#and this band seemingly no longer exists

[fuctacles]

Part 2 of the series that can't be named (it's the cat lady steph)

😺 | 😺😺😺

Eddie doesn't think more about Steph until there's a knock on the door on Saturday morning. He sighs, knowing it's his duty to open since his uncle would take forever on his crutch. And because he's a good nephew and wouldn't make him do that, of course.

He doesn't bother with the peephole, his sleepy brain basically forgetting of its existence. It's only when he opens the door and finds Steph with a duffel bag on the other side, that he realizes he went to open the door in nothing but his old Iron Man pajama bottoms.

"Good morning!" Steph greets him with a bright smile that falters a bit when her gaze drops to his tattooed chest. Eddie couldn't imagine a sight of zombie and spider tattoos giving him any credit in her pretty, middle-aged eyes. She quickly looks back up to meet his gaze. "Did I wake you up?" she asks, looking apologetic. 

Eddie shakes his head, hoping it would send his hair over his shoulders, and cover him up a bit. 

"I did!" Wayne pipes up from the kitchen. He sounds way too happy about running into a cupboard on his way out of the bathroom.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne!" she calls out, making Eddie roll his eyes.

"You can just come in, no need to yell through the whole place."

"Right, sorry," she steps inside tentatively, her hand clutching the strap of her bag. She's wearing a colorful windbreaker and her hair is tied up, showing off the soft line of her jaw and the beauty marks on her neck. She heads to the kitchen, seemingly already knowing her way around, and Eddie closes the door behind her. He quickly runs off to his bedroom (/guest room, now that he's on campus most of the time) and grabs a t-shirt to cover his nipples, tattoos, and overall unattractiveness.

"Visiting Robin for the weekend?" He catches his uncle's question when he steps back in. 

It rubs him the wrong way, not knowing who Robin is. Is he Steph's boyfriend? Maybe they're doing long-distance? He returns to the ancient coffee maker he had abandoned to open the door.

"Yeah. I haven't seen Rob since last month. Our days off finally aligned."

"Can't you stay there longer? I'm sure Eddie wouldn't mind taking care of your cats for a day or two more."

"Hey!" Eddie whips around to glare at his uncle. The coffee maker splutters behind him. "Don't just offer my services like that," he scoffs. Then, he turns to Steph. "I wouldn't, though."

She chuckles and he grins, simply happy to make her smile.

"Try dealing with them alone first, and then we'll talk. But, you really wouldn't mind? If I stayed a day longer?"

He shakes his head.

"Not at all." He still has Wayne's words fresh in his mind. That people weren't kind to her, that she doesn't have many friends to rely on. "I'm assuming Robin is someone important to you?" he half-asks, leaning against the counter all casually. 

Just the thought of Robin makes Steph glow.

"She's my best friend. We met at our first job serving ice cream."

Eddie's a bit embarrassed at the relief of knowing Robin is a girl. Still, a best friend is higher in ranks than your friendly neighbour's nephew. 

"What's it been? Twenty years?" Wayne asks. Steph nods, making him whistle. "I couldn't stand any of my coworkers for longer than a shift."

"Maybe you're bad at making friends," Eddie butts in. "I've known Gareth since high school and we're still going strong."

"You guys are band buddies, that's different," Wayne scoffs. 

"You play in a band?" Steph picks up, her eyes shining with interest that Eddie squirms under.

"Yeah, we play metal though. Probably not your stuff."

She shakes her head.

"Any music can be good when you put your heart into it. My friends listen to all kinds of weird stuff, I've heard everything from classical to experimental techno." She rolls her eyes. "I'd love to hear your music if you have anything recorded. Or you could give me a heads up if you're playing somewhere."

All Eddie can do is stare at her, dumbfounded. 

"Uh-huh."

Wayne, bless his sometimes useful soul, saves his ass by changing the subject.

"Coffee?" he asks the stunning woman at their table. She's just sitting there, in the Munson abode at their kitchen table while they're still in pajamas like it's normal. Eddie wants it to be normal. Wants to sit in her lap and listen to her laugh. 

She looks at her watch. It's white, she must be cleaning it often.

"I only have fifteen more minutes before I really have to go."

"Half a coffee then," Eddie decides for her, grabbing the mugs. She chuckles.

"Fine." She rolls her eyes.

Each of them gets their coffee, and Eddie notes Steph takes her with just a splash of milk. Before he can ask anything, to push their small morning gathering further into a friendly small talk, she reaches into her pocket to fish out her house key.

"I came over to drop the keys," she says, pushing them towards Eddie. "And if you have something to write on, I'll give you Robin's house number in case of emergencies."

"Sure, yeah." He nods, standing up immediately to look for the notepad they plan the grocery list in. In his haste, he catches Wayne's amused stare. He sends him a frown, but the man is already looking away, which only further agitates him. 

[captain-hawks]

How about more band!au jean??? maybe post-show andrenaline rush sexy times or something?

ghosts of you and me

jean kirstein x f!reader

you weren't exactly planning on fucking your musician ex-boyfriend in the backseat of his jeep in the parking lot of a concert venue months after your painful breakup. and yet—

wc: 1.9k

18+

c: smut (with feelings!), band!au jean, exes to lovers, car sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, tattooed!jean, jean’s big dick

“Jean,” you whine, fingers tightly grasping the headrest for purchase, the plastic seat belt clip digging into your knee. 

The car creaks and groans, and Jean’s mouth is hot and wet against the tender juncture between your shoulder and neck, fingers splayed across your lower back. You tell yourself it’s the adrenaline—the way the stifling air in the backseat of Jean’s shitty old Jeep feels like an overworked rubber band that’s about to snap. 

It’s nothing more than muscle memory—the way the divots of your spine intimately remember the steady pressure of his fingertips along each notch. 

It’s a reflex—the way you reach up to rake a hand through his messy brown hair, revelling in the way his breath hitches beneath your touch. The answering stutter of your heartbeat in kind.

It’s—

“I missed this,” he shudders, every ounce of his wrecked tone thrashing helplessly, ruthlessly against your ribcage.

You missed it, too. 

Even if you shouldn’t.

—

“Thanks for coming out tonight, everyone.”

The final guitar chords crackle over the amp as the band's set comes to an end, the drums petering out while the bright, colorful lights flooding the stage slowly fade into darkness. Turning toward the bar, you slide onto a stool while the crowd bursts into excited murmurs. Cool air wafts into the humid room from the double doors at the entrance as people begin to disperse and make their way outside.

And despite the fact that the continuous rush of amplified sound is no longer vibrating throughout the room, your heart hasn’t quite gotten the memo as it dances an unsteady beat in your chest.

The bartender slides you a cup of water, and it’s halfway to your lips when a voice beside you interrupts, “Can I get you something stronger?”

You don’t immediately respond, taking a slow sip before looking over the rim of the glass at the man sitting in the stool beside yours. Though you’ve never met him, you’re fairly certain he was in one of the opening bands.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He quirks a brow, seemingly a little taken aback that his messy auburn hair and boyish grin aren’t enough to garner more of your attention. 

“You sure?” he asks.

“She’s said she’s good,” an all-too familiar voice cuts in from behind you, a little rough after being poured into a microphone for the past forty minutes but settling deep in your gut all the same, and the weight of an arm settles around your shoulders.

The man’s eyes widen a little as he takes in the sight of the tall man you know is standing there, and he murmurs an awkward apology before seeing himself out, leaving his half-full drink behind. 

Leaning your head back against the warmth of a solid chest, you look up and meet Jean Kirstein’s gaze. “Maybe he just wanted to see if I could get him backstage to meet the headliner.”

He snorts, “That’s what you think?”

“The lead singer’s pretty hot,” you shrug, like this banter between yourself and Jean is still considered normal. 

Like you didn’t break up six months ago.

Like this wound isn’t still fresh.

Like your skin isn’t ignited, set aflame, burning helplessly beneath his touch.

As you turn around to face him fully, Jean casually leans against the bar, and you do your best not to allow yourself the privilege of roving your eyes over the fresh tattoo nestled in the crook of his elbow, the bold colors standing out amongst the existing sleeve covering the expanse of his arm. The trails and lines of ink are slick with sweat, and it’s a battle in and of itself to try and forget all the paths your fingers and mouth have traced across them.

All the ways those designs have been pressed flush against your skin, slick with sweat for an entirely different reason.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Jean says carefully, referring to the text he’d sent you last week with a screenshot of an email confirming you were on the guest list for his band’s first hometown show in months. 

The first text he’d sent you in just as long. 

You’re still not sure what possessed you to, given that Jean’s unforgiving, tiring tour schedule was the crux of your breakup in the first place. 

“I didn’t think I was going to either.” Inhaling slowly, you slide off of the stool. “I should go.”

Jean’s eyes track the movement of your keys now clasped in your hand. “Can I walk you to your car?”

--

Foolishly, you thought this might give you closure—watching Jean sing and yell and trail his fingers along his guitar strings beneath the blazing stage lights from your place at the back of the room. You thought you would know you both made the right choice when you looked at him and no longer felt a sharp, stabbing ache of what once was. 

But the moment he stepped onto the stage and drug a hand through his messy hair, the light catching on the stupid green woven bracelet you snugly tied onto his wrist two summers ago, all the air left your lungs in a rush as a dizzy feeling poured over you.

And now you’re straddling Jean in the backseat of the same goddamn car you shared your first kiss in, the same car he bent you over the hood of on a balmy summer evening parked right on the beach beside the crashing waves, the same car you fucking cried your eyes out in when you realized this wasn’t going to work anymore.

The same car you slammed the passenger door of and didn’t turn back, not even when Jean’s headlights sat idle at the curb long after you stumbled into your apartment.

You could blame him for the way his hand ghosted over your wrist as you slid your car key into the lock on the door handle, his intake of breath audible as his chest brushed against your back, lips buried in your hair as he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

You want to blame him for the way every nerve ending in your body was set alight, the way you were helpless to stop your body’s need to sink into his embrace.

But as your fingers carded upward through the back of his hair—

As a soft little groan rumbled in his throat, his thumb inadvertently stroking your hip through the fabric of your dress—

The trajectory was inevitable, the desperate crash of his mouth against yours, his lips setting every scattered thread of longing ablaze. 

Fog coats the windows of Jean’s car, the opaque swirls of white leaving little to the imagination as the dull glow of the parking lot lights illuminates his lust-blown pupils. Yet you can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’re choking down a whimper at the feeling of his cock sliding horizontally along your slick folds.

One strap of your sundress falls down under the careful tug of Jean’s finger, your bra following, and there’s a reverent sound spilling from his lips as he leans forward to mouth at the breast now exposed to him. He lightly drags his teeth over your peaked nipple, the way he knows will make you squirm and moan, and there’s a rumble of satisfaction in his throat as you arch into his touch and shamelessly grind against his shaft.

Looking up at you, he exhales, his breath hot against your spit-soaked skin. “I don’t have a—”

“I’m still on the pill if you’re—”

“There hasn’t been anyone else.”

His admission hangs heavily in the air between you, your heart fumbling in turn with the words as they repeat in your head.

“But we don’t have to…” he trails off, giving you an out if you want it.

As if you’re not still head over fucking heels.

“Jean, please,” you whisper, past the point of caring about the pathetic way your voice breaks midway through.

He cups your face in both hands, a thumb swiping away the tear sliding down your cheek as he leans in to kiss you softly, tongue flitting across your lower lip. 

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, low and rough. “I’ll give you anything.”

Him.

This.

Everything.

“Fuck me,” you plead.

Jean’s fucked you plenty, and yet even the memory of it pales in comparison to the feeling of him nudging the head of his cock at your entrance, the stretch of his shaft sinking into your tight, soaked cunt to the hilt.

His mouth finds yours again in a messy kiss, both of his hands gripping your waist as he groans into your mouth. “Were you this wet all night?”

You’d be lying if you denied the way your thighs clenched together as Jean tucked his guitar pick between his teeth, callused fingertips deftly working along the strings.

It was embarrassing, the wet patch you could feel forming in your panties as you found yourself lost in the gravelly tone of Jean’s vocals against the mic, your thoughts betraying you with memories of that voice lost between your thighs as he mouthed at your cunt.

“What do you think?” you gasp as he lifts you from his lap just enough to start fucking up into you.

He kisses you again, tongue sliding against yours like he’s fucking your mouth now, too, and it’s so hot and messy that he groans at the feeling of your pussy clenching down on him in turn, a line of spit hanging between your mouths when he pulls back to nip at your swollen bottom lip. 

“I almost called off the show as soon as I spotted you in the back wearing this fucking dress,” he grunts, one hand sliding up your side and grasping your breasts. 

Jean’s dick is so big, it would be borderline painful if the walls of your cunt weren’t intimately familiar with accommodating this euphoric push and drag. You’re already drunk on it—the feeling of being stuffed so goddamn full again. Of the feverish, intense pleasure that comes from riding his cock, your tits bouncing with each jerk of his hips, another fresh wave of sticky arousal leaking out of you. 

“So fucking wet,” he moans appreciatively, hotly mouthing at your neck, fingers digging even harder into your hipbones as the sopping squelch of your cunt is amplified with each thrust. 

There’s a surging, trembling need in the growing sloppy desperation of his length pounding into you, the increasingly strangled way you’re choking out his name and begging him to fuck you harder, harder like some fucked up, filthy prayer. You’re both too keyed up for this to last any longer, not when Jean’s fucking you this deep—like he wants to make sure your pussy will never forget the feeling of his cock buried inside of you. 

And Jean knows you’re close, it’s clear that he remembers how you start to sound like you’re about to cry as you whimper with the white-hot pleasure of your impending climax.

“Come for me,” Jean heaves against your throat, teeth dragging against your sensitive skin. “Come all over my cock.”

You’re lost in the sweeping downpour of pleasure that explodes inside of you, your cunt pulsing and dripping as your walls flutter and contract around Jean’s shaft, every muscle in your body quivering with an overload of ecstasy.

Watching you fall apart sends Jean hurtling toward the edge, your panting, needy plea of, “Inside,” his final undoing as he chokes out a gasp and plunges in hard one last time before emptying himself inside of you, hot, thick cum spilling deep in your cunt.

And despite all this reasons this shouldn’t work, didn’t work, can’t work, won’t fucking work—you don’t care.

Not right now.

Not when your ears are still ringing with the desperate, choked out moan of your name on Jean’s lips as he came.

(Not when you swear you can feel something wet dripping on your skin as he shudders, his face buried against your collarbone.)

[didyoulookforme]

❛ i need to come. please, i'll do anything. ❜

With post Matty 🤭

-Sugar-coat-it <3 <3 <3

here is the first of the blurbs. more to come!

smutty non-sensical ramble below. sorry for any spelling and grammar errors.

having your boyfriend be in a band meant that he’d go on tour from time to time. you were used to it by now. it came with dating a musician. however, you weren’t used to the one condition he gave you before leaving that night.

“just don’t touch yourself while i’m away, alright sweet?”

you remember the way matty licked and bit his bottom lip right after those words left his mouth, giving you a kiss before closing the door and departing for nearly a month.

um, okay…

-----

now, fast forward to the end of may, 27 days and 645 hours later and minutes prior to hopping onstage for his last gig, he has you pinned against the brick wall of the alleyway next door, satin dress bunched up at your hips, and his dick buried deep between your legs, giving you exactly what you had missed the most.

had the waiting been hard? definitely. had it been worth it? absolutely. the sensation when he first touched your clit again made you shudder from head to toe, itself almost enough to make you come right then and there. you had to wait, though. you need him to fuck you senseless to make up for the restless mornings spent with clenched, sore thighs. it’s your screwed up version of heaven at this point in time.

you notice the lipstick smeared across his mouth, its cool red tint near identical to that of his swollen lips and almost too damn perfect to touch. but you can't help yourself. you drag your right thumb across his bottom lip, tugging at it until the colour spreads across his cheek, that familiar glint in his eye letting you know that it absolutely drove him mad, as well.

“baby,” he pulls your hair in need of attention, “you feel so damn good right now.”

that certainly doesn't help with your crippling need to come, but fuck, you swear you’ve never seen him so eager to please, holding on to your waist like his life depends on it as he shamelessly buries himself into you. it's all too much.

“i need to come. please, i'll do anything.”

you didn’t mind begging anymore. he got off on it, anyway.

“just be my good girl and hold on a bit longer, ‘kay?”

the small whimpers from your lips only make him tease you more, swiping his tongue across your flushed cheek and followed by thousands of kisses peppered on your face.

“matty, please. it’s been so lon–ah fuck fuck.”

yet he still somehow finds the strength to thrust harder despite your pleas.

“jus–just a bit more. you can do it sweet girl. i know you can hold off for me.”

he laughs at your mumbling mix of groans and moans against his neck, seemingly too fucked out to lift your head upright anymore. there’s a clear wet spot on the collar of his shirt from the spit falling from your mouth but you honestly couldn’t care less at this moment. all that’s on your mind is the feeling of him rutting inside you, hitting that spot that he never fails to find. thank fucking god.

”y’know, sweet?”

it takes all of your concentration to breathe out a pathetic ‘yes'.

“i-i didn’t touch myself either,” he admits against your ear, fingers softly combing through your hair, “while i was gone.”

your boyfriend abstaining from jerking off? no. fucking. way.

“i can play nice, too.”

you are gone.

your hips frantically grind against your control. those imaginary white speckles form inside your eyelids from holding them shut so tight. the pulsing pressure between your legs enough to make him fall apart and take him along to that special place where only the two of your exist.

matty matty matty.

his fingernails digging into your skin. his whimpers heavy against your lips. the warmth of his cum spilling inside you. it was all him.

"oh my fucking god, darling. sh–shit."

you chuckle at the way your body trembles against his, pretty sure that if he wasn’t there you’d fall flat on your face. but it seems like he isn’t faring much better, his own limbs shaking underneath him as his own orgasm lingers on, a mess of curls mindlessly burying into your chest.

and once he slips out, you instantly feel his cum drip down your leg, something he’s obviously aware of as he keeps mumbling apology after apology between sweet, breathy laughs.

“you’re so not fucking sorry, matthew.”

“mmm. know me all too well, darling.”

that you did and you were forever thankful for it, however it doesn’t stop you from playfully shoving him away, only for him to immediately come back and kiss you for the millionth time that night. yeah, you definitely missed having his so close.

you lift up your dress to see your thighs covered in his cum, strings of it slowly falling down your skin. "um... not really sure what to do about this now."

“can always give you more if you want.”

“you fucking wish,” (honestly you did, too.)

to your surprise he takes off his shirt, kneeling down and dragging the dark fabric to wipe your skin clean, not stopping from licking some of it himself.

“there.” he looks you up and down, “think that’s a bit better, sweet.”

and you know that him using his favourite mazzy star shirt was his own strange matty way to say ‘i love you.’

[thenightwolf51]

So i just read this post about the Bats being Warlocks with Danny as their Patron and its super great, amazing work @aziraphale-is-a-cat and @percyisawesome

At first i thought Lady Gotham was going to be their Patron, because i immediately forgot i was reading a crossover, and that sparked an idea.

What if Lady Gotham doesn't exist and Phantom was the Gotham city spirit.

So DPxDC idea where Phantom was the first recorded Hero/Meta way back before the Justice League members were even born, because i love those stories, but if course no one knew that back then. Metas weren't a thing yet.

So things go as canon but eventually the GIW get worse and worse, especially as more and more of Amity becomes Liminal from ambient ecto leaking from the portal.

And the GIW, way too confident with the Anti Ecto Acts in place, decide that Amity Park is a lost cause. They launch a major attack the town and destroy the portal in the process.

And even though i think the surviving Amity Parkers would buckle down, stand strong, and rebuild their town. For the sake of this idea, lets say they don't do that.

Instead the survivors band together and decide they need to leave, get as far from the GIW's main base of operations as they can.

They go right.

They end up in Gotham, New Jersey.

Now, im messing with the timeline a bit. I still kinda want the DP parts to be early 2000s, maybe late 80s/early 90s at the least, so the uniquely DC events im pushing to later in time a bit.

So lets say Gotham, while still pretty old and with its history and subtle curses, never really expanded into the huge city we normally think of. No towering skyscrapers or really any huge buildings, is barely a small city at this point.

And then an influx of new residents from the west cause a need to expand. Over the generations the former Amity Parkers help Gotham become what we know in Bruces time. By then they're just Gothamites, and if their subtle limiality is to attribute for the modern Gothamite's durability and the eventual rogues' whole... thing well its been way too long to place blame on that random group of refugees.

And where was Phantom in all this? Watching over his people. The portal and his family are gone, he cant be Danny because the survivors believe he died when FentonWorks exploded, all he really has at the moment is these people who's lives he believes he inadvertently destroyed.

So he watches over them, then their descendants and the seemingly unfortunate people of their new home. This little city has afew old curses that are holding the residents back and making them miserable, its the least he can do to take some of them on for himself, just make things easier for the people.

Eventually the city becomes his new haunt, becomes a part of him as he helps it grow and expand. And some Amity descendants still spread the urban legend that is the Phantom of Gotham.

(Just a little side detail that im not sure how to add in but i really like the idea of Liminality eventually evolving or mutating into the meta gene if there's not enough ambient ectoto keep it active. Maybe the portal sent out a shock wave of radiation when it was destroyed. Not everyone was affected but for those who were it either was so subtle the effects fade within a month from the lack of enough ambient ecto or went dormant until it became a meta gene and no longer needed ecto.

I dont know, i mostly like the irony of Batman's "no meta's in Gotham" rule when most of Gotham was unknowingly built by the original "metas")

@hdgnj @dcxdpdabbles @nelkcats @nerdpoe @ailithnight @tathartiel

And @omnicrafts , hope your feeling better

[piratefishmama]

Crossing the Line | Part 5

The odds of finding one feral little metalhead in such a large city without any starting point to go off of were slim at best. Okay that was being generous, the odds were basically non-existent as Steve had been telling Robin for the past hour as they wandered the streets seemingly without aim.

“Rob, we should just buy the tickets and see his band! What’s the worst that can happen?”

“We lose our hearing to people who can’t play their instruments properly, you get rejected publicly, someone throws up on us, we wind up in the mosh pit and you get your THIRD concussion, someone spills their drink on me, or on you, you get recognised and publicly ridiculed for wearing a goddamn sweater vest to a metal gig because I saw you pack your bag what in god’s name, Steven.”

“It’s comfortable.” Steve grumbled in response, momentarily subdued by all of her good points “at least it’s monotonal.” It was a grey knit number, one of his softest. “And I was gonna put a black shirt under it.��

“Yep, no, we’re not doing that, you’re not wearing that. If we must go to the gig and I do mean if we must, you’re going to need another outfit, so we’re going to spend today shopping for that, then head back to the apartment and strategize. We can divide and conquer, you take one half of the city, I’ll take the other, we meet in the middle for coffee.”

“…One half of a city. Where even is the middle of it? How is that a plan?”

“Not the best first plan but it’s the planning stage of the plan, and the planning stage is AFTER shopping, so don’t judge the plan until the planning stage of the plan.”

“You said plan a lot.”

“Less talk more thrift shop, let’s go.” His hand grabbed and away they went. It didn’t matter how rich he was, Robin loved thrift shopping, and after meeting her and knocking down her walls of distrust and uncertainty until they became practically joined at the hip platonic soulmates, finding out how many little treasures you could actually find in those shops, he kind of loved it too. It was an experience he wouldn’t have ever gotten without her, an experience that only added to the down to earth personality that’d developed as he grew older with her.

He didn’t know who he’d be without Robin… probably the same douchebag everyone kind of expected him to be. The douchebag he’d been in his teen years perhaps, partying, drinking, doing drugs, trying to be something he wasn’t to impress the people around him when all they cared about was the vestiges of fame trickling from his being.

Perhaps she’d saved his life by just being there. So he’d indulge a little tomfoolery for her sake.

Even if it did wind up with his feet hurting and his arms aching carrying bags of things he’d never ever wear but might have to for true love, trudging down some random street while Robin looked for some weird non-chain coffee shop because Starbucks held no soul.

“Robin can we just— look, right there, Starbucks, we can go in Starbucks, it’ll be fine, in and out!”

“I’m not going in Starfucks, there’s always some idiot instagraming the weird spelling of their name on the cup as if it’s not a Starbucks ploy to get them free advertising.”

“Or someone claiming to be Voldemort as if the barista would actually shout “he who must not be named” for the brief moment of twitter fame reporting it would bring them.”

“Or tacky mass-produced merch.”

“Or overpriced desserts that aren’t worth it.”

“Or—Ooh!! Lookie, there’s one!” They probably could have gone on for longer, but Robin spotted the little brown shop with large dark windows at the end of the street with a hanging sign outside similar to one found on old bars only this one had two coffee beans on it with the word The Roast written in cursive around the beans. And up close it looked like every rustic coffee shop ever made.

Simple, lots of browns and warm white lighting.

“Down the road from a Starbucks? That’s a gutsy business move.” Steve hummed with the most basic amount of interest as he entered through the door Robin held open for him.

“Honestly you’re never more than a stones throw away from a Starbucks, pick any direction I bet we’ll find another within two blocks.”

“That’s fair.” They made it all the way to the counter where a lone, bored employee leaned heavily against the thick wooden countertop, flicking through a magazine of some kind, the board above him strewn with funnily named coffee drinks and little doodles to match them, Steve found his eyes drawn to that while the Barista released a deep

“Welcome to The Roast, what can I get for you?” Without looking up from his magazine.

“Alright, I’ll have a uhm—ow—Robin, what—ow would you stop elbowing me?”

“Steve.”

“What?” He followed her pointer finger to the man now looking at him with the widest, brownest, most beautiful Bambi eyes he’d ever seen in his goddamn life and all thoughts just kind of drifted away, replaced with the single word… pretty. “Oh…Hello...”

Part 7

[dulltoned]

Branch's boyband days are far behind him. Far, far behind him. He's way too busy to be singing and dancing and playing games. He's building the hideout-- his bunker-- and it's a lot of work to dig out the rooms and start collecting all the supplies and provisions he'll need in the years to come. His grandma is gone, he has no idea where his brothers are or when they'll come back, and the rest of the village isn't really his biggest fan. It's just him and he needs to keep his head on straight.

It's not his fault these other trolls won't leave him alone.

__

A oneshot collection that tries to build a canonical way for Kismet to exist while exploring how the other members of the band came into Branch's life, how they grew to be close friends, and the trials they help each other through along the way

Admittedly, Branch could have planned this better. He left the bunker a few hours ago to restock the wood for his construction supplies and he already had two large bundles but he needed three. He realized a little too late that he didn't really have the means to carry three full bundles through the woods. He glares down at the bundles he already has. He was almost a fully grown troll now, only a few years out from adulthood, and he should've thought about this before he even left the bunker. He's learned the hard way that he can't rely on anyone else and he can't afford to make stupid mistakes like this. The Bergens could show up at any time and if he's unprepared it could mean his death.

"Damn it," He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the budding headache. He could probably fashion some sort of strap out of a vine or two so he could carry one of the bundles on his back but he was a long way away from the bunker and he didn't want to hurt himself if he could avoid it. He'd be leaving himself vulnerable if he pulled something and that was an amateur mistake he won't be repeating. It's looking like he might need to make a second trip if he wants to have everything he needs for the next room expansion but a glance up at the sky quickly puts a stop to those plans. The sky is overcast and heavy with dark clouds rolling in. He'd be caught in the storm if he had to walk all the way to the bunker and back again but he'd already collected all the suitable material from around the clearing he's built the bunker in. Any and all wood he could collect would be soaked through and useless if he tried to do two trips. He didn't want the structural support in his walls to be warped after all. "Come on, Branch." He sighs, tapping his foot as he tries to decide the lesser evil. He needs the supplies if he's going to be productive and it'd throw a wrench in his plans to push back the expansion.

He's resigned himself to an aching back when he hears a light humming coming from the bushes to his right. His ears twitch, alert, as he turns to face the incoming stranger. The humming gets louder, occasionally forming mumbled lyrics, and Branch's shoulders rise with building tension as the noise gets closer. He doesn't have time to gather up the supplies and get out of there before he's spotted so he waits anxiously for the inevitable confrontation.

It's not too much longer before a yellow glitter troll emerges from the bushes, pushing aside the foliage with one paw and holding a large handful of red berries in the other. He's singing the last notes of whatever song he had stuck in his head under his breath, seemingly unaware of Branch as he picks some stray twigs from his purple hair and brushes leaves from his trousers. He pops one of the berries into his mouth. Branch is hoping that maybe the other troll will just walk right past him and leave him be. He's never been lucky. The troll stumbles to a stop when he catches Branch out of the corner of his eye and for a few seconds the two just stare at each other with wide eyes. The glitter troll shakes himself from his stupor and offers a soft smile, "Hey, didn't see you there," he greets. There's no judgment or hesitation in his eyes when he talks to Branch and it catches him off guard.

"Uh, hey," He stutters before he can remind himself to ignore the intrusion. The glitter troll doesn't so much as blink at the awkward response though. Instead he pops another berry into his mouth and steps closer to get a better look at the heavy bundles of wood Branch has left on the ground. "Whew, that's a lot of wood." He remarks curiously, turning green eyes to look at Branch more closely. He still doesn't say anything about Branch's gray pelt or the colorless black of his hair and Branch doesn't know when the other shoe will drop but it's starting to make his skin itch. He doesn't like this attention, he feels oddly exposed beneath this random troll's warm gaze. "Are you in construction or something?" Branch raises an unimpressed eyebrow in response. The troll blinks, confused, before he suddenly perks up, "Oh, I'm Boom by the way." Branch hadn't been looking for an introduction but he supposes it's nice to put a name to the face he'd like to avoid.

Branch doesn't reply. He decides that he doesn't know what this troll wants but he isn't inclined to give it to him. He looks back down at his supplies and commits to his backpack idea. He nods sternly to himself and heads off towards one of the nearby trees covered in thick vines and moss tangled in the gigantic bark. He doesn't bother to keep track of Boom as he sets about his task. It takes him a few minutes to assess the tree to determine that the best way to get down the vines would be to climb up and cut them off. He's startled out of his thoughts when Boom makes himself known again.

"So," the glitter troll drawls, popping another berry into his mouth. Branch scowls. "Do you want some help with that?" He asks, not looking away from the vines Branch had been appraising.

"No," Branch grinds out, easily extending his hair up to loop around an especially thick vine that swoops back up all the way into the foliage. He pulls himself up with ease and balances precariously on the thick body of the plant. He digs a small pocket knife out of his pocket and cuts through the vine with a single slice, using the severed end to swing back down to the ground. He doesn't spare a glance at Boom as he estimates the length he'll need before cutting it accordingly.

"Cool," Boom beams. He doesn't gush or awe but he nods at the impressive feat. Not dismissive but not over the top either. Branch can't figure out what he wants. He growls and coils up his vine before stomping back over to his abandoned wood bundles. Boom, of course, merrily follows after him.

Branch does his best to ignore the pest that's latched onto him and shrugs the rolled-up vine up onto his shoulder. Boom only watches on in silence as Branch hefts one bundle of wood up beneath each arm and begins his trek further into the woods. Branch expects the glitter troll to give up after he so rudely brushed him aside but no such luck. Instead, Boom trails after him, popping another berry into his mouth before holding out the dwindling handful in a silent offer. Branch shoots him a dirty look and picks up the pace.

Boom follows. No matter how far into the forest Branch goes Boom is right on his heel. Branch feels his irritation growing until he can't just grit his teeth and bear it anymore. His head falls back with a loud groan before he whips around to face the offending troll, "What do you want!" He demands, glaring daggers at his self-appointed shadow.

Boom blinks. He ran out of berries a few paces back but that still hadn't deterred him from following Branch around like a lost cuddle puppy. "Sorry man, I guess I just figured you could use some company?"

Branch blinks back, brows furrowing, "What could have possibly given you that impression?" He huffs, adjusting the wood in his arms. His arms were already starting to burn and he hadn't ever collected the third bundle yet. He was going to be sore tomorrow but he could work through it he's sure.

"Well you just seemed kind of upset," Boom shrugs with a kind smile on his face like that was a decent excuse.

Branch scoffs and rolls his eyes, "I'm grey." He says like it explains exactly why that was such a ridiculous reason. To him, it does. People around the village avoided him. The adults weren't unkind but they looked at him with undisguised unease and discomfort. A lot of the younger trolls could be borderline cruel. Mocking words were often thrown his way by trolls his age and even if he wanted friends-- which he didn't-- it wasn’t like anyone wanted to spend time with someone like him. He was bad luck; unhappy and miserable just like the Bergens that killed Grandma.

Boom shrugs, "So?" Branch was used to the blind optimism of Troll Village but this was too much.

"What do you think that means?" Branch snarls, his temper rising again.

"That you could use some company." Boom throws back, a smug look sliding across his face when Branch could only blink back. The tables have turned, it seems.

Branch sighs, glaring at the glitter troll who only grinned back unfazed. They stand locked in a stare-down for a minute before Branch rolls his eyes and drops one of his bundles to the floor, rolling his shoulder to ease the ache. It feels good to shift the weight, the one bundle is a much easier burden to carry. "If you're not going to leave you could at least be helpful." He sniffs, turning his glare down to the floor. He likes being alone. There's no one who can disappoint him if there's no one there. There's no one to lose if he has no one to care about. But he can admit that it's lonely. It hurts to be disregarded by the same trolls who watched him and his brothers grow up before BroZone fell apart and Grandma died. He's been tossed aside so carelessly time and time again but Boom still lingered no matter how unkind Branch was. It was stupid how this hesitant yearning sparked in his chest.

Whatever. They weren't friends. He'd probably never see Boom again. If nothing else he can at least get an extra pair of hands out of this.

Boom absolutely beams and scoops up the bundle of wood with a small grunt of effort, "You got it!" He's way too excited for Branch's liking and he looks far too content to be doing manual labor for a stranger in the woods but whatever. If it'll keep Branch from unnecessary pain and keep him on schedule then he'd be an idiot to say no. They travel through the woods in relative silence as Branch picks up more sturdy-looking branches and Boom occasionally hums a stray melody. Boom doesn't lose the bounce in his step for even a second, happily following Branch along, and even occasionally picking up a few stray pieces of wood himself to add to their growing collection. Still, he doesn't say anything unkind or start asking invasive questions. He just follows behind Branch and helps without so much as a complaint. Branch still doesn't understand but he's starting to accept that maybe this was all there was to it and there wasn't some secret agenda lurking around the corner.

"So, what's all this for?" Boom asks when Branch ties up the last bundle and calls their search finished.

Branch narrows his eyes at the glitter troll and hefts up the two bundles. "Why?" He asks, voice thick with suspicion. He appreciated the help but that doesn't mean he was any closer to this stranger than he was before. He's already gotten teased enough about the bunker for a lifetime, thank you very much.

Boom shrugs, "Just wondering," he replies with a lighthearted grin, "You don't have to tell me or anything, I'm just curious." He adjusts the wood held a bit awkwardly in his arms, "It's just a lot, I figured it had to be for something specific."

This has to be some sort of bait. Word got around about the grey troll allegedly living underground, there was no way he hadn't heard something about it, and Branch was the only gray troll in the whole village. He huffs and turns on his heel, starting the long trek back to the bunker. The sky was dark and gray, a near-perfect match for the desaturated color of Branch's skin, and it was clear they didn't have much time before they got caught in the storm. He hears Boom pick up his happy humming as he follows after Branch without so much as a disappointed whine. It does nothing to ease Branch's confusion.

The walk back to the bunker passes in the same way the wood scavenging did and Branch wonders how someone could be so content despite getting no answers about the work they were doing. It's a while before he can see the clearing where the bunker's entrance was located but when he spots it up ahead he swiftly picks up speed. Even only carrying one bundle of wood under each arm he could still feel the weight dragging his shoulders down and he's certain that he's still gonna be sore come tomorrow morning. He can't imagine the way his body would've ached had he forced himself to lug all three bundles back by himself. There's no way in hell he'll tell Boom that.

"You can leave it here." Branch hums, dropping his own two loads onto the grass beside the hidden trap door that would finally bring him home.

Boom blinks in surprise, shifting his armful with uncertainty, "Are you sure? These things are heavy, I'm more than happy to help you take them home." Even after carrying wood through the woods for what couldn't have been any less than two hours the glitter troll is still offering more help. Branch supposes that was the way the troll community worked at its core but he's spent the majority of his life isolated from that both by choice and by circumstance. It's weirding him out.

"This is fine." He replies curtly.

"If you're sure…" Boom trails off, lowering the wood down beside the supplies Branch left on the grass. "I had a lot of fun, though, thanks." The glitter troll smiles over at him, running his hands through that deep purple hair, and Branch looks back in utter confusion.

"We just walked through the woods," Branch huffs. "I made you carry like thirty pounds around for hours." He gestures to the wood at his feet. He just doesn't get this troll and it's starting to really get on his nerves.

Boom shrugs for what must be the umpteenth time and his smile only brightens, "Yeah, but I kind of enjoy the stormy days and I was out for a walk anyway. You're a bit prickly but you don't make bad company." That, Branch knows, is a downright lie. He only raises a disbelieving eyebrow in response but Boom just laughs. "I'll see you around, maybe?" He asks, tilting his head.

Branch shrugs back, "It probably can't be helped." They both lived in the same village after all.

"Cool," Boom nods, offering a cheery wave before turning around and making his leave back the way they came. No more questions. No pushing, no scathing remarks, no disappointment. Nothing. Just a seemingly heartfelt admission of enjoying their time together and a cheerful goodbye. Weird.

Branch shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he opens the hatch and pushes his supplies in first. It's perfect timing, really, as the first roll of thunder rings out just after he hops down into the bunker entrance. He makes sure to fasten all the locks behind him. He hasn't perfected the tech to open and close the hatch at the push of a button so all the locks were manual for the time being. He was almost there, though, he could feel the breakthrough on the horizon. He can hear the rain start to drizzle down as he drags the wood over the elevator platform and it's a soothing sound. He'd probably still be walking back to the bunker if it wasn't for Boom, weighed down by everything they'd collected. Huh. He doesn't give it too much thought as he pushes down the elevator lever, hoping that the thing will work this time and he won't have to haul the wood down the stairs. It's only when the elevator gets stuck halfway down that he realizes Boom never even asked for his name.

[eoieopda]

CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE BABY, here have some flowers 💐

here i come with a humble request 🫡

i was thinking of a hobi + secret relationship trope... maybe smutty too if you're up for it lol 👉🏽👈🏽

can't wait for the drabbles you're gonna write omg 😭🤲🏽

what lua wants, lua gets 🫡 tbh i think this is one of my favorite things i’ve ever written, so tysm for unwittingly setting that stage 🫣

the one where hoseok plays with fire

pairing: degenerate!hoseok x afab!reader type: (d) angst, smut (18+) | wc: 1.6k au: secret/forbidden relationship, rival gangs, romeo & juliet kinda vibes 🤫 cw: acknowledgement of membership in street gangs but just to explain the dynamic (no depictions of gang activity); minor threat (not the band, just the potential consequences of their actions); public (ish?) sex; unprotected p in v penetration; not much in the way of foreplay because i’m operating under a word limit, lol; biting, a lil bit; gratuitous imagery of hoseok wearing chains 🫣 a/n: this popped into my head while listening to $20 by boygenius on reeeeepeeeeaaaaat. def check out this song (and the record!) there’s a direct quote from the song in the dialogue, btw. credit for that bolded bit goes to julien thee baker.

There’s a decommissioned junkyard outside of town. It sits within a constellation of run-down warehouses and empty parking lots, and has a gravitational pull all its own. Finding it doesn’t take much, just fifteen minutes on the expressway, two turns at perpetually-blinking traffic lights, and a specific strain of desperation not many will ever know the likes of. It’s desolate and depressing, but despite all that, it’s a sanctuary.

A hill to die on.

You’d spent more time there lately than you’d ever be free to admit. A veritable coffee stain on a map, you’re not sure that its existence on that side street was anyone’s conscious decision. Likewise, you can’t say for certain that the drop of its name would mean anything to anyone. It means everything to you, however, so asking after recognition isn’t a risk you’re willing to take.

You’re risking enough as it is.

As is usually the case, you’re the first to arrive. When you do, you ignore the dirt that kicks up with every step and swirls around your bare ankles; and you keep walking until you reach your usual perch. The bare-bones, American-made t-top sits where it seemingly always has: on cinder blocks. It’s older than you by thirty years or so, but it groans with vigor when you grip hard to the frame, slide your foot over the exposed wheel hub, and hoist yourself onto the hood.

The bare skin on the back of your thighs is chilled instantly by the paint-chipped metal below you. It loses more and more of its smoothness the longer it sits out, exposed to the elements, but then again, so do you. Maybe that’s why this spot is a hard-fought favorite of yours.

Your crows’ nest, your perfect vantage point. A place to sit and play look-out while your eager eyes scan the driveway ahead.

You hear him before you see him, but that’s purposeful. Hoseok kills the headlamp on his motorcycle before he comes anywhere near the junkyard — just in case, baby. The rumble of his four-stroke engine is one you can feel in your stomach long after he shuts it off. Even when he parks that pristine, second-hand Hyosung somewhere only he’d be able to find it again. Still, when he finally steps under the yellow glow of the street lamp — your only source of light, save for the moon — and he’s all you see.

Hoseok keeps his pace casual as he makes his way to you, but his anticipation is visible in his posture. He’s swallowing words, based on the blatant twitch of his jaw. Always clenched to keep from calling out to you, as if the abandoned area wasn’t chosen for its ability to keep your secrets.

With much more ease than you, he jumps and pulls himself up to the car hood to meet you. The metal creaks under the weight of his body, but when it hovers over you, it’s a sigh of relief. A millisecond can’t pass by before he cages your head in between his arms — palms pressed against the dusty windshield — and swoops down to capture your kiss.

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your lips. His tone is low, hushed, and yet still sandpaper-course in a way that screams I mean it. The distance at which his limited words keep you is contrary to the way he holds you — close to the chest like your feelings are as fleeting as moments like this, gently as if you’ll break apart in his hands.

Like he loves you.

Your fingers instinctively thread themselves in his wind-swept hair — no helmet, no surprise there — and now it’s his turn to sigh. Hoseok tries to pull away, likely to gaze at you the way he always wants to, but you claim his bottom lip between your teeth and refuse to let him — this — go.

It sounds so silly without full use of his mouth:

“Baby,” he warns.

You release him with a smirk, brushing the tip of your nose against his. There’s enough fondness in his eyes to drown in and you would, in a heartbeat, if time was ever on your side.

“Good girl.”

The delicate, cuban-link chain around his neck glints in the half-light. Little slivers of silver dance across your own collarbone as it sways in the space between your bodies. A little constellation, guiding you North from your southside trap to a home you can’t have.

You, who can never seem to leave well-enough alone, run the thin, interlocking rectangles between the tips of your thumb and middle finger. You know you shouldn’t, but you pout, “You’re late.”

Hoseok’s expression says more than he does. You hear, “I know,” but you see, “I didn’t have a choice and I never will.”

He grunts when he sits up onto his knees. Wordlessly, he spills over your side and collects into a puddle in the space next to you. Once he settles, he stares up at the sky. You know he’s focused on something even further away.

“Did someone follow?” You ask gently.

Hand slipping easily into his, your fingers interlock. Links in a chain. Never an accessory to be worn in public.

Hoseok’s mouth pulls up slightly at one corner; and you know what that looks means. It means twenty minutes down the drain, shaking a tail before he can make his way to you. It means that, next time, you may need to find a different hiding spot.

The arm furthest from yours is draped over his abdomen. He moves it, and you move to hover in the space he’s cleared for you. Anchored with your knees on either side of his hips, you cup his jaw with the hand not holding his. For you, he lets himself soften, leans into the warmth of your palm.

You don’t normally say the obvious out loud, but reality doesn’t always stay in the cage you try to lock it in. “We’re playing with fire.”

“In another life,” Hoseok replies wistfully while his fingernails scratch — affectionately, teasingly, cautiously — down the expanse of your bare thigh. “We were arsonists.”

When he kisses you a second time, it’s enough for you to forget where you are. No longer in a junkyard on the outskirts of town, no longer on opposite sides of a line in the dirt, no longer trying to shove flowers into the front of a shotgun.

It’s enough.

It’s routine. You hike up the hem of your dress while he unzips his black jeans. Those are pushed down while your thong is pushed to the side; and so is the thought that this is the most of him you can have. You don’t get all of him, can’t lave your needy tongue over all of him, because it’s not safe to love him with all the layers cast aside. It’s practical, promotes a quick getaway in the event one is needed.

It’s enough, you think again, like repetition will make it true.

It’s perfect. Both of you keen when he enters you. Your thighs tremble; your walls grip him tight as they reacclimate to the stretch his cock demands. Hoseok notices your rapid blinking when you settle down on him. He knows without having to ask, kisses you through an ache that isn’t physical at all. It, like him, stays where it’s kept: in the left side of your rib cage.

“Shit,” he grunts. “Feel so perfect, baby — fuck.”

You roll your hips against him, taking him all the way and dragging the curve of his cock over that secret spot inside you. Aren’t they all? His fingernails leave impermanent, crescent indents in your thighs. You try not to care that the moon looming overhead is unapologetically full — and present every night.

There’s a newfound desperation in the way Hoseok clings to you. He digs the heels of his boots into the Stringray’s hood, hands pulling you down onto his cock while he fucks upwards into you. It drives him insane when you swirl your hips with him buried inside you, so you do, smirking like the devil.

You burrow into his neck to leave wet, open-mouthed kisses on any hint of skin you find. As you do, your fingers return to his hair and tie themselves off. If you chain yourself to him this way, maybe you can stay this way.

A quick nip at his neck unearths a groan that makes your cunt flutter around him. Tragically, no sign of you or your teeth is left behind on the side of his throat. Still, you kiss it better, whispering, “Could fuck you like this forever, baby.”

“Oh, my love,” his breath is hot against your ear when he chuckles darkly, “You hear the way your pussy is gushing all over my cock? You won’t last forever.”

His thrusts deepen. Hoseok is dead-set on unraveling you, thread by thread.

“In fact —”

Your teeth pinch his lobe. Hoseok snaps his hips forcefully in response, and your gasp echoes over the rusted squeak of a worn-out suspension. It briefly overpowers the muted slap of his pelvis colliding with the underside of your thighs. It doesn’t compare with his breathless laugh, though, not by a long-shot.

“Little vampire,” he chides you with a grin that takes effort. You mewl when his fingertips press bruises into the flesh of your ass. “Don’t think you’ll last another minute.”

Hoseok is a lot of things; and while frustrating is one of them, wrong rarely is.

It’s white hot, the uncontrolled pleasure burning through your core, and your vision matches when your wildfire orgasm ignites. Fingers searching for purchase grip tight to his jacket. Your heavy head dips forward as you cry out. Like always, you fall apart at the seams over him.

Slumped against him, he envelopes you in his arms as he fucks straight through your high and into his. Spent in every way that matters, you can’t fight off the sob that starts in the pits of your chest and crawls out of your mouth. The shiver down your spine can’t be blamed on the wind.

“Hey,” Hoseok murmurs, petal soft, “Baby, no, don’t cry.”

He takes your face in your hands and leaves you no choice but to look at him. With concern wearing creases into his forehead, he smatters kisses on every part of your crestfallen face. He whispers promises between each as he goes.

It’s okay — We’ll figure this out — I love you — We’ll be alright, you and me — I love you.

And even if it’s not all true, it’s enough.

Enough to keep you going.

Enough to glue your broken pieces back together.

Enough to keep you both from noticing the faint hum of an engine in the driveway.

[badbatchposts]

Quiet Corners of the Galaxy, Ch. 3

While on a routine mission for Cid, the Bad Batch encounter a woman fleeing from the Empire. Crosshair suspects her seemingly free-spirited, nomadic existence is actually a cover for something else, but struggles to keep his attraction toward her in check as their personalities and ideals clash.

Relevant tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut (not for a few chapters still), Canon-Typical Violence

Chapters posted 1-2x weekly!

Read the full fic so far on AO3

Read previous chapters on Tumblr: Ch. 1 l Ch. 2

Chapter 3 summary: The mysterious woman rescued by Crosshair comes to on the Marauder. Rather than interrogate why he decided to save her, Crosshair decides to antagonize her, because that's who he is.

“Hey, hey. Easy now.” Hunter appeased the woman like a wounded animal, crouching to her level, hands held out carefully in front of him. Crosshair rolled his eyes.

“I hardly think she needs consoling,” he intoned sibilantly. “She did take out four troopers on her own.”

“That you know of,” the woman muttered under her breath. “Where’s my gear?” she demanded, shifting herself into a seated position.

“Careful there. Hang on just a minute,” Hunter continued. Crosshair could barely stand it when Hunter was like this; gentle, cajoling, infantilizing. He didn’t see why the woman ought to be treated with kid gloves. “You’re hurt pretty bad,” the Sergeant continued. “Just rest up, and we can help you out. What’s your name?”

“Who’s asking?” The woman was defensive, distrustful. As she scanned the Marauder, Crosshair felt like he could see the gears turning behind her eyes, sizing them up. Wondering what she had gotten herself into, and how she could get herself out of it.

“I’m Hunter. That’s Tech, Echo, Wrecker, and Crosshair. We’re not going to hurt you. Crosshair said Imperials were after you, so he took you back to our ship.”

Tech, the most direct among them—with the possible exception of the sniper himself—got straight to the point. “How did you find yourself out there?”

The woman eased up a bit, but continued to be less-than-forthcoming. “I could ask you the same thing.”

The squad looked at one another. “We weren’t the ones crash-landing in a stolen shuttle,” Echo pointed out.

This time, the woman remained silent.

Hunter decided to take a different tactic, easing up on the interrogation. “Not too chatty, eh?” He chuckled.

“I’m sure I could find a way to get her to talk,” Crosshair interrupted suggestively, earning him a stern glance from his brother.

Hunter turned back to her. “Ignore him. Look, we get it. We’re not exactly friends of the Empire, either, and you never know who to trust. We’re on our way to Ord Mantell. It’s going to be a few hours, but there’s a spaceport there. Take some time to recover, and then you can be on your way.” He exited, taking the co-pilot’s chair in the cockpit alongside Echo.

Tech reached for her leg to continue treating her injuries, but the woman shrank back. He regarded her seriously from behind his goggles. “Your recovery will be significantly longer if you do not receive treatment,” he observed pointedly.

“Fine,” the woman grumbled, allowing him to take her leg into his hands and begin again. The blaster looked to have only grazed her calf, and soon Tech was sitting back.

“Please remove the clothing over your torso. I need to examine and wrap your ribs,” he requested politely. Crosshair raised an eyebrow, waiting to see the woman’s reaction. She began peeling off her poncho, unbuckling her holsters, finally unbuttoning her shirt to reveal a cropped band beneath, which exposed the flesh of her ribs and belly. She moved slowly, but not self-consciously, caring less about undressing in front of the men than about minimizing the pain. Crosshair took it in, his eyes raking over the fine line of her collarbone, the sweat dripping down to disappear between her breasts, her winces, the soft curves of her hip, the purple bruising that bloomed all over her torso. He noticed a small tattoo on her ribs, but the discoloration was too extreme for him to make out what it was. A puckering of the skin on her abdomen just to the right of her belly button provided evidence of earlier wounds, and he wondered hungrily what the scar would feel like under his fingertips. When he met her eyes, she was glaring; he returned the gaze with a raised brow, amused.

Her anger flickered, interrupted briefly by pain as Tech undertook his work. “What’s your problem?” she demanded.

“Just enjoying the show.”

“Please do not antagonize her, Crosshair,” his brother admonished. The sniper smirked, thinking that he wasn’t the only one a little bit pleased; Tech’s fingers seemed, to him, like they were dwelling a little unnecessarily long against the woman’s skin as he tucked the bandages into place.

A moment later, he was looking down the barrel of Tech’s sidearm. The woman had taken advantage of his brother’s focus on her injuries to unholster it from his hip. “Say that again,” she warned. She had a steely edge to her voice that thrilled him. He only smirked wider. The rest of the squad had already raised their own weapons in turn, a series of metallic clicks echoing from their various positions around the ship indicating that she was outnumbered. She lowered the blaster, slowly, and tossed it to the floor.

Tech retrieved it and stood, unbothered, as the rest of the squad returned to their tasks. This was not the first passenger aboard the Marauder to pull a gun on one of them, and the sniper deserved it a little. “Crosshair, she has a concussion. Keep her awake.”

“Oh, goody,” came his reply as his brother left them to it.

The woman pressed a palm to her forehead before running her hand through her long, silvery hair. There were some leaves tangled in it. He wondered idly if she’d try to break his fingers if he reached over and plucked them out. “Can I at least have my pack?” She sounded more exhausted than defeated, like she had simply run out of the energy to sustain herself.

Crosshair pulled her pack from the shelf where it had been stored behind him, rolling his toothpick between his lips from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Anything… dangerous… in here I should know about?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

“Dangerous?” Between the pain and exhaustion, the woman almost looked amused. “Not me. I avoid danger. Just trying to make a life in a nice, quiet corner of the galaxy.”

“I’m sure the hijacked Imperial shuttle was all a misunderstanding, then.” He glanced through the contents of her pack, removing a few knives before returning it to her. She didn’t take the bait, busying herself instead with dumping some of the contents of a leather pouch—what appeared to be dried leaves, giving off a grassy, bitter smell—into a mug that looked to be made out of a hollowed gourd. She heated a thermos of water with an auto-camp kit, poured some into the mug, and finally sipped the beverage through a filtered metal straw, leaning back against the wall with a sigh.

“Habit I picked up on Endor,” she replied to Crosshair’s raised eyebrow.

Tech was evidently still listening from the cockpit, nosy about their passenger. “There is no civilization on Endor,” he countered. “It is inhabited only by hostile primitives.”

“I’ve seen how civilization is defined in the Galactic Empire. I prefer to spend my time with the primitives.” Her tone was mostly even, but the sniper thought he heard traces of venom in her words.

Crosshair decided to take this cue to restart the interrogation. “Is that little… ideological disagreement… how you ended up shot?” She sipped at her tea impassively, meeting his eyes but refusing to take the bait again. He would have to go on needling her to get the reaction he wanted, poking and prodding to find the limits of her self-control.

He had liked that steely edge earlier, but that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. Nor did he care about the determination—what had been on her face as she dove behind cover and exchanged fire with the troopers, what was still detectable in her expression now as she tamped down her emotions, waiting to reveal her hand until she could thoroughly evaluate the strangers she found herself at the mercy of.

What he wanted was to draw out the woman she’d shown him before she’d known he was watching through his scope: the rage, the frustration. The despair. The pain. And yes, that gentle glimmer on her face when she’d thought she was at her end, meeting her death not with fear, but the certainty—perhaps, even, the hope—that it had come time to let go. The real reason, which he would never tell his brothers, that he had decided not to let them kill her.

Next chapter

End Note: How many times do you think someone has pulled a gun on Crosshair because he was being a little shit? It feels like probably a lot.

[gay-disabled-characters-showdown]

LGBTQ+ Disabled Characters Showdown Round 1, Wave 6, Poll 3

A character being totally canon LGBTQ+ and disabled was not required to be in this competition. Please check qualifications and propaganda before asking why a character is included.

Check out the other polls in this wave and prior here.

Hitori Gotoh-Bocchi the Rock!

Qualifications:

Debilitating social anxiety, implied to be WLW

Propaganda:

Bocchi has debilitating social anxiety, even dissociating in bad situations. There are a lot of small scenes in both the anime and manga implying that she wanted to join a band (or other activities) to attract girls.

Simon Snow-Carry On

Qualifications:

He is unlabeled and has depression

Propaganda:

Simon is "the worst chosen one whose ever been chosen." He exists in a world of mages and has a seemingly limitless amount of power, but no natural skill at using it. He is good at killing things with a sword but not with a wand. These are pretty big spoilers for the series so sorry lol but he ends up falling for his roommate and "sworn enemy" Baz and then loses his power while defeating the antagonist in the first book. In the subsequent books, Simon feels lost. He falls into a depression because of the trauma he faced for years as the "Chosen One" and being needed by everyone to suddenly having no powers and no direction in life. He feels like he is no longer good enough for Baz or his best friend Penny and spends days on the sofa. The rest of the series leaves him trying to find a new purpose and come to terms with the way his life has changed. Oh also he has wings and a tail lol. He never labels himself as he doesn't find any of them suitable for himself.

[lestappenforever]

Stop (You're Losing Me) - Lestappen oneshot

Lestappen | Angst, smut & fluff | 6.3K | Sequel

Surprise, besties! Bet you thought you wouldn't be getting more sequels to "Devils Roll The Dice (Angels Roll Their Eyes)", but here we are and here you go: part 3!

Part 1: Devils Roll The Dice (Angels Roll Their Eyes)

Part 2: Like Snow At The Beach (Weird, But Fucking Beautiful)

Part 3: Stop (You're Losing Me)

This whole thing was born yesterday, after this particular part from a comment on one of my other fics, from the lovely @LightinDecember on AO3:

"Last thing I want to say is how much I would LOVE a bottom Max / top Charles fanfic ❤️

How great it would be to see them switch roles in a short fic like this that can somehow be seen as an episodic sequel to Devils roll the dice !

Just a thought !"

So lovely, this one is for you. ❤️

And as always, a special thank you to the ever lovely, ever wonderful Ilse (@f1writingbyme) for helping me pick the title for this, for being my biggest supporter every step of the way, and for hyping me up about every part I sent her during the writing process. You are my rock, always. 💕

Read the fic on AO3 here.

And you can read a little snippet below the cut.

Charles has replayed their wedding more times than he can count ever since that August day in 2025. It’s a day he looks back on with joy, the memory always filling his heart with warmth and putting the biggest smile on his face as he remembers the way Max had looked at him. How Max’s hand had felt holding his as he slid the wedding band onto his finger. How Charles’ heart had skipped a beat as he’d met Max’s eyes for the first time as spouses. How they’d held on to each other during their first dance, and how complete his life had felt as they’d fallen into bed together on their wedding night.

As Charles stands in the doorway to their shared F1 room three years later, where they keep every trophy, every helmet, every token, every memory from their respective careers so far, watching as Max spends yet another hour on his sim that has lead to him forgetting that it’s Friday and their weekly date night — again —, his mind replays their wedding vows for what feels like the millionth time in the past few months.

Only now Charles can’t help but notice how the joy that used to fill his heart at the memory has been replaced by an ache that he can no longer ignore. And the smile that once stretched over his lips whenever he thought about their wedding day is no longer present. In its place, there’s only the sting of unshed tears.

His gaze shifts to their trophy cabinet, where seven Driver’s World Champion trophies are lined up neatly next to each other. Six of them, from 2021, 2022, 2023, 2025, 2026, and 2027 all belong to Max, while Charles’ from 2024 is placed right in the middle. The sight of it makes him feel as empty as the sight of his husband, transfixed on the screen of his sim, seemingly trapped in a world where Charles doesn’t even exist.

"All relationships have one law. Never make the one you love feel alone, especially when you're there."

[turquoisephoenix]

Character Bios for Gallowmere's Merry Band of Doomed-By-The-Narrative Losers

This was going to be under this picture right here, but this got kinda long. Just want to reiterate that these are all just headcanons.

-------

Sir Daniel Wigginbottom Fortesque IV

Daniel is many things. He's the eldest son but youngest child of Lord Cedric Fortesque. He comes from a long line of knights and noblemen dating back centuries. His lineage can be traced back to 10 different European countries. And he just so happened to lose the genetic lottery in so many different ways with his awkward, gangly proportions, gargantuan height, and various "brain deficiencies" (aka ADHD and autism centuries before their discovery) that led several people in the courts to call him fae-touched or a changeling behind his back. The bad teeth is a Fortesque trait though, so at least Cedric knows that he's his son.

In a time of peace, Daniel didn't really have any pressure to make something of himself by his family and has spent most of his life jumping from job to job - from stablehand to scribe to pigeonry - in a vague attempt to appear useful. Despite having a very high education and being able to read and write, people tend to write him off as a simpleton because he has zero skill in reading social cues, especially in the courts. Many a banquet have been ruined because Daniel panicked.

He means well, but I'd be lying if I said he couldn't be bratty at times. Easy to please, but also easy to irritate. Can easily fall in love and be a loyal partner, can also easily hold a grudge and has several enemies in the court. Has a passion for storytelling and accidentally buys into his own hype because he knows enough about stories to pick up on Themes and CLEARLY he's meant for something...

Canny Tim

Once part of a relatively minor noble house that resided in the castle town of Gallowmere, Tim ran away from home to go live in a relatively non-enchanted part of the forest to work as a King's forester, rejecting both his house and his name. He has a passion for archery, and he will admit that he's partially motivated by spite after his father told him that arrows were not a pastime fitting for a lady.

To most of Gallowmere, Canny Tim seemingly popped into existence during the 49th Gallowmere Games and got top prize in all the archery categories. Sir Daniel has known him for a lot longer since they had some of the same tutors and has said that actually, Canny Tim is just so good at his job as a elite archer that he blended into the crowds and has no public records listed under a different name please don't ask me anymore questions bye.

Once went on a merry quest one summer to hunt down rare mushrooms in the Enchanted Forest for a pumpkin witch's brew to "redistribute fat in the chest area", so don't worry about him going to the Hall of Heroes in a binder, goodness no.

Wartilda, Daughter of Wartilda of the Pumpkin Gorge

As the daughter of the previous Pumpkin Witch of Pumpkin Gorge, Wartilda pretty much knew what she was going to do from the moment she was able to grow a fine gourd in the corner of her room at the tender age of two and she's quite fine with that. Pumpkins are a very agreeable population and most people tend to get on her nerves.

The witches of Pumpkin Gorge tend to marry shepherds or pig farmers, so no one knows how Wartilda managed to lure in the only son of a noble Gallowmere family such as Cedric Fortesque's son, who had to be saved after he and his horse got lost in the woods, nearly got eaten by a giant spider after bullied by a pack of fairies, and had to consume an entire pumpkin pie to calm himself down. A connection was made that day as this gangly idiot realized that he could be Himself around her away from the judging eyes of the courts AND eat steaming pumpkin pie at the same time. She thinks he's cute.

Like Dan, Wartilda has known Canny Tim for longer than the records have shown a Canny Tim living in Gallowmere. She's the one that brews his potions of masculinity, even if it means that she has to put up with Canny Tim's lame gourd-themed dick and balls jokes in the process.

Wartilda has an older sister, who has very low opinions of Dan, didn't like the fact that the two of them were seriously talking about marriage, and often says things like "he's uglier than a horse's butt" and "that loser's gonna die in the Battle of Gallowmere". They were meant in jest but that second one caused Wartilda to have a screaming match with her at Dan's funeral and it's said their relationship never fully recovered...

[nicomrade]

so i reread the scott pilgrim comics this week for the first time since 2019? lots of stuff happened in my life in-between + i learned to actually like, pay attention when reading so this specific reread felt really important to me- the issue of reading it in french for the first time aside. heres some misc thoughts i had while reading! some of this stuff is drawing from conversations about the comics ive had with people over the years, i dont mean to break any new ground here, and i dont have a specific lense to look at the comics through so its not structured like analysis either. full thoughts under the cut! i hope you all like going on this little trip with me ^-^

so first of, the X motif! this i KNOW i saw someone else talk about. it comes up first on scott's jacket with the X-men patch (and it comes up again in that context- "then wolverine is crucified on a big X") and also on knives' scott-shrine, her dad slashes an X over scott's picture. these are the two biggest exemples but there really are Xs constantly in the imagerie of the comics, which is great and i love. the comic is about fighting ramona's exs, and this is foreshadowing that scott himself will be one, but its also generally about the baggage that comes with existing. at its core its really comics about dealing with whats over, so we get into scotts relationships w envy & kim & knives (& ramona), but we also get into his relationship with lisa (what couldve been) we also see him move flats (the end of an era!), in volume 1 scott tells knives about the house he grew up in that now belongs to another family, scott breaking his bass & no longer being in a band, etc. theres sooooo many flashback sequences in these comics and references to the past… its all about the X.!

loosely related in the foreshadowing department there are genuinely so many background details of stories about people who dont matter to the comics that foreshadow later developments. the details of why Crash & the Boys changed drummers is straight up the dynamics of Clash at Demonhead, theres the Lucas Lee movie on the BG thats visually identical to scotts memory of when he got with kim- and the reveal that the lady in that movie wasnt dead is arguably foreshadowing for scott reviving in volume 6? if you know whats happening in the story, rereading the volumes really is so rewarding. it also helps on a first read cause unconsciously its not the first time you're hearing about these ideas so theyre easier to digest & accept. this is also what the character explicitely referencing what will happen later is for- "i wonder how the Boys & Crash can do music without instruments- maybe it will be relevant later in the evening" "i'd need a deus ex machina to beat todd", these help you accept when these things do seemingly "come out of nowhere" later in the scene (and poke cheerful fun at it lol these are fun comics)

a personal fave of mine is the phrase "read the comic sometime" thats repeated in the early volumes at characters who werent there for something. its 4th-wall breaking, its fun, it nicely tells lost readers where to head to without re-dumping exposition, AND it helps keep track of who was where for what scenes … stuff like "when did stacey & ramona become friends??" or "i cant believe this is stacey & neils first meeting!" or "wallace was already introduced to ramona earlier" … its all fun and helps you stay on the ride. i think this is why i would read the comics back to back to back to back and retained very little. its easy to passively read these comics and its not a bad thing! though it is better to actively read them, and take these notes as fun jokes & reminders, and not life boats.

the 4th wall breaks are also great for the side characters having their own lives in the background. there are a lot more time indications in scott pilgrim than i remembered, if youre paying attention i think its really really easy to have a nice timeline in your head. but when stuff is broken to scott its not "i started dating mobile during X month" or "i came out X months ago" its "i started dating mobile during volume 3" and "i came out during volume 5" that way the reader can more easily relate it to the story that was happening at the time- and to keep in mind during a volume reread. its not a writing technique for EVERY comic, but its something that scott pilgrim gets to have BECAUSE its a comic- and unapologetically so! this is not a work that wants to be more novel than graphic to be taken seriously. its a comic, and its silly, and its also a work of art, and you have to respect it on its own terms.

theres also, uhm, ill be quick on this point cause its kind of weird how lesbians/sapphics are handled in the comics. its not BAD but theres clearly a bias towards male homosexuality being fleshed out and lesbianism not so much. but so the start of volume 4 is when kim & knives make out and it really starts this obsession in scott about this thing he cannot tell anyone about but is still thinking about, that prepares for roxies introduction- ramonas ex girlfriend. that i believe is also when wallace first asks if scotts broken out the "L-word" yet and it gives more context to scott assuming its lesbians? and him then going all "why does everyone keep asking me about lesbians!" but it is also kind of weird re: lesbian fetishism (which IS pointed out with scotts weird poster that no one likes but thats it). and all that with ZERO canon lesbians! roxie is pretty bi-coded i would say with her insistance on being "HALF-ninja", but ramona is described as an american ninja in the early volumes so its kind of loose. idk its weird and i like to think julie came out as a lesbian cause stephen & her being a comphet4comphet couple is really good to me

a thing id never noticed before is that julie was suspecting stephen of having views on knives during volume 4? and its why she was so shitty to knives for a while there, and then its "worked out" at the end of the volume. this feeds into the constant fear of cheating during the story, theres of course todd & scott who do cheat, but also more grey areas of relationships. im thinking of ramonas anxieties around lisa, and when scott finds out roxie stayed over at ramona's. about stephen too, his response to julie apologizing for being jealous of knives is very… uncomfortable

"i have nothing to fear!" "right yeah..." surely because hes starting to realize hes gay, and possibly because he's already vaguely started seeing joseph. we dont get more details on his relationships i am not going to accuse him of cheating LOL. i truly dont care. but its an anxiety that comes up again and again whenever relationships are starting to turn sour- "are they cheating?" and having been in my 20s for a little bit yeah i get it. scott not telling ramona about his job- not telling her much of ANYTHING during vol 4- and ramona not sharing much either are also part of this. theres a reason all of this happens in volume 4, and next volume ramona finds out scott cheated on knives with her. loss of intimacy and the breakdown of dialogue is all part of cheating anxieties, whether there is actual cheating or not. "what do i not know? what else are they keeping from me? they dont talk to me but they talk to them? are they cheating on me?"

theres a really neat thing the comics do to show the breakdown of scott and ramona's relationship in volume 5 and its the scene where ramona goes shopping and scott tags along. she spends it not saying anything (until she tells scott she doesnt even like his band) and scott obsessively talking about his comics (X-men!) while she doesnt look particularly interested.

this is the scene where scott breaks up with knives again!!! the roles are reversed, scott is now the one talking about whatever while his girlfriend's unresponsive, and obviously ramona doesn't break up with him here and there, and they dont kiss in a goodwill, but the ressemblance is there. and like with the knives breakup scene, we have a good date variant of this! its their very first date from the first volume where scott does mostly talk about himself but ramona is having fun joking with him. here we are shown their relationship slowly crumbling and it lays the ground for ramona leaving at the end of the volume.

similarly to how scott battles all of ramonas evil exs (himself included), ramona does face all of scott's own exs. its not as spectacular but we see her fight knives in volume 2, then she fights envy in volume 3. we also have her comment on kim that she does like her (same with lisa, who is not strictly an ex but emotionally is treated as such. especially with how scott sleeping over at lisa's is paralleled with roxie sleeping over at ramona's) these are not comments she makes about stephen or julie, for exemple, its specifically women who had a close relationship with him. and uhm ramona also comments on liking wallace who- again- is not STRICLY an ex, but hes also part of that volume 4 cheating anxieties conversation, wallaces incessant flirting, mobile himself jokes (?) about finding wallace in the arms of another man, etc. but most convincingly to ME because we are talking about EXs here is the flashback of wallace inviting himself at scotts house being identical to lisas scene of inviting herself at scotts, scott saying the story of how he ended up living with wallace is "somewhat gay", and the general college flashbacks.

i think this points to scott & wallace having briefly dated in the past, or (because hes paralleled with lisa) having a "what couldve been" relationship where they didnt make anything of it and now the time window's passed and emotionally? kind of feels like an ex. and if anything they ARE ex-roommates lol. this is not a scollace truthing thing, im a firm mobillace guy ok -_- im just saying its there. back to the point of ramona facing scott's exs as well, YES i am including herself in it. her going to the wilderness during vol6 parallels scott going to the countryside, the very place he faces negascott properly. and the way ramona talks when she comes back its easy to see that she did face herself on that trip. & the figurines agree with me that the idea of a negaramona does exist :)

thats more or less all i had in mind, i also feel like i was finally able to properly enjoy the themes of the comics of facing your own shittiness and doing better, of the harms of being stuck in your own head, of never ending up like gideon (who is so attached to his exs that he literally cryogenizes them!) the warning of rewriting your own memories (or at least biased recollections of it) uhm how breakups suck! and how cheating is not always black & white but also fucking sucks !! being out of school (wanting to go back to school?) and looking for jobs- and yes if scotts life had a face i would punch it too its literally unfair how easily everything goes for him on that front, even freeloading with wallace (<- jealous). envys obsession with a guy who is so obviously shitty but who shes been best friends with since they were 11 is also kind of… ooh i get it now…. its yeah. i think they really are comics for being in your 20s, a lot about dating? but its so generally about human relationships and dealing with your baggage, i think it is still relatable without the specific romantic relationship experience.? i love these comics. everyone read scott pilgrim if you havent in a while (or ever!!!!) and try to think a little about it as you read it really is so worthwhile. and if anything theyre insanely funny, and wallace is there!

[gaykarstaagforever]

"KIDS TODAY DON'T WANT TO WORK FOR ANYTHING! THEY DON'T GET THAT TO BE GOOD AT GUITAR, YOU HAVE TO PRACTICE AND STRUGGLE WITH IT FOR 20 YEARS!"

Yes, to impress the gatekeeping shitheads at the top who want to underpay for a refined resource they can claim ownership over and profit from.

If you've spent 40 years learning music and working as a producer but you still have to run a YouTube channel and sell music courses to provide for your family, Rick Beato, maybe that's proof that this old system you love was bullshit that squeezed you and then hung you out to dry.

AI "art" is filth. But the impulse to cheaply and quickly make product is a direct reaction to everyone noticing that hard-working artists seemingly exist to be exploited.

Who wants to do that?

If your motivation is love of the art or reaching the skill level of someone you idolize, then that is it's own reward. But without those motivations, why should anyone bother? So nerds can look back in 60 years and be snobs about what is "serious" art and what isn't? Who asked for that? What benefit is that to anyone?

Note that those nerds are critics, and rarely artists themselves. Because being a know-it-all jackass about OTHER PEOPLE'S ART is way less work than making your own. See? Even THEY'RE doing it!

Also anyone over the age of 50 whining about "the death of (whatever art)" is just mad the culture has passed them by and doesn't care to sell things to them anymore. They're mad that they are no longer valued as consumers. Because that's the only reason they played rock on the radio in the 70s: to sell you shit. It wasn't out of some pure love for "good" music, whatever that means.

And if those bands had had access to tech and shortcuts, they would have used them. Because they totally did. That's why the 80s sounded like that. Queen did things with multi-channel tape that terrified people, and it was responsible for their whole sound. Just some dudes on a stage with instruments doesn't make noises like that.

Being an artist is hard and it sucks and it is a valid life-choice to not want to pursue that. And if you're driven to, then it isn't because you are taking a moral high ground. It's because you HAVE TO. It is a brain worm that lives inside you and will never let you go. Even if what you make is nothing anyone else gets or cares about. You do it because you can't do anything else.

And if Henry Darger had had access to Photoshop, he certainly would have used it to make what he made.

He used collage and tracing! Those are shortcuts!

Of course, he wasn't trying to impress annoying people who still think what Sony will promote for profit = "good art."

[turigirl]

Could you tell us either abt ur ocs or your f/os? :-)

hi anon i love you

my ocs that ive been thinking about most lately have been those under the tag "fine & mellow" :o) theyre a 60s girl band! ive read a lot about the dynamics of popular bands, specifically in this time period, and i think the love-hate relationship that usually results is really interesting.

i think if i ever illustrated it in some way (art or writing or etc) id want it to be a comic. maybe a webcomic, maybe a physical comic. im not super sure on that.

id want to include things like interviews, magazine covers, album covers, photos of them, etc, played as from a real band (as real as a picture of furries can be). i have a list of album names and song ideas for each one (some being existing songs to pretend are theirs, some being "original" songs. meaning i made it up)

the band is founded in 1959 by dominique dalmatian, who is the main character. she's reserved- not shy necessarily but cautious of every new person she meets. she has bpd (projectionn of my symptomsss) and depression that creeps in slowly and immobilizes her. and she plays bass! she has a strong work ethic and will push her feelings (and others') aside to finish her work, in this case being f&m's albums.

fine & mellow is the name of the band, by the way, to be clear. it's named after a jazz standard and slowly becomes more and more ironic.

there are other guitarists before, of course, but the most important one is laura labradoodle. she's peppy and brings a lighter tone to their music as well as a more romantic light. shes a brilliant songwriter, despite it being really just a hobby. shes a full time photographer when they recruit her. when she joins in 1962, the band as a whole changes. she and dom write songs together, becoming closer and closer. that relationship and how it bends and breaks is especially what i would focus on. there's something so heartbreaking about getting so close, hearing a part of the others soul, only for something to backfire and send the band into a downward spiral.

clears my throat. so anyway, the drummer is named lolly lamb, and she stays from the beginning (until she's pushed out by jackie, who you'll hear about in a sec). she adores 40s and 50s fashion and has a seemingly instinctual sense of beat. drumming for f&m started out as a favor for her friend and ended up becoming so much more for her, and the rest of them.

in early 1964, after a couple months of no creative breaks, laura brings in... a hairdresser. her name is jackie jackrabbit, and she stares at the other two like they've grown new heads. but she's laura's friend, and they know the moment she sings with them that they've got something special. jackie is a little snobby and a little blunt, but manages to fit in fairly well. she can't play an instrument, but her singing ability more than makes up for it, and laura hands her a tambourine a few months later.

they release an album in july, and it seems to be the domino piece slowly falling into place. after months of arguing with jackie, lolly leaves the band.

they hire a session drummer, LAYLA, but she quickly becomes their permanent drummer for their next albums. layla (stylized in all caps) is the stage name of susie sloth-bear, a drummer who first got famous as a model. but she was good, playing as a session drummer across the states.

but the making of their next album with layla is FULL of arguments, and they go on a 5 month hiatus. the hiatus gave them the new material they were looking for, but they struggled to work together in making them. most of the songs on the next album would be mainly played by one individual member. only layla collaborated with the other three. the damage was done, and their 1967 album, fittingly titled "kill the lights," would be their last.

so that was kinda long, huh? i still don't have everything set in stone, but here's a summary probably way longer than you expected. they also all have refs! which are on my toyhouse (link). i would upload them here, and someday i might get around to it, but i dont have the energy to write ids for all of em. so. ill leave it at all this. if anyone has any questions, though, id be happy to answer :o) im still workin out the kinks!

[jaybirdhitman]

Another drabble time, this one is shorter and more of a reflection o your part of the bots. I do write these drabbles in like, a vacuum, pretending the other groups don't exist just so that way their interactions with each other don't get spoiled.

Band guys this time, Twi, Aura and Umbra

You hadn't been traveling on the road that long with the bots, but they had already shifted your view of synths as a whole, just slightly, in that short time. You had been so surprised by how human they were. It was unexpected to you from the synths you'd seen and met, until you were staying with them.

It was small at first, catching them practicing their music. Actually practicing, and making mistakes. You had thought that it was just something they could do and were programmed for, but you had learned quickly that they had taught themselves how to play their music, their instruments. That they actively wrote and changed the music. It was fascinating to you, the way Aurora cursed after messing up a riff and then slowing himself down to play it slow and work through it. When Twi would play too hard and accidentally drag a sour note from his guitar, or accidentally snap the steel strings that they then had to fix, going easy the next time. Seeing Umbra re-play sections until they were satisfied that it was perfect, pushing themself hard enough that they almost shut down because they forgot to charge, but just had one more bar to do.

That had just been the start, and that had made you look closer at them as a whole which is what had you finally see the mannerisms that weren't learned or programmed, but just simple were. Synths could have subconscious actions, who knew?

Aura talked with his hands a lot, motions large and in constant movement going faster the more excited he got. His whole body would follow suit of his hands, rays spinning like a fan as he bounced around the space, sometimes leaving the ground for seconds longer than normal from those shoes of his. You'd even seen him knock things off counters or smack one of the others with his movements, and each time he'd be surprised, like he hadn't even noticed he was gesturing so much.

Twilight was more subtle than the Sun, but you noticed the seemingly subconscious mannerisms in them too once you were looking. How their hat always emoted with them and never seemed to be still, how they'd move their fingertips in the rhythm of one of his riffs, or even how he would slightly sway or rock when having to stay in one spot for long periods. Twi often hummed, not even realizing he was until it was pointed out to them and you'd even caught them on a few occasions flapping his hands over an art project, his hat following suit.

Umbra wasn't subtle, but simply more subdued it seemed. Their actions were never big or grand, but they couldn't be covered as something else either. Their rays were in constant movement, the magic they ket the metal afloat above their faceplate beyond you but mesmerizing to watch as they spun and pulsated. They'd always carry their drumsticks tucked in their boots, and you'd later found out it was so they could spin them and do fancy tricks when thinking or needing to get out energy or stress. You'd even found them finger or foot tapping on occasion, usually when deep in thought.

It was cute all their mannerisms, and you realized early on it had endeared you to your newfound companions, and found yourself mimicking some of their actions yourself subconsciously.

It made you happy to see that they were more than you had initially thought, and it saddened you to think that others would never get to see that realness and have their perspectives changed like your own had been.

Maybe with time it would happen, and you hopped it would for their sakes. The world deserved to know synths were so much more and you hopped maybe you'd find a way to make that happen someday, to have others see them how you now did.

Alive.