every trans space I am apart of. Kinda blanking on how to end this ask i hope any of this is coherent.

I wanna emphasize again that the person I responded to specifically was really cool and my emotions in this post are not directed at them

Recently someone said it was "easy to forget most trans women are normal about trans men," and I was scolded because me not thinking that was horribly transmisogynistic was apparently a sign I'd lowered my standards as a trans woman because I'm too discourse poisoned, so now I'm even more self-conscious that people will start to see me that way no matter how much I try to insist over and over that TRFs are a vocal minority.

Meanwhile I continue to get asks calling me a pickme and comparing me to Blair White. I continue to have ten people respond to my every reply going "don't listen to Velvet she's crazy and hates trans women!!!!!".

So yeah. It is, actually, easy to forget that sometimes.

Especially since I'm stuck in a tiny southern town without even the option to make use of what meager community exists in the area because there's no one to drive me several hours to the state capital for their annual Pride stuff. I can't just go outside and be gal pals with all the vast numberless hordes of Normal trans women. I would be shocked beyond fucking belief if I saw two gay cis men in my fucking zip code. With my personal situation I can't even be social with cishet people anyway, let alone other queers, let alone all the trans women others perceive as Normal because they've knowingly been in the physical presence of another trans person a single time in their life and have the option of making that happen when they want it to.

Thank you for the support, anon.

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

helloooo hiiii haii hiii

do you think you could write a fic (duff x reader) w duff being a big softie w his s/o and taking extra care of them while they’re going through a little depressive episode, just making sure they’re taking care of themself and giving em gentle cuddles and reassurance n fluffy shit? that would be super sweet <3

Warnings: Depression, idk it's mostly fluff but if you think I missed something let me know otherwise enjoy!

You honestly never saw it coming, but Duff did.

You felt yourself getting more tired more easily but just chalked it up to not getting enough sleep, you stopped eating and also thought it was just from not getting enough sleep.

Soon you were laying in bed, it was almost 3:00 pm and you hadn't moved since you woke up.

The phone was ringing every hour but you never answered, then it was every half hour, every fifteen minutes. Duff was calling you like his life depended on it.

The past few weeks he'd been listening to you complain about hurting and being tired and this, that and the other thing. He knew what was happening but you didn't.

He'd been taking you out more, dinners every other night -at first he tried taking you to restaurants but then you started saying no, not having the energy to go out. He'd come by and help with things around your apartment, washing the dishes, doing laundry.

He always tried to include you in these activities but at some point you just stopped answering to him.

You heard a knock on your door but didn't want to answer it, you didn't want to get up. It took you too long to realize what was happening and now you were just blocking everyone out.

The door opened and you knew it was Duff, you'd given him a key the last time this happened for when it happened again. This was again and he came right to your room with take-out from your favourite fast food place.

He sat next to you on your bed. He didn't wait for you to turn to him, he wrapped his arms around you, under your arms, and pulled you up. Your body slumped against him but it was better than laying down. Small victories.

He opened up the food and helped you eat, holding it to your mouth and waiting for you to take a bite. "Eat." He said. "Eat it or I'm painting your face with it." You shot him a look but took a bite, a small bite but a bite nonetheless. "Good, keep eating."

After the first bite you wanted more. You didn't feel like doing much but it was still your favourite food, you couldn't turn down your favourite food.

He stuck with you, he didn't push you to do a whole lot. He made you change your clothes and move to the couch while he took care of some cleaning.

You were laying on the couch on top of him, nuzzling into him as you watched a movie.

His arms wrapped tightly around you, occasionally kissing the top of your head or your forehead, your temple.

"Guns is going on tour." He said, running his fingers through your hair.

You nodded. "I know."

"I know you know." You looked up at him, resting your chin on his chest. "I want you to come with me." Your brows raised at that.

You'd never gone on tour with him before, it was never even a question more of just 'I'm going' 'call me every day?' and it worked fine for the both of you.

"You... want me to come?" You asked hesitantly. "What about, like, groupies?" He gave you a look.

"Groupies, seriously? I have you and I want you on tour with me, in my hotel room, in my bed, in my arms." He stated, giving you a gentle squeeze. "There's no reason you can't come, you're coming."

"I have work."

"Quit."

"I can't just quit, Duff!" You groaned, swatting his chest. He smiled. It wasn't a lot but it was a glimpse at your usual self.

"You don't need your job, you have me." In fairness, you don't know why you don't already live with Duff, very rarely are you separated, usually only tours stand in your way.

You laid your head back down on his chest. "I can't quit."

Duff let out a heavy breath. "Quit or don't quit, you're coming with me and that's final."

For the next week Duff stuck with you, every day encouraging you to do a little more. He helped you shower, starting with warm bubble baths, lit candles around, when you got in the shower he was with you, washing your hair for you, then you'd wash his hair.

He had you help him with dinner, letting you sit on the counter and just talk to him while he did the work, then he'd have you dry the dishes after he washed them. You had a washing machine but he felt this would be better.

Soon he had you going on walks around the neighbourhood and packing your bags.

You were by no means fine by the time the plane took off, but you were doing better. Every night Duff would pull you tight to his side, kiss your forehead and tell you how much he loved you, how important you were to him.

You were standing out on the balcony of the hotel you were staying at. It was a cool night and you were wearing one of Duff's shirts, the way the city lit up was beautiful to you.

"You're gonna catch a cold." Duff said, coming out to join you, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your head. "Can't have you getting sick on me."

"Because then I'd have to leave?" You asked, taking his hand in yours.

"Because then you'd get me sick and I wouldn't be able to play." You smacked his arm and he laughed.

He sighed softly and rubbed your arms, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad you came." He said, voice soft in your ear. "I like being here with you."

You nodded. "I like being here too... with you."

"Glad I'm an after thought." You shook your head at him, turning in his hold to face him and nuzzling into his chest.

"Thank you." You said softly.

"Don't do that." He said, rubbing your back. "I didn't do anything special."

"You brought me here."

"Ok, yeah, fine, you get that." He said with a smile. "That's just because I'm a band, a good one... Don't thank me for the other stuff."

You looked up at him curiously. "Why not?"

"I didn't do more than what any other good boyfriend would do... just like you help me before planes, I help you through these. It's just what we do." He explained. He looked down at you, cupping your face in his hands. "You're my perfect girl, don't forget that." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose and finally your lips.

[foodtruckery]

cart holy fuck i am NOT NORMAL about this AT ALL. i am "surprise i wrote 3600 words in one sitting" not normal about this. i am so sorry.

Ford hears the door to his lab open and puts his face in his hands. 

He doesn't have to look to know who it is -- nobody else stops by, unannounced, without so much as a knock, after all. But he also doesn't want to see Constance's face when he breaks the news to her. She's going to be devastated, and it's going to be his fault.

Not for the first time since he started working on this latest compound, Ford deeply regrets having produced the first one.

It's his own fault, he knows that. Even if he hadn't meant for all of this to happen, he has only himself to blame. Stan hadn't asked him to spend two and a half weeks obsessively formulating a topical ointment that would reduce the visibility of cellulite.  He did that himself, unprompted. All because his sister had been a little upset.

But she wasn't just a little upset, was she? a traitorous little voice whispers in the back of his mind.

Stan had never cared enough about locking a door, and after so many years of sharing so little space, she had a distressing lack of concern for being seen in her underthings by her brother. Ford would complain more about that if he wasn't--

Well.

Walking in on Stan half undressed wasn't a novel occurrence, was the point, no matter how certain base functions of his physiology always wanted to treat it as such. What was novel, however, was walking in on Stan scowling at her reflection in the single full length mirror the apartment housed. And not her angry scowl, either. It had been an expression that Ford recognized, one that he knew meant Stan was upset by something but found being angry about it easier.

He didn't have to ask. He didn't even have time to offer up a performative apology for interrupting before Stan asked:

"Do my thighs look bad?"

Ford distinctly remembers the question because he'd been staring at the reflection of those thighs when she asked it. Luckily, so had Stan, so she'd missed the way he turned as red as her work blouse. She'd been standing with her back to the mirror, twisted around to get the best view of the back of her thighs. Her completely bare thighs, uniform skirt tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair and the cut of her panties horribly narrow.

"Wh-What?" Ford croaked.

"My thighs! Do they look bad?" Stan had asked again, turning away from the mirror to turn her 'upset but pretending to only be angry' scowl on him.

Ford remembers swallowing down all the things he'd wanted to say -- about how her thighs were perfect, about how much he'd always wanted to feel them, wanted to see the way they'd look and how much they would give with the divots of six fingertips pressing against them. Other things he'd thought about pressing between them--

"Since when do you care what I think of your thighs?" Ford had asked instead. "Didn't you tell me last week you'd bought shorts specifically to, ah, show them off at the roller rink?"

Stan had grabbed her lower lip between her teeth and, graciously, turned back around to look at her own reflection instead of the increasingly uncomfortable state Ford found himself in.

"....Yeah, I guess I did say that."

"Then why do you think they look bad now?"

Stan huffed, planting her hands on her hips and pushing her lower lip back out in a way that drew entirely too much attention to it.

"I didn't!" she said firmly. And then, with uncharacteristically less certainty, "I don't."

That had finally shaken Ford out of his decidedly unbrotherly attention. "Stan?"

"Ugh, it's so stupid," she said, turning away from the mirror to snatch her skirt off the chair. "Some grody spaz at work said I had cottage cheese thighs."

"What?!"

"I know, right?" Stan had laughed while yanking her skirt back up, but there wasn't any humor in it.

Ford frowned. "It's not like you to let one ignorant customer get to you like that," he said, and the silence that followed, Stan's pointless fussing with the waistband of her skirt, had been telling. "...Was it more than one customer?"

She'd shrugged, still not looking at him. "Group of 'em. All got a laugh outta it."

"Stan, I--"

And then she'd tossed her hair out of her face and flashed him the gap in her teeth. He remembers her lips forming the shape of a smile but her eyes had been shiny, the skin around her neck and ears ruddy with embarrassment.

"Eh, don't sweat it, Sixer! I'm not gonna get bent outta shape over a couple of wannabes taking potshots at the waitress."

But she had, and Ford knew she had. He knew it in the way she wore stockings to work the next day and how she chose jeans instead of her new shorts to go skating in. He also knew, with less immediate evidence but with the same certainty, that it wasn't just a shitty comment from a stupid customer at the diner that was upsetting her.

It was being on the other side of the country and still having stupid customers at a diner. It was so much of her being pressed into so little space, carved out in the margins of Ford's college experience. The Stan that still believed they would sail away from New Jersey together would have found a whole tub of cottage cheese from the cooler and upended it on those idiots.

The Constance that had been sent with him to Backupsmore was folding in on herself more and more as the days dragged by.

Ford knew he couldn't fix the second problem, the bigger one. And he also knew that creating a cosmetic to reduce the visibility of her cellulite wouldn't necessarily fix the first problem, either. But it felt like the very least he could do, to give his sister a shield. A bit of her confidence back. 

To the chagrin of their mother, Stan had always been loudly and unapologetically confident in her body and the attractiveness of that body. The idea that something as ridiculous as the texture of her thighs could be unspooling that core tenant of her?

Absolutely not.

So Ford had spent the next two weeks taking every advantage of his chemistry labs and his star pupil status, studying and mixing and studying and mixing. It had been over two weeks away from his personal projects and had cut tremendously into his time to prep for the third theoretical physics elective he'd been considering. But the look on Stan's face when he'd finally handed over the unassuming little tub of ointment had been well worth every minute spent pouring over cosmetic compounds.

He wasn't surprised that it worked. After all, he never would have given it to her if it hadn't. But he was a bit surprised by how well it worked. Or at least how well Stan insisted it worked. Honestly, the back of her thighs were just as appealing as they had ever been. And when she'd grabbed him by the wrist and yanked one of his palms to land entirely too high on the back of her leg, supposedly to feel the new smoothness of her skin, Ford truly hadn't been able to feel anything beyond how warm and soft she was.

He also hadn't heard a damn thing she'd said while his hand was glued just under the curve of her buttocks, barely two fingers away from the scalloped edge of her panties. He couldn't remember what Stan said, but he absolutely remembered how stark the emerald green of her underwear had stood out against her skin.

And when Stan had beamed properly up at him, showing off the gap between her teeth and the bright, hopeful shape of her eyes, and asked if he could make more, how could he say no?

He'd missed the part about selling the stuff. He'd missed it right up until Stan turned their tiny dinette into an impressive packaging station, all pleasantly pink boxes and customized logos and flyers boldly inviting women to "MAKE A RACKET."

".....Constance this...this is a racket," Ford had protested weakly when she explained the business model -- Mary Kate and Avon if they were run in as tight of a loop as Amway.

And she had grinned at him over a mess of pink and white shredded filling paper. "Exactly! That's what makes it funny," she'd said. "But don't worry, we're gonna market it like one of those ‘well behaved women rarely make history’ kinda slogans."

"We?"

"Of course! Someone's gotta make the product," she'd said, easy as you please. And when Ford had displayed some visible sign of hesitation, she'd stuck that lower lip out at him. "Oh, c'mon, Sixer. I already got four girls at the diner who want in after I showed 'em how good your stuff was!"

And then, softer, picking at the crinkled strips of paper between her bitten down nails, "If it doesn't work out, I promise I'll drop it. But I just...wanna try something different, you know? And I can't do it without ya. Please?"

And that's when he'd realized that maybe, just maybe, he could fix the second problem. The bigger one.

How could he say no?

But that had been nearly eighteen months ago. And now, hunched over his desk with his palms pressed hard over his face, Ford knows he should have said no. Because Stan had been so good at it. She had taken that little tub of cream, gotten a veritable gaggle of women hooked on it and convinced that gaggle that they should have a flock of their own. Once all of them had gotten accustomed to beating back basic biology, it was hard for them to go back.

And then Stan started cutting product size, raising kit prices, and introducing new merchandise to keep them on the hook without forfeiting an inch of her profit margins.

But the new merchandise was carefully selected and strategically introduced. Over half of the MAKE A RACKET catalog didn't do a single thing it advertised. They were largely white label products, purchased at viciously negotiated wholesale prices, and resold with a cheerful pink logo and an exorbitant markup.

And yet, Constance Pines had a devout, cult-like following of bored, suburban women who swore they saw results with every product, and who convinced other, gullible suburban women to pay into the funnel.

Because some of the products did work. The cellulite cream had never lost popularity, and it was regularly pointed to as proof of the effectiveness of the whole bunk catalog. Alongside it, their hair thickening oil and line-reducing eye cream (which was just a smaller amount of the cellulite cream but colored pink) produced real, noticeable results. And so long as Stan had one legitimate product she could throw in for every five or six scams, the triangularly shaped market under her continued to grow.

And that was exactly the problem.

He hears Stan making her way further into the room, her shoes clicking louder than normal, like they're out to drive the nail into Ford's proverbial coffin on his behalf. He slumps further in his seat and wonders if he still has time to slink completely under his desk. Maybe he can buy himself a few more hours before he has to admit that he can't do it.

And that's the double-whammy, isn't it? It's bad enough that he's going to disappoint Stan, that he has to tell her that he doesn't have the new product he'd promised for the winter catalog -- the Christmas catalog.

But he also has to admit that he's failed.

Either oblivious to his mounting dread or simply unwilling to give him a graceful out (either is possible with Stan), he hears her come to a stop on the other side of his desk.

"So, whaddya got for me, Poindexter?"

He swallows, twice, before he can make the words come up. He doesn't lift his head. It's a coward's choice, he knows, but it's the one concession he allows himself. Without a proper hit to drive sales and pull in new "Racketeers" through the Christmas season, the likelihood of MAKE A RACKET maintaining its trajectory falls off a cliff. He's going to single handedly force his sister back into her waitressing uniform, and it's going to kill him.

"....Nothing," he says. He intends to be blunt and to the point, but he finds he's whispering to the desktop instead.

"Huh?"

"I don't...Stan, I don't have anything for you," he admits, voice and spirit meek. "I can't make it work."

Ford hears her shoes again, circling around the desk, and he manages to catch a brief, blurry glimpse of them - heels, she's wearing heels, oh god since when? - before he screws his eyes shut. And there's shifting, and he's painfully aware of the warmth of her next to him.

Even still, the hand brushing over the top of his head makes him startle.

Stan plucks off the glasses that have been jammed halfway up his forehead, setting them down with a soft click. And then her fingers come back, stroking lightly through his hair. She's been keeping her nails long lately, the tips delicately painted and questionably sharp. It takes more willpower than he cares to admit not to lean into the scratch of them against his scalp.

"That why you've been holed up down here for three days, smart guy?"

He makes a pathetic, wounded sound for being so easily called out.

Stan snorts softly next to him, and he really can't see what there is to be amused about. He can't even properly appreciate that, when she shifts, it feels like she's sitting on his desk by his elbow.

"Well, I see a whole lotta bottles down here, Ford. What's wrong with 'em?"

He sighs, opening his eyes to stare down at the desk -- and out of the corner of his eye he can, in fact, see a curved, charcoal shape that's probably Stan's slacks.

"I can get the formula to reduce fine lines, and I can get it to provide about twelve hours of pigmentation in six colorways."

Stan gives a curl on top of his head a sharp tug. "That's what I asked you for, dummy."

"But," Ford stresses, sighing. "The texture is...wrong. I can't maintain the degree of fine line reduction with a gloss texture. It keeps coming out too thin."

He feels Stan shrug beside him. "Okay? So I call it a lip oil instead. Is that really what you've been moping over?"

Ford shakes his head miserably, and this time when Stan runs her fingers and her long nails through his hair, he does lean into it.

"It...it has a..." he rubs one of his hands down his face before dropping it to the desk. "Numbing effect. On the lips. I can't get rid of it."

The hand in his hair doesn't stop stroking, but Stan does hum quietly above him, thinking. He swallows, hard, and risks glancing up at her.

He swallows again. Harder.

He wishes he had his glasses on.

The charcoal color he'd caught a glimpse of had not been a pair of the tapered, smart slacks that Stan's been wearing lately. It's a suit. It's a slim, short skirt that, sitting on his desk with her legs crossed the way she is, has ridden so far up her thigh that he swears he could make out the color of her panties if they were crossed the other way. Or if he leaned back at the right angle.

Her matching blazer is narrowly cut, exaggerating the divot between her waist and hip in a way that makes Ford desperately want to reach out and fit his hand to it. It's so narrowly cut, in fact, that Ford is temporarily struck stupid -- he does not remember Stan having such a distinctly hourglass shape around her soft midsection, but there is a very clear angle being created with her clothes.

It takes entirely too long for him to realize that there's a corset underneath the blazer. He can just barely make out the boning without his glasses. But devastatingly more distracting is the way that all of Stan's significant curves have been shifted. Stan's...bossom has certainly never been lacking by any means, but cradled in something more structured than her cheap bras and bracketed by the crisp lines of her lapels...

Ford's mouth is horrifically dry.

It is also, apparently, hanging open, because when Stan finally looks down at him, she takes her hand out of his hair and chucks the underside of his chin with a smirk.

"You're gonna catch flies, Sixer."

"I-- Sorry. You look, uhh...n-nice?"

Stan laughs at that, a round, boisterous sound that doesn't fit the sharp little suit but absolutely fits the round, boisterous shapes of her. "Really? Cause you kinda said it like you're not sure I do."

"N-No! No," he says, grabbing his glasses and shoving them back onto his face hard enough to twinge the bridge of his nose. "You look....really nice," he says, mortified by how breathless he sounds.

But he can hardly help it, not when all of Stan's soft, blurry edges have suddenly snapped into perfect clarity. The sharp lines of her suit, the tauntingly high hem of her skirt, the exaggerated shape her cleavage makes above the corset. And now, with the ability to notice the details, he can see the faint edge of her pantyline through her skirt when she shifts, and the delicate gold chain tracing the swell of her breasts where it's looped around her neck.

"Aw, thanks," she says, her tone teasing. "I'm gettin' my picture taken for the new fliers, so I figured I should zhuzh it up a bit, y'know?"

Ford doesn't but he nods anyway.

The mention of the fliers, though, remind him that he's miserable. He snaps his eyes away from the necklace and, with difficulty, past the very plum shape of her lips.

"Constance. Without this lip product--"

Her fingertip touches his mouth and Ford goes very still, unable to help glancing down towards the pointed, red tip of her nail.

"Just nod yes or no, Sixer," she says, leaning towards him in a way that makes the chain slide over her chest and pool against the crease where her breasts are tucked tightly against each other. "Since it's a lip product an' all, is it edible?"

Ford furrows his brow and tries to open his mouth to explain the nuance of that, but Stan raises a second finger and presses them both against his lips to stop him. "Just nod," she repeats.

He considers it for a moment, unsure what this has to do with anything. It certainly isn't food grade, but a lip product does have to assume a certain amount of consumption. And he's fairly confident that there's room for a few adjustments that will put them more safely in the "edible" category. So he nods.

Stan flashes the gap in her teeth at him, her smile bright and delighted, and he immediately misses the feeling of her fingers when she takes them away. "Perfect!"

"But...Constance, that doesn't address the numbing factor," he protests.

"Good! Don't change that at all, that's gonna be the selling point," she says, hopping off the desk and doing a horribly distracting little shimmy to get her skirt back down the generous shape of her thighs. His palms itch to find the skin she'd let him touch before.

"I don't understand how that won't be a turn off for potential customers," he manages to argue, briefly irritated by her nonchalance, though it’s hard to track that feeling under everything else.

Stan spins around on her heel to face him. Ford had no idea she was this adept at walking in high heels. Even if they aren't terribly tall, it's impossible for him not to notice the way they elongate her legs and make her stand just a touch higher than he's used to looking when she comes down to chat at his desk.

"You leave the messaging to me, Sixer," she tells him, reaching to straighten the edges of his sweater vest. And then, before he can prepare himself for it, she swoops down and presses a plum colored kiss to his cheek, just a hair too close to the corner of his mouth. Just close enough that he'll be able to touch the tip of his tongue to the stain later.

"I knew I could count on you!" she says when she pulls back, the clicking of her heels already taking her away from the desk, her voice laughing on its way across the lab. "Don't worry! I guarantee you there's a huge market for a lip oil that might numb your throat a lil' if you swallow it, if ya catch my drift!"

The lab is achingly quiet when Stan leaves. And Ford is left aching and quiet in return. There's a spark of relief that he has not, in fact, ruined his sister's multi-level marketing scheme. But it's hard to relax into that relief when he can still feel the slip of her lipstick against his cheek and the drag of her nails over his scalp.

Groaning, Ford puts his face in his hands and does slink underneath the desk this time.

Please, I have so much love for your fem!stan, please tell me your thoughts about fem!mulletstan, or fem!drifterstan. I once read a fanfic where Filbrick kicking out Stan was just a scare tactic, I imagine he’d have the same sentiment for a female Stan as well, but he’s too prideful to go get his little girl after it backfires and she doesn’t come back home.

Meanwhile, Stan’s determined to prove she’s just as capable as any boy after years of being undermined for being born a girl! Even so, she’s not above using her feminine wiles to sling her FDA acknowledged merchandise, after all sex sells. Eventually she soon realizes that sex does indeed sell.

OOOHH Anon, tesoro, SAPESSI! You have no idea how happy your messages makes me, because you’re enabling me to YAP about my favorite topic, that I’ve been thinking about A LOT. Thank you so much! WARNING: Stancest is ALWAYS implied/established in my musings. The following lucubrations are no exception. In general, I think fem!Stan would get punished way less harshly than his canon male counterpart. Not that she’s coddled or untouchable- Constance would get hit occasionally, if she acts way out of the line, by both parents. But, I personally don’t think kicking her out would ever be a thing- not even as a threat: Given the time period/culture, the (horrible) assumption that throwing a teen boy out would not only be a punishment, but also a formative experience of sort- to make him self-sufficient- would NEVER be expected to apply to a girl. On the contrary: Constance would be perceived as someone that could NEVER be self-sufficient. Not only because she’s the “gentle sex”, but also because she’s a weird, off-putting dunce of a girl, unlikely to get picked by a wealthy enough- or even honest man that would take care and provide for her. If we were talking about a version of this universe where the machine accident happens like in canon, Constance would receive a slap across the face, as a punishment for what she did, and a particularly heated, demeaning tirade from Filbrick, imo. Now, that said--- I have two main favorite divergences, I’ve toyed with, for fem!Stan's future:

1) A version where Constance did destroy Ford’s machine, on purpose, in a fit of anger, because she’s subconsciously trying to get kicked out: rationally, she is aware how hard and scary it would be to run away from home, and that her family would look for her. But, if they HATED her, not only they wouldn’t feel bad, they’d also take the very hard decision for her, of cutting her out. But, what happens is that- they DO act like they despise her- but still, they won’t kick her out! It’s an outcome so painful and so humiliating, it’s the final straw that makes Constance snap and run away- to basically become drifter!Stan. And, Ford’s resentment and hatred, in this version, not only comes from Stan taking away his chance to go to his ideal College, but also because she abandoned him! Off to live her indecent, dangerous life with some biker- probably- when if, had she been patient for a few years- had she truly loved him as she said- Ford would had been the one to provide for her- spoil her rotten, even. Like, this is a universe where Ford was THE only eldest son, with an implicit duty to be his sister’s protector, and if you add in he’s been in love with her, too… In the 10-years-later reunion, Ford would have this incel-like feeling of pain and humiliation- because his baby sister at his door is wearing a miniskirt, and her hair is cut so short, and it’s evident she’s not that innocent anymore. But still, as tired and battered by life as she is, Constance would still NOT be begging Ford to be her savior and mer-- and let him take care of her! [Complicated incestuous tension ensues].

Version number 2) Constance accidentally destroyed Ford’s machine, just like in canon- but doesn’t get kicked out and- since she’s a girl and Ford is more protective and softer, after some silent treatment, he forgives her. And actually, he uses what happened to his advantage, to coax Constance into following him to Backupsmore: "it’s gonna take him so much more time to become successful, now that he’s relegated to that college, meaning he and Stan would end up separated so much longer! She’d have to remain at Glass Shard Beach all alone, for ages! But.. if she followed him, she could get a job, a room apartment of her own, and… nobody would know them, over there. They could even date in secret." And, Constance would hesitate, because she dreads an unfulfilling future as her brother’s accessory, but also, she is in love with him, and she inevitably internalized part of the sexism she’s been subjected to for most of her life, so… she accepts. Even pumps herself up, gaslights herself into thinking it’s gonna be a fresh, exciting new start, away from her shitty small town. And indeed… Even if the twins enjoy the relative freedom of their romance, far from home, inevitably Constance feels unsatisfied, like she just switched the background, but she’s still working as a waitress, doing nothing she truly loves, or feels good at. That’s when I like to imagine she ends up messing it up big time, by joining an MLM or something, in attempt to find her own success lmao. AND, it’s complicated, because she does find out she is actually GOOD at selling shit to people. This is her true calling! But, the business was scummy as fuck- to an illegal degree- and she ends up arrested for the first time. And, escapes from prison for the first time. Stan is a chaotic disaster, impossible to contain, in every universe. To make it short, once again the story goes back to its tracks, and Ford and Stan separate dramatically. Now, this version actually had a VERY angsty ship-focused sub-divergent version with Fiddleford involved, and a very jealous Ford. But I don’t even know if you’d be interested in that, so I’ll stop here. ++++ I do love that part of your ask, about Stan realizing she can use her sex-appeal to her advantage... To imagine her seducing people into helping her/condoning her schemes is so fucking sexy~ I will think of a specific scenario, because damn.

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Allosexual romance. From what I gather, you don't read it, but is there anything that might tempt you to?

From this ask game!

Wait wait wait wait what makes you think I don't read it? Then I wouldn't read anything 😂

(I currently barely read anything, but that has time reasons 😭 don't try to juggle 3 projects and a mmo, guys. I need a new number on the exhaustion scale.)

I spent years reading the genre of bodyguard/ex-soldier/whatever romance, because there's a good bit of violence and a guaranteed happy end. I also spent years digging around for queer love stories, which honestly ends up being m/m 90% of the time, which usually means there's 2 more penises than I care to read about.

Most of the books in my book recs tag are definitely very allo.

Do I think that drawn out blowjob could have been replaced by a nice whipping? Hell yeah. But oh well. What can you do. With the exception of fewer books than I need my fingers for to count, there just isn't anything out there once you leave middle grade behind.

Sure, there's completely romance-less fantasy epic, but I don't have the energy for that anymore, either. Sex scenes are easier to skip than politics.

But finding so many ace chars (and authors 😅) here has been the best thing that's ever happened to me, and they definitely get a headstart on the scale for falling in love with them.

[imgonnagetyoubacktv]

so sad for absolutely no reason

[mydr3aminvi0let]

i wear a lot of skirts and pink and whatnot as my style has developed with me & my personality but when one of those age regression girlies latch onto me....i do not like that

[gremlinwithakeyboard]

Neurodivergency and treating it like a superpower is great and all but I sometimes feel like we've gone so far the other way that people don't acknowledge the fact that they can be disabling too. Like take my ADHD for example. Creativity is great. Hyperfocus is great. But a lot of the time that doesn't happen and I spend hours trying to work my brain up to doing something, then crashing/forgetting what I was doing just as fast. Or on the other side of things if I have an idea halfway through the work day and no matter how hard I try I'm so hyperfixated on it I also struggle to get anything done. A lot of the time I get fricked over by what are supposed to be my "superpowers". I just feel like "you need to embrace your superpowers" is a fancy modern way of the classic "you just need to try harder". Other people don't have to do all this mental gymnastics, can't I be lazy for once?

[luckyladylily]

So a few months ago there was the discourse about would you rather meet a man or a bear in the woods. I didn't want to touch it while the discourse was hot and everyone dug in hard because those are not good conditions for nuance, but I waited until today, June 1st, for a specific reason.

I'm not going to take a position in the bear vs man debate because I don't think it matters. What is really being asked here is how afraid are you of men? Specifically, unexpected men who are, perhaps, strange.

People have a lot of very real fear of men that comes from a lot of very real places. Back when I was first transitioning in 2015 and 2016, I decided to start presenting as a woman in public even though I did not pass in the slightest.

I live in a red state. I knew other trans women who had been attacked by men, raped by men. I knew I was taking a risk by putting myself out there. I was the only visibly trans person in the area of campus I frequented, and people made sure I never forgot that. Most were harmless enough and the worst I got from them was curious stares. Others were more aggressive, even the occasional threat. I had to avoid public bathrooms, of course, and always be aware of my surroundings.

I know how frightening it is to be alone at night while a pair of men are following behind you and not knowing if they are just going in the same direction or if they want to start something - made all the worse for the constant low level threat I had been living under for over a year by just being visibly trans in a place where many are openly hostile to queer people. You have to remember, this was at the height of the first wave of bathroom law discussions, a lot of people were very angry about trans women in particular. My daily life was terrifying at times. I was never the subject of direct violence, but I knew trans women who had been.

I want you to keep all that in mind.

So man or bear is really the question "how afraid of men are you?", and the question that logically follows is "What if there was a strange man at night in a deserted parking lot?" or "What if you were alone in an elevator with a man?" or "What if you met a strange man in the woman's bathroom?"

My state recently passed an anti trans bathroom bill. The rhetoric they used was about protecting women and children from "strange men", aka trans women.

Conservatives hijack fear for their bigoted agenda.

When I first started presenting as a woman the campus apartment complex was designed for young families. The buildings were in a large square with playgrounds in the center, and there were often children playing. I quickly noticed that when I took my daughter out to play, often several children would immediately stop what they were doing and run back inside. It didn't take me long to confirm that the parents were so afraid of "the strange man who wears skirts" that their children were under strict instructions to literally run away as soon as they saw me.

"How afraid are you of a strange man being near your children?"

I mentioned above that I had to avoid public bathrooms. This was not because of men. It was because of women who were so afraid of random men that they might get violent or call someone like the police to be violent for them if I ever accidentally presented myself in a way that could be interpreted as threatening, when my mere presence could be seen as a threat. If I was in the library studying and I realized that it was just me and one other woman I would get up and leave because she might decide that stranger danger was happening.

Your fear is real. Your fear might even come from lived experiences. None of that prevents the fact that your fear can be violent. Women's fear of men is one of the driving forces of transmisogyny because it is so easy to hijack. And it isn't just trans women. Other trans people experience this, and other queer people too. Racial minorities, homeless people, neurodivergent people, disabled people.

When you uncritically engage with questions like man or bear, when you uncritically validate a culture of reactive fear, you are paving the way for conservatives and bigots to push their agenda. And that is why I waited until pride month. You cannot engage and contribute to the culture of reactive fear without contributing to queerphobia of all varieties. The sensationalist culture of reactive fear is a serious queer issue, and everyone just forgot that for a week as they argued over man or bear. I'm not saying that "man" is the right answer. I am saying that uncritically engaging with such obvious click bait trading on reactive fear is a problem. Everyone fucked up.

It is not a moral failing to experience fear, but it is a moral responsibility to keep a handle on that fear and know how it might harm others.

[sxlphie]

Still haven't processed the experience of FFVII Rebirth and I literally beat it months ago. So much happened

[dalishthunder]

Committed a social faux pas today and I hate it

[zafiro-anyejo]

.