#back on my writing bullshit

[kayfabebabe]

Trans Headcanons - William Regal

When in doubt, make your favourite Trans! There’s no further explanation needed...

WARNINGS - Mention of unsafe medical practices. Reference to violence/fighting. Vague reference to transphobia. (I’m sorry if I’ve missed anything.) 

~ ~ ~ 

Childhood and Family Nothing is known for certain about William’s childhood. Throughout the years, he’s told varying versions of his early life to different people and he never told the same story twice: 

“My Mother was the bearded lady at the circus and my Father was one of the rodeo clowns.”

“I didn’t know my Mother. She left before I was born.”

“Oh, my parents were named ‘ Bonnie and Clyde’.”

The lack of truth in these tales are a purposeful choice by William to hide the relative bleakness of his childhood. The only member of his biological family that William ever spoke of kindly was his Grandmother. A gentle woman who, in his own words, knew that William was “William” before anyone else. They never spoke openly about it to each other, but her love for William was unconditional. 

Coming to Blackpool Whilst still a teenager, William left home and moved to Blackpool - the nearest large city - in hopes of quietly transitioning and being a part of a more accepting community. Something that was impossible to do in a remote village. Even with the relative anonymity that came from being new around town, William kept the truth of his identity closely guarded from anyone that he met. Too many school-yard brawls had taught him that people were more likely to be cruel towards anybody different to themselves. 

The first friend that William made in Blackpool was Robbie Brookside. Having lied about his age to the owner, William worked in the same bar collecting glasses and cleaning tables whilst Robbie was a part of the security team.Their friendship was quick to begin and easy.

A Different Day and Age It’s fair to say that Testosterone wasn’t easily acquired during the mid-1980’s so the majority of people, including William, had to illegally obtain it. Dimly lit alleys between buildings and the backroom of pubs became pseudo-pharmacies. There was a constant looming threat of being discovered by police or crossing the wrong person. To call it dangerous would be a vast understatement. This is, also, how William managed to have top-surgery at only 18-years old.

There are many details that’ve been lost through the passage of time or William simply doesn’t want to share about how exactly that happened so we’ll leave it there. 

Wrestling It was Robbie Brookside who initially got William interested in wrestling.  Despite his smaller build and even temper, Robbie knew how to physically protect himself and it fascinated William. On a rare weekend off, Robbie brought William along to a wrestling show and he immediately fell in love with it. 

Nobody, absolutely NOBODY, ever questioned whether William was a “real man” or not. The hard-hitting style of his wrestling added to his credibility and his reputation quickly grew, only to follow him when he crossed the Atlantic.

Confidants The only person that William told he was Trans when he initally came to America at 26 years old was Tony Schiavone. In a foreign land with no real understanding of how to procure anything through not-so official channels, he had to turn to somebody. And Mr Schiavone had taken an obvious liking to the taller man with the distinctive accent. Their friendship lasts to this very day. 

William was always extremely careful with who he divulges his personal information to, even as attitudes changed. It took him 5 years of knowing Bryan Danielson before he learnt the truth of his mentor. Danielson’s thoughts about the older man did not change. 

Jon Moxley found out by accident. He had been skulking around backstage of a FCW show and witnessed William take a vial of testosterone from his duffel bag. After a too-heated confrontation, William had no option than to explain everything to Mox. Again, Moxley’s thoughts about the older man did not change with this new information. 

Modern Day Time is a glorious thing. A bloody glorious thing. 

Acceptance has become more widespread throughout the world and, while William is still somewhat protective over his identity, he is more willing to share with those in the community. On more than one occasion, a young wrestler would confide in him about themselves and he’d feel the urge to tuck them under his wing. To protect them from the possible hate and misunderstanding that he had to face himself for so long. .

~ 

[someinstant]

Working on a story where my goal is to have Cassian say as little as possible, which is perhaps self-sabotaging, but I'm finding it fun. Currently at about 1500 words total, and Cassian has said precisely thirteen words.

The bulk of them happen here, so far:

“You,” called the woman a few seats down, “are very good at that.”

Cassian turned a little. He could see her all right in the reflection, but the glass wasn’t as clean as it could be and her expressions were a little blurred. Or maybe that was the sabers catching up with him? Whichever it was, it made it harder to figure out which face to wear. “I’m sorry?” he said, taking her in. A little older than he was, maybe. Short, curling brown hair. Manicured fingernails and a slick red mouth. Not rich, but probably slumming it a little by coming to this particular club. She seemed amused.

“We’ve been here almost twenty minutes,” she said, gesturing to the man beside her. Tall-ish with sandy hair and a mustache. Well-built. Good arms. Could probably handle himself in a fight, Cassian thought. And based on the body language, her partner. “Haven’t managed to flag her down once to order a drink. You raise your eyebrow, and she’s right there.”

Cassian shrugged a little. “Just lucky, I think,” he said. She didn’t seem angry about it, the way she was looking at him. Her partner leaned in and said something into her ear, and she laughed.

“Going to share?” Cassian asked, turning more fully towards the pair.

“Maybe later,” said the man.

Cassian Andor: absolutely willing to just go with it.

[solarpunkandtea]

When you want juuuuuuust enough conlang to put together some neat names for things.

[bkgexe]

if all else fails, i was myself

bakugou x reader ✾ 4.6k

info! no smut sorry gang ✾ tw! trust issues that manifest as issues w physical intimacy/contact, dubcon in its vaguest definition (NOT bkg & reader) ✾ notes! ive been in perpetual writers block for months. is this trite idk. i miss my baby but anytime i write for him im like oops this is gonna be 60k words!!! so here is. a drabble lmao. also big lmao moment this is titled after count me out by kendrick lamar ldskfjdlkjf which was on repeat while writing so uh sorry mr. lamar abt the mha fanfic

katsuki has always known that part of him is wrong.

he’s never liked being touched. every kiss he’s experienced has made him tense as an elevator cable poised to snap. any attempt to go further than that has made him a little ill, made his gut feel like a stack of loose papers being torn to shreds, slow and loud.

it doesn’t help that he’s only ever had three kisses in his life: eijirou at a new year’s party (too many teeth), eijirou again at another new year’s party nearly a decade later (too much tongue), and then his fourth date with kyoka (when he tried to convince himself he just had to push through the discomfort to become normal).

things went further than that. it was a mistake. they both knew it right after it happened—kyoka first, and then katsuki after his head stopped pounding with what if i'm doing this wrong what if she's pitying me for fucking this up what if i don't know how to touch another person correctly what if i was supposed to learn at some point and i missed it how could i fucking miss it will it always be like this because i can't do this again i can't i don't—

“kat," she said after. she looked at him with something only a few degrees removed from pity, and poorly removed at that.

he attempted a halting non-apology. he attempted a real apology. failed at both.

"it's okay, you know," she said. "to not like it."

he scoffed even though he wasn’t entirely clear on what she meant by it, because there was so much he didn’t like. “i like it just fine.”

“if that was liking it, I’m honestly worried about your capacity for enjoying life in general.” it wasn’t a joke. her bluntness was something that'd made katsuki think he could push his boundaries with her. all of her thoughts were laid out plain for him to read, an open-source journal. “i'm just saying you don't have to like it. and you don’t have to force yourself to do things you don’t want to do. don't fuck yourself over for someone else's happiness.”

kyoka still texts him often, checks in, invites him to drinks with their friends. she’s kind. she’s normal. she doesn’t have this weird, shredded thing inside her that makes her balk at the idea of someone’s hand on her skin. that makes her think she's doing something wrong, even if she's not the one that initiated the touch.

when you started your job at the front desk of katsuki’s agency, he never thought that he'd be here, wishing above everything that he could just be normal. just for one fucking day, so he could laugh at your shitty jokes and maybe brush his knuckles across the back of your hand in passing and take you on a date where he could kiss you in his car after driving you home and the thought wouldn’t make his skin crawl, wouldn't tear up his insides to pulp.

because he fucked everything up. he's standing in his empty office where you'd been spending time with him and he fucked it up and hurt you and he's not sure how to unfuck it.

the thing is, he could grin and bear it. he could deal with the odd thing inside him that hates the contact and white-knuckle it through every kiss, every caress. but he’s never been a great actor. he wouldn’t be able to hide that from you.

(kyoka told him, years later, that it’s not that the sex itself wasn’t fine—what made it nearly unbearable for her was the fact that she could tell, only after it was too late, that being physically vulnerable with her pained him far more than he was willing to reveal.)

no one wants to feel like the person they’re with is grinning and bearing it. that they’re white-knuckling it through. katsuki knows this. he knows he’s basically a fucking virgin all but in title at thirty and that he’s got the personality of a dried-out fig you find in your fridge weeks after its last edible moments. he doesn't have much to offer.

but he walked into work one day and nodded at you, curt, a grimace on his face—and you smiled at him so kindly that his stomach twisted.

with you, it wasn't the feeling of something being torn apart. it was different, lighter. leaves wrenched into the sky by a strong breeze. still a kind of tearing, but different—less destructive.

he was wearing a deep carmine sweater his mom sent him in one of her bi-monthly care packages (as if he’s not an adult, and a pro-hero on top of that), and you said, “that’s such a nice color on you. is it new?”

there was that breeze inside his chest, strong, pulling at his bones. “yeah,” he grunted. then slowly, as if remembering how: “thanks.”

it was the attention, he thought at first, that piqued his interest. he wasn't used to it. people always watched him from afar, and he had fans online that were borderline obsessive, but people didn’t approach him. they didn’t say that’s such a nice color on you. they didn’t smile the way you smile.

he’s always had a shallow streak. it’s not like he doesn’t know this. it’s become a little muted over time, a little discouraged by the visible scarring on his face and body from his time in the field, but it’s never fully been eradicated. so it was simple, he thought. you paid him attention and stroked his ego, and he preened like a self-obsessed bird of paradise.

and then you started making these little origami whale sharks.

fucking stupid. it bothered him an annoying amount. you had a bunch at your desk, all different colors and sizes, some taped to your desktop monitor, some hung up with little pieces of string under the desk's storage overhang. you drew dots on the back of each one, a distinct spotted pattern that was unique for each shark. and you made them for everyone but him. eijirou bought you a pack of high quality origami paper and you made him his own fucking school, all with little faces, winking or surprised or angry, their wide paper mouths gaping and empty, the lines of their bodies pressed careful and sure.

he hated it. it was annoying and a waste of company time and he usually didn’t ever use dumb corporate slogans like “a waste of company time” but you were really pushing his fucking limits.

it was definitely just the attention he liked, he told himself, because surely someone doing something as dumb as this would annoy him to no fucking end if he spoke to them.

and then he spoke to you and he was wrong.

he asked why you made the damn things in the first place and you told him, “i like whale sharks. but to be totally honest, i just run out of things to do."

and he saw that as a challenge. you were running out of things to do? rest assured he could find more shit for you to take care of. so he did. tasks that he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, they were so dull and time-consuming. and you were so achingly competent that it drove him up a fucking wall. you completed everything he asked of you in half the time it would take someone else, and you always reported back with a smile, and you always did good work, and he could see himself having a conversation with you about something other than work but he didn't want to try because he was worried he'd begin to like you as a person.

you're pretty. really fucking pretty. he can see that now, and he sure as fuck saw it then. you're hardworking. you're just likeable, and that's something katsuki had never been. it (reluctantly) impressed him. worse than that, it turned his feelings for you into a sort of interest.

but he knows he's not normal when it comes to things like this.

he tried to distance himself from you because of it, but it turns out that asking someone to do work for you means you do have to speak to them sometimes. and sometimes turned into a lot of times.

sometimes turned into bringing him coffee in the morning, not because he asked you to, but because you're sweet like that. sometimes turned into being the person he bounced ideas off of when he had a board meeting coming up or something otherwise boring and meticulous. sometimes turned into you laughing at his prickly comments rather than going quiet because of them. turned into you saying suck it up, dynamight, this is what it means to be the boss when he complained about doing paperwork.

sometimes turned into staying late with him at the office, getting take out for the two of you to share while you finished filing claims and damage reports and other stuff he hated taking care of by himself. sometimes turned into him asking you to stay late just because he wanted you there. because even when he was quiet, you'd tell him about your day, about things that happened in the office, about how much you like the book you'd both been reading. he loved listening to you talk. felt comfortable enough to tell you things about himself when he'd never felt comfortable doing that before.

sometimes turned into you holding out a piece of fried tofu from your take-out container for him to eat while he was approving time-off forms that he should have looked at much earlier that week, and you being so close that he could notice how good you smelled, and the warmth of your body basically radiated towards him, like all your energy was focused on him, and your smile was small but somehow even more lovely than usual, a secret for him to tuck away and keep, and when you finished feeding him and he had a little sauce on the corner of his mouth and you reached forward to wipe it off for him and your hand lingered there for a moment and your eyes fell to his lips and what if you try to kiss me and i'm wrong and you hate me for it and what if i can't give you what you want and what if i'm not actually what you want what if i've disappointed you already what if—

it was too much.

so he fucked it up. your thumb was so soft against his skin. he reeled backwards in his chair, rolling it whole feet clear of you, and he felt the tearing again, the bad kind, like paper unevenly shredded by clumsy hands, and he had to leave. he had to leave. he needed to leave so badly that it felt like pulling his skin off would be preferable to being in that office with you.

hiding in the bathroom was fucking pitiful. he remembered his breathing exercises. he remembered to ground himself. and when he came back to his office, you were gone.

if he was normal—and he wants to be normal, god fucking damn—he could have stomached your proximity. he could have eaten out of your fucking hand. he could have touched you back like a normal person probably would have and he wouldn't be here, alone, looking at a little purple sticky note you left him that says i finished organizing the pto forms. i hope you feel better!

he doesn't know whose pride you're trying to save with that. as if you didn't leave because he made things so fucking awkward by running away from you when you touched him. when you—maybe, if he was reading the room correctly—were about to kiss him.

and you don't speak to him for days. he doesn't want to push so he doesn't—just watches you out of the corner of his eye whenever you're both in the same room, which is arguably worse. he's not sure. he's just itching to fucking talk to you because he misses it.

he misses you. in a more-than-friends way.

it takes a while for him to realize this. when he does, it hits him like a metal rod up the side of the head. it's fucked up of him to miss you the way he does when he doesn't feel like he can provide you with the things a normal person could. and though he's worked on his patience over the years—worked on understanding that he can't have everything he wants—it doesn't stop him from being selfish and finally pulling you aside to talk.

and baffling as fucking ever, the first thing you say is sorry. "i know i should've talked to you about it earlier. i just—i shouldn't have done that. and i know it. i shouldn't have assumed that—i don't know. that you..."

you look helpless. it's one of the very few times that katsuki has ever felt the compulsion to touch someone. not because he wants the touch, per se, but because he wants to be able to provide comfort. he never figured out how to do that with words. he's so focused on his inability to comfort you that he barely has any idea of what you're actually talking about. instead of doing anything at all, he just stands there like a fuckwad.

"i just want you to know that i would never—like never—have touched you, or tried to... if i didn't think there was like, a vibe?" you shake your head, exasperated with yourself. "god, even that sounds so bad. i'm sorry, i just—"

"wait, what are—?" and then it clicks, because he's been slow on the uptake figuring out his shit when he should have been focusing way more on yours. "there was..." katsuki says, and he fucking hates that he can't find better words for what you were both feeling in his office, "a vibe."

the way your face changes when you're flustered is one of katsuki's favorite things, but it's not as enjoyable when he feels just as flustered as you look. "i—oh? so... so you—?"

his ears feel like they're being attacked by two heated straightening irons and he knows they're red as hell right now. he's gonna have to say this plainly even though he'd rather get his teeth pulled out one by one with a pair of pliers. "it's not you."

your expression loses any sort of hope it once held. you press your lips together and sigh, maybe a little exasperated. he's doing his best here but he knows his best is shit. "i can handle a non-cliché rejection," you tell him. "honestly, i'd prefer a non-cliché rejection—"

"i'm not trying to reject you," he says, and it's selfish of him. because he's really not. he isn't comfortable with the things you'd want from him, but he still wants you in some capacity. "i just don't—do shit like that."

"kissing?"

somehow knowing for sure that you did want to kiss him in his office makes him want you more. he likes that you're bold. he likes that you're not ashamed of that. he wants to be different than he is. "any... of it," he struggles to admit.

"at all?"

he nods.

"just—like touching, and stuff?"

it sounds so juvenile that he can't help but laugh through his nose, roll his eyes. "yeah. touching and stuff."

"oh."

you're disappointed. of course you are. it's not like he expected anything different, but—sometimes he fucking hates his life. hates that he can't be the thing people need him to be. hates that trying is so difficult, that it flings his stomach into space, like a throwing stone skipping across a still lake.

"so you don't go on dates, or anything."

"haven't tried."

"do you not want to?" you ask, and he can tell it's more of a genuine question than anything. you're curious about him, like you always are. it's more than he deserves, for all he can offer.

"doesn't make sense to."

"that's not what i asked."

it's not. and so katsuki listens as you ask your question again, and he really takes a moment to think.

considering the answer to your question leads him to his first date with you. and his second, and his third—his fourth, and he's keenly aware that his last fourth date ended with what he expects all dates are supposed to end with.

he takes you to the aquarium. because of all the fucking origami whale sharks. you still haven't given him one and it sticks in his craw like a bone. in front of the backlit tank that holds sharks of all types, shapes and sizes and teeth he's never pictured possible of a living creature before, he asks, "why sharks?"

you look at him, brow raised. "i don't know. they probably needed the biggest tank in the aquarium. and this looks like the biggest tank."

"no, dumbass—your sharks. the ones all over the fuckin' office."

"what, you don't like them?" you ask, but you're smiling, sly.

he shrugs. he thinks they're dumb as hell. he wants one to hang up at work, like the ones you've got hung up at your desk. "they're whatever. they clutter the fuck out of ei's office. and he's already got issues organizing." you've just made eijirou so many at his point, and it's getting ridiculous. "but what—are they easy to make, or something?"

you laugh a little. "no. not at all, actually." a whale shark swims by, its spotted hide shimmering in the tank's eerie blue lighting, and you watch it intently. "but it'd be boring if it was too easy."

this date ends with him walking you home from the aquarium a few blocks from your apartment and you smiling at him and telling him that you had a really great time, and he feels like a fucking freak because you don't even expect more. you don't wait for a kiss. don't look disappointed that he doesn't try to give you one. the way you look at him holds so much affection that he doesn't deserve and he has no idea how to reciprocate it to you, and somehow he lands on, "make me one."

"one what?" you ask, but he thinks you already know what he's asking. you like to play coy. he likes it when you play coy. when you're enjoying yourself.

"one of your little fuckin' paper things," he mutters, because admitting that he wants one of those dumbass sharks feels somehow demeaning. he doesn't want you to know how much he's wanted one. "ei's got a million of 'em."

your hand was on your door handle, but it falls to your side. he's keenly aware of its proximity to him. he doesn't feel that terrible ripping in his gut and its absence is almost frightening to him. your fingers tighten into a fist. it's cold out. "ah, and you're jealous?"

"no," he says, knee-jerk. "i just don't get why everyone gets one but me."

you smile when he says this and he could live in this image of you, delicate and small and made for him. he goes home and thinks about it until he falls asleep. thinks about it even beyond then, feels that strong breeze inside him tearing every leaf from its grounded perch.

here's the thing—nothing against jirou, but unlike his other fourth date, this one was enjoyable. more than. he loved watching you be amazed by the size of the whale sharks, and he loved watching you put a bunch of coins into the penny press and cranking the machine until one was squeezed out into the pattern you wanted, and he loved watching you lay your hand against the glass where the rubbery wings of a flood of stingrays battled for your attention, and—

he loved watching you. that's weird, right? he sounds like a fucking lunatic thinking that.

but he does. he hadn't realized until now how difficult it had been not only to touch people, but to look at them. maintaining eye contact, watching someone do a simple task out of interest instead of staring them down in an attempt to intimidate them. he's so much more fucked up than he thought but what makes it bearable is that he can do it with you. he can watch the way you enjoy things and feel like he's not intruding on something he shouldn't. without even trying, you make him feel welcome—wanted.

that's it. you make him feel wanted.

the realization affects him in a way he doesn't understand. at work the next day, when you smile at him over the top of the front desk, he feels something incredibly strong—something like instinct—that tells him to touch you. small. a thumb brushed across your cheek. his fingers grazing yours. he wants it in a way that can't be right because he's never wanted to touch someone like this.

he doesn't do it, but he thinks about it all day. your little smiles when you notice him watching you on your dates, the way your fingers graze your lips when you cover your laugh, the softness in the way you regard him. you're quiet, reserved, but when you laugh you laugh hard. he wants your soft, your quiet and your loud, he wants the feeling of your fingers on his lips, he wants your smallest smiles, all things he wishes he could fold up and keep and later display somewhere he can always see them. a school of paper fish, gaping mouths and drawn-on spots and such carefully pressed lines.

so on the eleventh date—(he knows it's ridiculous to count, but he's never spent this much time with one person before, not like this)—he reaches for your hand when you're walking alongside the bay, the air turning cold in the wake of the sunset that the two of you had just witnessed. that's romantic, you'd teased when he asked you to watch it with him. he'd rolled his eyes, shrugged you off.

but maybe he wanted it to be romantic. maybe he wanted to make this as normal as possible for you because nothing has been normal between the two of you so far.

you pull back when he reaches for you, as if on instinct. look up at him, confused, when he reaches out again. "katsuki..." you say, and it sounds as if he's done something wrong.

he tries not to let his brain spiral but thoughts drip inwards. water meeting a dented hull. what has he done this time? what else has he fucked up by being fundamentally wrong?

"you know..." you start, and you lose your words.

he thinks of kyoka, years ago. it's okay, you know. to not like it. he wonders if you'll still text him like she does.

your lips pull into a frown before you speak and katsuki can't breathe. "i was never gonna ask on my own because i know you don't like talking about things like this if you don't bring it up. but—um. katsuki—do you think i expect something from you?"

"huh?" he asks, dumb. breathing is still something he fails to do.

"i know that this is—different. i know you have some things going on that make the physical part hard for you." you look up at him so earnestly, and he loves looking at you. he loves looking at you and doesn't want to have to stop and he's worried that this is it. the moment he'll have to stop. you try to smile and it's small and he wants it all for himself. careful. delicate. secret, for him. "i'm not gonna lie to you. i don't know what a relationship without that kind of stuff looks like. but that doesn't mean i'm not willing to find out. it's—i don't need you to try to do something you think i want you to do."

"i'm not."

"it makes me feel a little sick, kat. honestly. it makes me feel like, i don't know—like i'm taking advantage of you, or something—"

"you're not."

"you don't have to do things like that to keep me around." you look flustered, eyes darting from his face to the skyline. "if you want me, i'm—you know."

it's okay, you know. "i don't know."

"i'm yours," you say, and cringe immediately at your words. "or like—i could be, you know, kind of whatever you wanted, if you—if that's what you want. would want."

katsuki can only remember a few times when his head was this quiet in the presence of someone else. when he trusted someone enough to let his mind go blank, to let himself act on instinct. "can i kiss you?"

you sigh. "this is what i was saying. i don't want you to—"

"no," he says, quiet, and he's closer to you than he's ever been. he likes the way you smell. he's not gonna apologize if that's weird. "i just want—god, i feel pathetic asking again. can i just—?"

just, just, just. just a touch, just a kiss, just a moment of your fucking time—it's all he wants. and he's never wanted like this. he's never trusted like this. his head has never quieted entirely because he's so sure that he's not going to disappoint you, or be something you don't actually want, or be wrong.

you've shown him that he can't be wrong with you, regardless of whether or not something within him is broken.

your lips are warm, a little chapped from the dry air, and he tries to remember what kissing chastely is but it's like something breaks in him further the second the two of you touch. his hands are cradling your face, his tongue is gliding against your tongue, his teeth are clacking against your teeth, and he knows the kiss is bad and wrong and messy but he suddenly needs it. he needs to feel you.

you make a noise against him and worry slices into his stomach before he realizes it's a quiet, breathy moan, and maybe you've been okay without the touch but that doesn't mean you don't enjoy it when you receive it. he can tell he hasn't made his boundaries clear enough—your hands circle his wrists, too cautious to go further, too hesitant to grip him like he thinks you want to. like he wants you to want to.

his teeth hit yours again and you laugh, and he pulls back, stomach tight. there's a hope in him that's ready to be torn.

you see it in his face—the fear. "i love kissing you," you blurt out, as if it's the only reassurance you can think of in the moment. "i mean—you're just." you laugh again, and he realizes it's nerves. you're just as nervous as he is. "can i—can we go somewhere warm? and maybe do this more? or—if this was enough—"

he's pulling you towards his apartment before you can get another word out.

kissing you is easy because you make him feel like it's relatively new for you as well. maybe that's how it feels for everyone every time, but he wouldn't know. he just feels comfortable with you. like you're not so much better than him, like you're not waiting to laugh at him when he fucks up, like you're touching him because you really want to.

so he takes you to his apartment and puts you on his couch and kisses you until your back is against the armrest and he's looming over you and you feel comfortable enough that your hands stray from his wrists to his shoulders to his hair and he didn't even know touching someone could feel like this.

put aside the fact that he's nearly finished in his fucking jeans three times just from your fingers running across his back, from the way you cup his cheek when he pulls back for air because he keeps forgetting to breathe—just having you close is intoxicating. he wants to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder, he wants to bite marks into your skin that'll stay vibrant for weeks, he wants to etch himself into you so deeply that he doesn't have to leave. these wants aren't even sexual—it's something about having you be his. i'm yours, you'd told him, and he hadn't even known that it would be exactly what he needed to hear.

he's in love with you, which isn't shocking to him, but he knows he shouldn't be in love with you yet because people that aren't fucked up in the head don't feel shit like this so quickly. he's not gonna tell you this for a very long time, but he knows—so completely and confidently—that he will reach a point when he can tell you.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, breathy, between kisses.

you stop kissing him, brows raised in surprise. "katsuki, we don't... this is a lot for one night. we can take it slow, still."

"that's—i'm not talking about that." he gives in, then—lets himself bury his face in the crook of your neck, lets himself breathe in deep, lets himself find your hands and intertwine your fingers, and you can probably feel that he's hard as fucking metal for you but that's not what's important right now. it sure as hell makes it awkward to try to have a serious conversation, though. "you sure you wanna deal with all... you know. my stuff."

"are you sure you wanna deal with all of my stuff?" you counter, and he pulls back to look at you. kissed rotten and smiling. "of course i want to deal with it. i like you."

and he likes you too. god, he likes you so fucking much.

the next morning, long after you've left for home, he finds a little orange whale shark hidden behind the alarm clock on his bedside table, stars in the place of eyes, and the trace of you is enough to make him feel warm. to hope that over time his apartment becomes full of the little paper creatures until his home is its own aquarium, until everywhere he looks is a memory of all you've brought him—pieces of you, perfectly arranged and delicately folded by your careful hands, much too gentle to tear.

[sammygender]

john, pacing around the motel room (wondering if sam is gay, and what this means for his Hunting Career): Do you and sam ever talk about girls?

15 y old dean (thinks john is homophobic) (thinks sam is gay): um. sometimes

john: i mean, you do think he Likes Girls, right?

dean: (red alert) (this is bad) (dad thinks sam is gay) (sam is gay) (this is bad) Of course... why would you even say that... he talks about girls all the time..... just because he does theatre?

john (did not know sam has signed up for theatre) (now thoroughly distracted): SAM DOES THEATRE?

dean (thinks dad is being homophobic): you know, there's really nothing that gay about theatre-

john (just wants sam to focus on hunting and prioritise their family for ONCE in his life, goddamnit) (has totally forgotten he was worrying about his gay son): he didn't tell me he'd started doing- theatre- what is he doing? doesn't he realise there are more important things at stake here? *starts muttering to self about RESPONSIBILITIES and REVENGE and other, non starting with R words*

dean (now thinks he's saved the day by diverting dad onto a different, more trodden path of anger-at-sam): yeah... youd have to ask sammy..... at least he's shut up about missing soccer practices for a bit, right?

john (now suddenly back on the gay sam? path) (genuinely just posing questions and has no ill will) : is it just me or do you think soccer's kind of a girly sport?

dean, sweating (dad is going to hate crime my gay little brother): Not Really

btw this whole time sam is like 11 years old and cares more about like. pokemon cards. than anything else

[the-palelady]

kind of a continuation to this because i am constantly thinking of simon being so soft with his partner.

i know people enjoy the rougher sides of intimacy, and surely there are times when simon loves that side as well, but with you he can't help but cradle you in the palm of his hand.

the sugary sweet whines and gasps that pass through your lips when he ruts up into you, your back pressed flush against the shower wall. your hair is sticking to your skin, damp with water or perspiration. you can't even tell the difference anymore. he's had you like this for so long, taking his time with you, worshipping you, whispering filthy words of praise into the crook of your neck as he presses his hips up, up, and up...

when he comes home from work, the remnants of blood and war staining his skin, you encourage him to lie back in bed for you.

"let me take care of you, si."

but that quickly turns into you on your back, legs hung up on his broad shoulders. you arch up from the silk sheets, palm pressed against the crown of his head. you try in vain to push him away, his tongue assaulting your overly sensitive bud in such a leisurely manner. he's snapped that band that still sits tight in your core so many times you've lost count.

or there are nights when he wakes up from a nightmare. he turns to check up on you. always.

your hair fans out around you across the pillow, knotted in places, a few strands sticking to your drool covered lips. the blanket is bunched up around your waist, t-shirt drifting up your torso to expose the softness of your stomach.

the storm that raged in his mind just moments ago all but ceases, waves no longer thrashing angrily, fat droplets of rain and fog no longer obscuring his vision. all he sees is you as he presses his lips against the dip of your hip, kissing one then moving to the other.

simon kisses every inch of you, covering you in the scent of tobacco and his body wash. scarred hands find the arch of your back when his lips trail up the line of your sternum, chapped lips dragging along skin that's so sweet he knows the dentist might find a few cavities the next time he goes.

when he reaches your tired face, eyes barely cracking open to meet his amber irises, he sees the confusion and concern. a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he whispers a quiet, "s'nothin', love," and you hum, relaxing in his protective grip.

i love you was a strangled series of syllables that simon never found himself capable of uttering. he wished deep in his heart that he could say those three simple words to you, but they never came.

so he instead would paint each letter, line and loop, one by one against the delicate flesh of your body with his lips until it was embedded in the furthest depths of your brain.

[greenorangevioletgrass]

the albatross, here to destroy you (a.d.)

Pairing: art donaldson x popstar!reader

Summary: three years, three encounters. First, a chance meeting between two rising stars seeking an escape leaves a handprint on their hearts.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: smoking, language, greek mythology references, hella unresolved sexual tension(!!!), art is highkey a baby and lowkey a brat lol, did i mention unresolved sexual tension?, sooo much pining

Notes: this idea has consumed my waking days for weeks. I contemplated making it a really long fic, but after a long and careful consideration, I have decided to make it a trilogy! Two reasons; a) it’s gonna be really long, and b) I wanted to put Art’s look as a reference in each part lmao. Big up to @ysuftmikey and @tommysparker for being awesome and hearing out my incoherent rambles about this story. But anyway, please comment, reblog, talk to me and tell me what you think about it! Happy reading!

**i do not have a taglist. Follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass andd turn on the notifications to be alerted for new fics and updates!**

Part One: London, July 2011.

It was quite an impressive feat. 23-year-old American rising star Art Donaldson had miraculously beat the defending champion-slash-legend Rafael Nadal at the Wimbledon final.

Or so they said.

You don’t know, nor do you care much, to be quite honest. You were basically ordered to attend by your publicist, outfits picked out, hair and makeup team on full throttle only to have you sit pretty on the side of the Centre Court. And now, after milling around and halfheartedly mingling at the afterparty, you decide to give yourself some respite and slip away to the balcony.

“Oh, shit—” the man quickly turns back and stubs his cigarette on the railing, waving away any trace of smoke.

(You say man in a very broad term. He looks more like a teenage boy with that messy blond mop and skittish way about him.)

You raise your hands, showing no threat. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this balcony was taken.”

“Wait, no. Please.” He stops. He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. The only thing more embarrassing than getting caught smoking was getting caught smoking by a pretty girl. And pretty is… a fucking gross understatement, based on what he was seeing. “Don’t leave on my account.”

“You sure?”

You flash him that soft, understanding smile and he very nearly asks you not to leave, like ever. But fortunately, he’s got enough game to hold his tongue and smile back at you, “There’s more than enough room for both of us here, right?”

Technically, the balcony is big enough for the two of you to stand on opposite corners without even addressing each other. But his fingers are resting on a pack of Marlboro Green, and you bite the inside of your cheek thoughtfully. “And more than enough cigarettes, I hope?”

He’s not sure what he was hoping for, but he sure is surprised to hear you accept his invitation to stay. Gosh, he must’ve looked like an idiot right now. “Sure, of course.”

He slides a cigarette out of the pack as he offers it to you, readily leaning in with his zippo. For a split second, the two of you share a breath in the space that he encloses with one hand as he lights your cigarette. You would be lying if it didn’t make your heart stutter.

“So…” you inhale, taking the nicotine hit to calm your thoughts, “I thought smoking was bad for athletes.”

“I thought smoking was bad for singers too, but I guess it’s less frowned upon, huh?” He murmurs, trying to balance a fresh cigarette off of the side of his lips, smirking at you over the flicker of flame he started.

“Touché.” You lean your back against the railing. It’s an interesting game of chess you’re playing. Each of your reputations precede you and don’t at the same time. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re out here smoking on your own, instead of in there…” Celebrating is left unsaid, although the implied word hangs in big and bold letters.

“Ah well, maybe this is my way of celebrating. We’re allowed one vice every now and again, right?”

You look at him like it’s a bullshit excuse—and it is.

“This is gonna sound insane, but…” he takes a drag, looking out at the landscape before him, “I don’t feel like I should be celebrating.”

You look at him like that bullshit excuse grew a new head.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I worked hard for it and I’m glad it paid off, but…” he flicks the ash on the end of his cigarette three times. “I could’ve been better. Quicker. Won more points earlier. Beat him faster. And until I can do that, I don’t think I deserve a celebration just yet.”

You hum softly. “Sounds like you’re making a Sisyphus out of yourself. That can’t be fun.”

His mouth tugs into a crooked smile, not expecting to be called out like this. “I mean, at least I’m not rolling a boulder up a hill. I’d take tennis over that any day.”

“Yeah, but it seems like tennis is your boulder up a hill.”

“Touché.” He smiles bashfully as he takes a long drag. And then, he offers his hand. “I’m Art Donaldson, by the way.”

It’s a formality at this point. He knows who you are, heard your songs on the radio and saw your face on billboards more times than he can count. Hell, he saw you on the stands in your little Dior sunglasses earlier—and you saw him looking, just for a moment, sweat dripping down his perfect nose and all. But out of courtesy, you tell him your name and accept his handshake.

You pull your hand away, and he almost groans in protest. But again, he holds his horses. “Alright, I’ll bite. If I’m Sisyphus, what does that make you?”

“Oh, definitely Dionysus. Living on wine and theater and good vibes.” You’ve got that shit locked and loaded. It’s obvious that you’ve thought of this before.

“Is that so?” He chuckles. “Well… as long as you don’t sacrifice me to the maenads, right?”

“Can’t promise you that,” you quip back, tapping the gray off of your remaining cigarette. Pleasantly surprised that he doesn’t make the obnoxious remark that Dionysus is also the god of sex, as boys would do. Even more so that he knows enough to know the difference between the sirens and the maenads.

There’s no fighting the raging flush in his cheeks anymore, but he just hopes you would spare him. “Will you at least promise to make it swift?”

It comes out faster than a trainwreck, but without even blinking, the one thing that comes out of your mouth is, “What if I wanna take my time with you?”

Fuck.

The party carries on inside, although Stevie Wonder’s ‘My Cherie Amour’ sounds a mile away. His cigarette smoke comes out in a stuttered huff, as he looks away, not knowing what to do with himself. Eventually, though, he recovers, taking another drag. “It wouldn’t be a terrible way to go, huh?”

“I suppose not.” You sigh into a smile, exuding a flume of smoke through your nose. Shit, he doesn’t know which one is hotter; that, or the lipstick mark on your filter. Or the pensive look as you watch the party through the window.

Oh, he’s down bad.

“So, Dionysus…” he leans out against the railing, flicking ash off his stub one, two, three. “What brings you out here? You a tennis fan?”

“Me? Oh, no. No, I… don’t even really understand how it worked until today,” you admit bashfully. Somehow the truth doesn’t feel so embarrassing, even though you spent the day lying through your teeth. “Not until I saw you play. Which… congrats, by the way.”

“Wow. Thanks.” He’s not sure whether it’s the earnestness in your congratulations, or the fact that the game finally makes sense because of him, but his heart grows three sizes.

“But, yeah, no, my publicist dragged me here kicking and screaming.”

“So you were forced into a party, huh? That’s not very Dionysian of you…” He muses playfully, and those lines on each side of his lips aching to break out into a full smile. And they do. And it warms your heart that those smile lines only emphasizes the way his face lights up. “Nah, I get what you mean. My agent had to drag me out of the locker room to make an ‘appearance.’”

“Yeah, she said something about… shifting into a classier, more grownup image?”

“By watching a couple of dudes hit a ball with a racket?”

“By sitting there and looking pretty. It’s the only reason I’m all decked out in this ridiculous fucking thing,” you look down at your outfit with a grumble. Of all the days you could’ve run into someone cute, you’re in a fucking pantsuit like some middle-aged politician.

“But you do look pretty,” he replies without even blinking.

“Thanks, it’s Ralph Lauren.” You smile faux sweetly. “I believe I’m contractually obligated to say that.”

“Still pretty,” and he means it, lackadaisical smile and all. The ivory cape-like blazer is an interesting cut that goes down to your knees, and it makes you look regal. The cut of the pants makes your legs go for miles. It certainly doesn’t hurt that your off-white shirt is unbuttoned halfway, showing a generous amount of cleavage.

(And hey, he’s still a guy. Can you blame him?)

He has this way of looking at you. Like he’s studying you. It would’ve been unsettling, if he weren’t so fucking beautiful to look at and you don’t mind an excuse to stare back and admire the angular lines on his face. Like Apollo in the moonlight. “What?”

Art taps his cigarette much more deliberately and inhales, exhales out of the side of his mouth, much more deliberately this time. “I think you’re more Aphrodite than Dionysus.”

You take another drag. “How so?”

“First of all, for a god of parties, you don’t like to party all that much,” he grins knowingly, smugly, like he’s proud to have figured you out. But his smile softens, and there’s intensity behind his eyes. “And because you’re beautiful. And dangerous.”

Your mouth twists, pausing for a long moment. To calm yourself. To gather yourself. “But it’s so cliched, though…”

“Well, who would you rather be? Medusa, maybe?” He turns his body, leaning on his side against the railing so he’s fully facing you, and you can’t help but mirror his position.

You raise a forefinger pointedly, French manicured nails on display. “Hey. I think Medusa gets a bad rep. Neptune fucked her over, but she was the one cursed.”

“And what, you think you’re as cursed as Medusa, too?”

You shrug, maybe.

Despite the weight of your answer, he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “There’s no way you’re cursed. A curse wouldn’t be so beautiful.”

“But a curse could be deceiving, no?”

“Or maybe it’s a matter of perspective. Maybe you think you’re cursed, even when you might not necessarily be.”

“Oh, just like you’re so inclined to keep pushing your boulder up a hill?”

Art blinks, and sucks his teeth bashfully. Just when he thought he’s got you figured out… Check and mate. “You know, if I didn’t know you any better, I would’ve thought you were some kind of an oracle. Like Cassandra.”

Your eyebrows raise in interest.

“You have this strange, unnerving ability to see right through me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had a few drinks, or you’re just very observant, but…” he trails off thoughtfully and then nods like he’s made up his mind. “Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,” you echo quietly. “I like that.”

“Mm-hm. I’d say it’s a very fitting title for you.”

That fond little glint in his eyes is becoming a staple in the way he looks at you. And you don’t ever wanna see it dim. So you speak up again, leaning in conspiratorially. “You wanna hear something funny?”

“What?”

“My parents almost named me Cassandra.”

His jaw drops, dumbstruck. “Shut the fuck up.” His grandmother would have smacked him on the back of his head, knowing the profanity he uses (to a girl he likes, no less). But out of all the things he tried to figure out about her, he never expected to get this one right.

“I shit you not.” You watch him double down laughing, grinning to yourself. “Freaky coincidence, right?”

“Or the Fates working overtime. I’m sure they’d be laughing at us right now.” He looks up at the deep blue sky with a shake of the head.

You wave at the stars, taking a mock bow to your invisible audience. “Thank you. Glad you’re enjoying the show, guys.” The laughter lingers on your lips, and you wonder if it tastes the same on his. “We really are just the court jesters, huh?”

He nods. “Although I wouldn’t mind playing the fool for you.” Maybe it’s the drinks or the cigarettes or the unlikeliest conversation with the most stunning creature he has ever laid eyes on, but at one point, his inhibitions are starting to leave him.

It’s now or never.

The dubious smile that comes out of you is involuntary. He can’t be serious, right? “You are so full of shit, aren’t you?”

“You don’t believe me?”

You look at him like, obviously.

“What are you gonna do, punish me for lying?” There’s that glint again, the bite against the inside of your cheek, and Art steps in.

Your heart catches. He doesn’t feel much like a boy now, inches away from you with a disarming look, his intentions crystal clear. And your head drops for a moment with a wry smile. “You can’t say that to me...”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because? His grin widens, because for the first time this whole evening, he’s got the upper hand. And he likes it.

“I…” You blink at him, finding yourself cornered. Thankfully, though, your phone comes to the rescue, buzzing in your pocket and popping the tension between you and Art like a balloon. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I—”

“Yeah, sure.” he backs away a step, flashing an understanding smile. He watches you pick up the phone, looking out at the London sky. He would swear up and down that he didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just loves to watch you gnaw at your lower lip in thought, study your moonbathed profile.

Listen to the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

“Hi… no, I’m still at the— yeah. I’m not sure… are you still with…? Oh, good. Good, just checking. Say hi to everyone for me... Yeah, I’ll call you when I get back?” You catch Art’s gaze, and your stomach drops as you hear the dreaded words on the line. But again, you’re backed away into a corner. So you look away and say it back, “I love you, too. Bye.”

There it is.

Art really should’ve known this. He should’ve seen it coming. You were way too good to be true, but that doesn’t stop him from getting disappointed. No, his heart breaks on the spot, and he’s pretty sure you can hear it.

(You can’t. But you can see it in his face.)

The silence is awkward. It’s ugly. The steady sounds of cars passing by on the ground feels like it’s right in front of you. For the longest time, the two of you can only look out onto the horizon. Anxiously tracing the outlines of skyscrapers in sight.

He is reeling, like he’s been shaken awake from a dream. “So, I take it you’re taken, huh?”

The look you give him is apologetic, and it kills you as much as it destroys him. “Yeah.”

Art rubs at his jaw like he’s willing himself to say something, anything. “I see you’ve cursed me, then.”

“What?”

It takes him a moment to gather his words. Put together his thoughts in a way that you would understand. He didn’t mean it to sound so damning, but it’s the first thing that comes out. It feels like taking a boulder out of his throat. “By making me like you.”

Oh.

Your face falls. Of course. How cruel of you to play his game, knowing you’re setting him up to lose. “I’m sorry. I never meant to…”

“No, no. I’m not blaming you, I swear,” he quickly interjects. “It’s… not your fault one of us is a fool.” He smiles ruefully at nothing.

“It’s a shame,” you quietly admit.

And even then he can’t be mad at you. Not from the way he looks at you oh so tenderly. “It’s a real shame, love.”

There are no words, no more witty remarks. They’ve all been exhausted out of you. There’s nothing left to exchange but that soft look of resignation. Of defeat.

Of wishful thinking.

The cigarettes have long died out and forgotten, only the filters left between your fingers. Your ashes fall in a big chunk on the railing, while Art’s… have free-dived and dispersed in the muggy night air.

“I should go.” Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Let you go back to your party.”

Art can only nod. He keeps his mouth shut, not trusting himself enough to not beg you to stay.

You reach out, almost pulling back, but you can’t help it. Even if it’s just a nothing hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Art.”

He covers your hand in his, just for a second. His thumb caressing the back of your hand. His heart is in pieces, but at least he will have this. If nothing else, he will still know how your hand feels in his.

And just as quickly as it happens, it ends. Art doesn’t dare watch you leave. He misses your touch instantly, and the sound of your footsteps, and the door opening and closing follows. As Al Green’s ‘What Am I Gonna Do With Myself’ plays on in the party, Art looks out towards the London sky and lights another cigarette.

[sforzesco]

miscellaneous roman nonsense lmao I very briefly thought about un curling octavian's hair, but cleopatra 1963's influence remains as strong as ever

[zedif-y]

just. something about how the clock is impulse's way of looking out for bdubs. the clock as a way to make sure bdubs isn't caught off guard by nighttime. the clock as a symbol that says i'll look out for you. i'll warn you of danger. be careful.

and the thing is it isn't perfect. the thing is it only tells bdubs if there is danger to come, to stay alert, stay vigilant. it doesnt tell him what he's facing or where or when— just be on guard. it is night time. danger lurks and i care about you and i want you to survive.

it isn't a compass, a guide back home. no surety of a map, no comfort nor light of a torch. it's a clock. practical, useful.

i feel like it's perfect because it's just like impulse. impulse knows when danger is at its peak: when your back is turned, when it is dark out and the shadows are long. a clock is about anticipation, he knows when he needs to raise his hackles and he knows when he could be unsafe— but it's not an exact science. he could always, always be wrong . he can never truly predict when things go south, but he can prevent it as best as he can.

don't come outside, the clock says, ticking in warning. it's dark. it's dangerous. i love you.

be careful.

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

this has been marinating in my brain for ages now

[legobiwan]

So I find it a little odd that Mario shakes his brother's hand like he's trying to win political office rather than having just been rescued (again) from one of King Boo's paintings at the end of Luigi's Mansion: Dark Moon.

But then I was thinking - this might be a kind of instinctual response.

From what we can gather over the three games, being stuck in a painting isn't a passive experience, but one that is disturbing, disorientating, and mostly likely tantamount to torture.

And given King Boo's abilities, who knows what kind of environment he has dropped his victims into with these settings. The landscapes, you might say. There's no definite background in any of the trapped paintings, ghost or otherwise, but it does beg the question of what can be felt, seen, heard, or otherwise perceived by someone who is trapped in a portrait. Does the hunter create the cage, enrichment area and all, or are the trappings beyond the frame (inside the frame) more akin to being trapped within one's mind and all the pitfalls that could emerge from that?

We see three iterations of Mario being freed from the painting in each game. The first being total confusion and possible injury; the second looking like some kind of hallucination, given Luigi's concerned expression; and the third being a form of decorporalization (not a real word, but whatever), as Mario seems shocked to learn he has a body again.

The first might be attributed to King Boo's insistence of straight-up physical torture combined with E. Gadd's more medieval equipment, which had likely been less-than-tested in extracting someone from a portrait. (And if the de-portraiting process was that bad, imagine what it was like for the ghosts going in. No wonder they held a grudge. I love E. Gadd, but oh boi, is he the pinnacle morally ambiguous mad scientist).

Anyway, in the third installment, Mario definitely shows signs of having been disconnected from his physical form, perhaps meaning that his time inside the portrait reduced him to a neutered, mental representation of himself, incapable of fighting back in the real world. But this being said, he seems to recognize Luigi on-site, rushing forward to give him an enthusiastic hug, which is the reaction you'd expect after being freed from a pair of diabolical ghosts, one of whom is trying to thirst-trap the other through psychological torture.

So what's the deal with Mario's reaction in Dark Moon?

My guess is that King Boo trapped Mario in a painting that was a distorted reality, or perhaps a distorted version of Mario's own insecurities. It would account for the disorientation and the fact Mario comes out of the painting gladhanding his own brother like a stranger. (Which would also account for Luigi's concerned reaction - what the hell is my brother doing?)

And you figure, Mario, at this point, is a kind of figurehead, an idol, a hero of the Mushroom Kingdom. It's become his identity, it's who he is, it's what he does and is known for. Of course, part of this role is going around and shaking hands, being present - at least physically - at press conferences and speeches and all the like. The people need a focal point, a representation of their hopes against the violent and numerous incursions upon their land they suffer from outside forces (although in complete transparency, my personal headcanon is that Bowser's kingdom used to be comprised of at least a part of the Mushroom Kingdom, and that that land and sovereignty was stolen through a series of bad treaties by his father and some of the more malicious factions of the Toad Council, thus leading to both the enmity between the kingdoms and some serious economic and trade repercussions in the Darklands, but that's a whole other post.)

Mario must be so used to blindly shaking hands and putting up that front, that character, so much so that he doesn't even think about it anymore, and it's my theory that this is the version of Mario that emerges from the portrait in Dark Moon, perhaps having been wrested from some situation where this almost desperate attempt at approval was manifesting from Mario's own subconscious.

And poor Luigi. You have to wonder if one of his latent fears is becoming another empty face in the adoring crowd surrounding his brother. The Mario that emerges is not 100% connected to the fact he is Luigi's brother, it seems, is just putting on airs and the right words and actions as he may have been trained to do by the Toad Council. (Who, incidentally, are one of my favorite scapegoats in the series). Talk about a nightmare come to life.

It fits, in a way. Mario's first abduction results in physical harm, his second in mental, his third in more of a depersonalization - perhaps a rushed spell enacted by King Boo as he was, by the time of the whole hotel debacle, was far more preoccupied with his idea of trapping Luigi than enacting harm on anyone else beyond imprisonment. Because by the time Luigi's Manion 3 rolls around, King Boo is almost deranged in his obsession with Luigi, and I wouldn't be shocked if his non-existent heart wasn't into the nastier sides of portrait capture when it came to Luigi's friends and family. But oh boi, if he had captured Luigi in one of those paintings - good night, nurse.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Bad Latin

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Jane x Guildford Rating: E Word Count: 3285

Summary: The night the guards raid the tavern in search of Archer and his Ethian pack, Jane accepts the rude man's offer (and Susannah's advice), fleeing out the side door. If they're caught, they'll have to be convincing. Good thing Jane's lust is no act.

They stare at one another through the treads of the staircase, Jane and Susannah. The man—the rude, attractive man secreted in here with her—tugs Jane back by her upper arm and Susannah lurches forward. Jane recalls a turned ankle, a day years ago when Susannah came to her sheepishly, limping after she’d put her foot wrong dismounting from a horse. It’s the same motion.

And then Susannah is leaning on the steps, candlelit face growing shadowy as she peers into Jane’s darkened alcove. Jane wrenches free of the man’s uncertain grip; who is he to hold her back? She thrusts her hands between the treads to grip Susannah’s fiercely.

“Come with me,” she blurts. Seeing Susannah now, alive and apparently unhurt, is almost as startling as watching her transfigure into a hawk and take flight. Jane’s concern for her friend’s life is far greater than the confusing sense of betrayal she experienced the moment she learned Susannah is Ethian, so she repeats her plea, “Come. Please, Susannah.”

Susannah’s expression of surprise at the sight of Jane deadens and she shakes her head.

The guards continue their rampage, smacking tankards off tables and smiles off the faces of the tavern’s unprepared patrons. The man at Jane’s back clearly decides the guards are coming a little too near, because he places an urgent hand on her waist and attempts to draw her deeper into the shadows. Jane shoves him off without looking in his direction. Her eyes are fixed on Susannah’s face, and she sees her glance between the two of them. Her expression briefly re-enlivens with the ghost of former times. There’s a faint smirk.

“Go on,” she says. “For me.”

Jane sighs impatiently. She is not going to abandon Susannah in order to mess around with that man. The thought of such a thing—of feelings that might make a woman like Esther find it impossible to keep to her own bed even with an inflamed vagina—may have been on Jane’s mind before, but guards and Ethians and the accompanying uproar make that all a bit complicated.

But there’s something more in Susannah’s eyes than a dare for Jane to go off and fuck a stranger. She means survive, Jane realizes. She means be smart and adaptable. While these aren’t exactly weaknesses for Jane, it’s true that her attempts at spontaneity usually fail. Her and Susannah’s short-lived escape proved that. Projects like her book of medicines testify to the opposite: with time, effort, and careful study, Jane is capable of incredible discoveries and achievements. Then again, it took so very little time for the whole thing to burn to ashes. Maybe meticulousness isn’t her strong suit either.

As Jane’s thoughts flow frantically, Susannah untangles their fingers.

“Get out of here,” she says. And, probably because Jane’s eyes continue to beg, she adds, “I’ll be fine,” before shoving away from the steps. She’s just glanced away from Jane when a guard claps his hand on her shoulder, spinning Susannah towards him for questioning.

Jane staggers back with a gasp caught somewhere in her throat. This time, when the man catches hold of her, taking up the hand Susannah so lately released, Jane doesn’t push him away. She matches his grip. When he throws the door open, she flees with him into the night.

There are more guards out here, guards carrying torches they swish around corners, scanning every likely hiding place.

“Can you run?” the man asks her, which is so insulting a question that Jane can only answer it with a look of disdain.

Wordlessly, they wait for the same thing, and when it comes—an opening where the path between their position and the woods clears—they sprint together across the hardpacked dirt, stumbling into the trees.

They crash through the undergrowth, but the ground is uneven and, away from the tavern, the light quickly fades. Their passage is clumsy enough to ensure they’ll be easily tracked, should they be pursued. And how far can they get, really? In darkness, with nothing, not even each other’s name?

The man seems to be coming to the same conclusion; he turns to Jane wearing a look of determination.

“We should hide in plain sight,” he suggests. More than suggests—he speaks the words like an edict (tosser). Lucky for him, Jane has already weighed the options and is ready to agree.

He keeps staring at her, dark eyes annoyingly compelling and distracting. As if there weren’t enough on her mind.

“Do you understand?” he checks.

Solemnly, she nods. She blinks to focus her thoughts. She remembers Susannah taking to the sky when escape over land became unviable.

“We have to climb a tree,” she says. Thick, sturdy branches. Concealing foliage. The perfect hiding place.

The man’s expression distorts as he openly scoffs at her.

“No,” he says. “It means kissing.”

“Kissing?”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“And then some, if we’re to be convincing as two people who wandered away from the tavern before all the excitement and became too caught up in one another to hear the commotion.”

The way he glances at her mouth makes it clear he will not find this a difficult role to play. With this look, and the dark, and the relative isolation, Jane is thinking, Why not? What harm? It seems as good a plan as any for waiting out the guards’ terrorization of the tavern, when she’ll be able to ditch this man and go looking for any trace of Susannah, any hint that tells Jane she is safe, or where Jane might find her. When she does, they’ll greet each other properly, then smile conspiratorially over the memory of that man in that tavern, and Jane will divulge her tale of sexual exploration and empowerment—

Until the man absolutely ruins it, snapping her out of her reunion fantasy with the words, “Wonderful. Get on your knees.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jane grits out. Her fists clench, and either because of that or the fire in her eyes, the man pauses in the middle of unbuckling his belt.

She feels just as affronted as she knows she must look—at his easy assumption, at the memory of the shape of the stable boy’s head beneath Susannah’s skirts back home.

Gallingly, the man seems to be able to read her mind. He spreads his hands defensively, even stomps his heel in what could be the reflexive way he summons attention (she is reminded of his lithe mounting of a tavern table). Or it’s simply petulance.

“I can’t very well get on mine,” he argues. “A woman caught receiving the sort of pleasure I could give would be highly suspicious. An unsuspicious woman gets on her knees.”

With a flick of his wrists, he points at the ground with both hands.

Before Jane can dispute his self-serving statements (which she would have to do blushing, helplessly curious), there is the crackle of sticks being trodden upon, underbrush brushed aside by the thudding passage of a person in heavy boots. A person who moves without hesitation, as though searching the forest around the tavern for fleeing Ethians. A guard.

Jane meets the man’s eyes with alarm. It’s clear he shares it. For perhaps the first time in her life, she takes a conscious step backward. Actually, a literal step backward, until her back is pressed against a wide trunk. The man steps forward, bows his face to hers. She expects him to move quickly, claim her mouth with rough, thoughtless passion. His unhurried intention surprises her.

In the chilling air, Jane feels their warm, mingled breath on her face. It’s as if there are bubbles in her blood, fizzing, making her light. Again, his eyes are on her mouth. She feels her own lids lower as her cheeks flush with desire. Their lips just meet in a first, teasing graze when the guard stomps into their hiding place.

Jane’s companion leans away from her with genuine reluctance, shifting his gaze to the intruder.

The scowling guard swiftly takes them in and gets right to it: “What’re you two doing?”

“What does it look like?” the man replies, his tone so lacking in sarcasm that the question comes across even more condescending. So, Jane thinks, he’s rude to everyone. She hopes it won’t cost them their lives, regretting that she threw her lot in with his by following him through the door.

“You know an Archer?” the guard demands, ignoring the response.

“Afraid I’m more familiar with knives.”

“You meet anyone unusual at the tavern tonight?”

“We weren’t even in the tavern.”

The guard narrows his eyes. This response disturbs his stream of questions. Hands down at her sides, Jane clutches nervously at tree bark.

“Really,” the guard says, the word hard and accusing, “because we’ve been interrogating people who say there was a poet who disappeared in the confusion.”

“Ah! He was drunk.” The man nods in apparent comprehension.

“Not his confusion, our confusion.”

“If you’re that confused, maybe you shouldn’t be interrogating people.”

Before this piece of wit can infuriate the guard, Jane interrupts.

“The general confusion,” she interprets. Her hands now itch to throttle the man, so she grips harder at the gritty bark. “We quite understand.”

But she is entirely ignored. Story of her fucking life.

“The poet was speaking Latin.” The guard squints distrustfully at the man. “Do you speak Latin?”

“Believe me,” Jane says brightly, “he cannot speak Latin.”

She covers the man’s mouth when he seems poised to try. There’s a mumble as he protests from behind her hand.

“What was that?” the guard asks sharply.

Jane beams. “I didn’t say anything.”

The man—bane of her existence that he has rapidly become—licks her palm and she instinctively lets go of his face.

“I said,” he says, “I’m better with tongues.” He has the nerve to shoot Jane a sultry, significant look. Her body has the nerve to respond to it. She feels the blooming heat, the racing heart. Almost instantly, the air between them is clouded by lust.

The guard breaks the spell with the blunt repetition of “Tongues?”

The man redirects his attention with obvious frustration.

“Speaking in tongues,” he clarifies. “Rather than Latin.”

“Though he rarely does as he’s enough of an idiot in English,” Jane jumps in helpfully.

The guard studies them with unguarded hostility.

“Anyone who’s being uncooperative will be dunked.”

The man swings his head to face Jane again.

“Fancy getting wet?”

Before she can quit trying to manage his unpredictable responses and take her turn at pure, unadulterated, incautious rudeness that could very well end with her drowning, the guard seems to decide he’s wasted enough time on the two of them.

“Never mind,” he says. “She’s no Ethian.” A jerk of his chin indicates Jane. “Such a state of agitation as she’s in now surely would’ve triggered the transformation.”

Jane scoffs at his total contempt for her, but he turns and walks off, back towards the tavern.

“You don’t suspect me of being Ethian?” the object of her combined lust and aggravation calls after him.

Too late, Jane elbows him hard to be quiet, but of course the guard turns.

“No,” he says.

“Might I ask why?”

“Some people’s evil. Some’s just irritating.”

With that succinct sentiment, the guard takes permanent leave of them.

“You’re a fool,” Jane says when they’re alone. Her voice is almost awed at his baffling recklessness. She slumps back against the tree with her arms crossed. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”

“You know an Ethian,” he counters, and his point is clear.

“You didn’t turn me in.”

“I still could.” A blatant lie, accompanied by a teasing look that holds no malice. She hates that she smiles. Hates how it encourages him—for he edges back towards her and tilts his chin invitingly. “Buy my silence?”

“How dare you.” Jane aims for severe and gets breathy. “I will not be blackmailed.”

In the time it takes her to blink once, she decides that, between the way he successfully (however foolhardy were his methods) got rid of the guard and the way he looks wrapped in shadows, the man is too alluring to merit her further resistance. Her smile widens as she declares, “I’m doing this for fun.”

His approach may be unexpectedly deliberate, but Jane left finesse back home with her finely chopped and gently ground herbs; in every sense, she throws herself at him, sealing their lips.

Following the force of their collision, the man winds his arms around her waist and returns her ardour. Then this is kissing, she thinks. Nice. The act addresses two urges at once: her lust and her need for him to shut up. It’s actually so nice that the sanctimoniousness of preserving her virginity up to this point falls away with near-physical relief. Why not? she thinks, over and over and over, changing the angle of her head, feeling the tongue that licked her palm steal enticingly behind her lower lip. The heat of his hands on her is a defence against the cooling night, their pressure a promise of the study he would like to make of her. What a change to experience something new that she doesn’t want to run from.

Jane grasps the back of his neck. When she kneads her strong fingers into his skin, he groans. A tingle races up her back because the look on his face when he draws slightly away from her says the noise surprised them both. It’s tempting, as he closes the distance again, nose delicately nudging hers, to take hold of that belt of his and bring his hips forward. Her skirts will flatten to make room. But she knows—from the experience of seeing if not doing—once a man’s member is involved, a woman’s pleasure is too often forgotten. If he’s going to respond like that to her fingers on his neck, stimulation of more private areas could cause the total collapse of his senses. And unless he has enough presence of mind to attend to her satisfaction, she’s not interested in getting senselessly fucked against a tree.

So, before their lips can meet, she gives his chest a shove, propelling him backward. Sweeping her hair aside, Jane crouches. She’s unlacing her boots when she thinks to glance up and check his reaction (she, perhaps, does not have all her wits about her either). He’s looking down at her, grinning expectantly.

“Oh, I’m not staying down here,” she explains. “Just don’t want to get dirt on your back.”

He doesn’t seem unhappy to have his expectations overturned, waiting while Jane lobs her boots aside. When she stands, he sinks, and she understands the look he gave her because it is quite something to see the knife-hurling, guard-abusing, tavern bard on his knees at her stocking feet. Lightly, he touches her ankle. Jane swallows and raises her foot to his shoulder, lightheaded when she presses down a little and he tenses to take the pressure, eyes locked on hers. His hand strokes up her calf, guiding her leg forward, and by the time he’s gripping the underside of her thigh, her foot indeed rests against his back.

With a wink and no further ado, he ducks under her skirts. Jane’s heart pounds, gallops, over the mystery of where his next touch might fall. It comes as his lips trailing up her thigh—light, over her stocking, but impossibly arousing with the barrier of her skirts between them, watched from above by naked stars.

Will it be worth not trying to stick with Susannah? Worth slinking away in the night rather than attempting to stand up for the people too drunk or belligerent to run from the guards? Stop it, Jane tells herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Survive so you can treat sickness and disease in the future. Survive so you can help people then.

The man’s mouth inches up to the crook of her hip, and then to another place no man has ever touched, certainly not with his lips. The tongue that licked her palm and teased inside her mouth delves into the cleft of her and Jane releases a shuddering cry. He bragged about the pleasure he could give her like this, did he not? What a tremendously arrogant thing to boast—and how tremendously elated she is to discover it wasn’t unfounded.

Gripping her thigh, he pulls her close and thrusts his face between her legs, his head completing a slow nod with every pass he gives her with his tongue. A mix of his saliva and her slick release soon seems to coat everything, everything that matters, everything he traces again and again while Jane trembles on one foot, her other leg clamped around him. She can hear the sounds he’s making, the muffled sounds of his own pleasure. She has a manic craving to clutch his hair (those lush, dark curls), but fears it would be too intimate. Instead, she grabs the back of his head through her skirts—for balance, for leverage, inexactly positioning him to rock herself across his tongue.

Apparently unwilling to submit entirely to her control, he makes her feel the edge of his teeth. Which only makes her emit a ragged moan. She doesn’t hear words, but his lips move and reshape themselves against her, and she wonders if she’s being spoken against, spoken into. She wonders—absently, as even these strange caresses of his mouth heighten her pleasure—if it’s Latin.

The back of Jane’s head is thrashing back and forth against the tree, her hair snagging on the bark, when the man takes her nude hips firmly in his grasp and laps at her mercilessly. His tongue burrows inside her, undulating there, before withdrawing so he can close his lips around the nub with which she has played on nights she had herself convinced a man would be of no use to her. Well. It appears that, like the winter a fleeting but highly contagious illness descended upon Bradgate House, she is not immune.

Jane’s back arches, her head scraping against the tree, as she cries out to the heavens. The blissful sensations begin where his mouth touches and streak through her like the shooting stars her dazed vision may only be imagining. It’s possible that she shivers into starlight herself. Her hips hitch and hitch against his face as her hands cradle the swathed base of his skull. This happens involuntarily and she doesn’t try to stop it.

When stars quit falling and the feeling ebbs and her hips finally slow, she’s gasping, feeling loose and tired like she’s been swimming or knocked over the head. With his help, her leg slides limply from the man’s shoulder. He emerges from beneath her skirts lingeringly wiping his mouth. He looks proud of himself. In Jane’s estimation, he should be.

Though the light cast by the tavern is very dim, it’s enough that the swelling in his breeches does not go unobserved once he stands before her. She stares at him for a minute in contemplation, but no, not her problem.

“Thanks,” Jane says simply, stepping back into her boots.

The man exhales a noise of disbelief.

“Thanks?” he echoes, hands on his hips.

Not wanting to give him false hope, she lifts her feet one at a time to tie her laces rather than crouching again. It nearly unbalances her to shrug while her fingers work, but she manages before planting her boots on the forest floor once more.

“Veni, vidi, vici,” she says. She cocks her head flirtatiously and adds, “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

[emloafs]

a binary boyfriends au where the house fight on December 19th never happened, demetri and eli never make up in high school, and the universe keeps pushing them back together (Boston college au)

aka I wanna gage if anyone would read this fic..... (UPDATE: it's written!)

Demetri is having a shitty morning, so he can’t catch a break. 

Maybe he was moving too fast. Maybe he was in a rush to get back to his apartment and finally attempt the other nine pages of the ten-page essay he should’ve already finished. Maybe the whole thing could be blamed on his long limbs or his natural clumsiness, but Demetri is fully convinced that this guy ran into him. Not the other way around. 

And there goes his second coffee of the day–all over his sneakers, the cafe floor, and the guy who shoulder-checked him at full force. 

“Shit!”

“C’mon, man!” the guy barks at the same time. 

The guy has the hood of his green sweatshirt pulled up over his head, likely doing very little against the weather outside. He’s got wired earbuds in–like all pretentious douchebags do–and Demetri bitterly thinks he must have his music too loud to be aware of his surroundings, hence the collision. His worn utility jacket may have saved the hoodie from the spill but it looks completely ruined now.

Arguably, Demetri is much better off, notably not covered in hot coffee. But, this is his second spilled coffee in a single morning, and the universe is out to get him, so this guy isn't going to hear the end of it.

“You ran into me!” Demetri protests, fuming. 

The guy flicks both his arms a few times, trying to wring out any dripping coffee from his coat sleeves.

Demetri’s never been good at biting his tongue and right now he’s too pissed to hold back. “Maybe if you were actually paying attention to the world around you, and not just plowing in here without a care for other customers or your surroundings, you wouldn’t have ran me over! You know, that’s my second spilled coffee today. I have half a mind to demand you get me a new one-”

The guy finally looks up seemingly to find who is responsible for dumping a medium-sized hot latte all over him. His face is half covered by his hoodie and Demetri can only see an intense side-eye of annoyance as a response to his lecture on the important or personal space. Then, he straightens quickly and narrows his eyes, leaning slightly in to the limited space occupied by a puddle of cooling steamed milk and espresso between them.

“And truly it’s blatantly a matter of safety–”

They lock eye contact and the guy’s eyes widen comically and his eyebrows shoot up so high they disappear above the overhang of his hood.

His voice cracks a little as he interrupts Demetri’s rambling.

“Dem?”

Demetri’s words die halfway through his sentence. Does he know this guy?

The stranger shakes his head roughly and clears his throat. “Sorry, it's just- I…” He looks Demetri up and down and narrows his eyes again. “Is your name Demetri?”

And that's… odd. Demetri inspects the guy’s face as best he can under the sweatshirt hood. He seems sort of familiar, but Demetri can't place it. 

Demetri shifts from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of how to hold his weight under this guy’s intense gaze. “Um. Yes?”

“Oh my- holy shit!” The guy lets out a laugh of disbelief and pulls out his earbuds, letting them hang out of the top of his hoodie. “This is crazy.” 

He roughly shoves his hood off of his head, and Demetri’s heart drops into the bottom of his stomach. 

He rakes his hand through a thick mop of shaggy light brown hair. Hiding under the hood was a pair of startling blue eyes that Demetri really should’ve recognized. As the not-so-stranger pats the hoodie down behind his neck, Demetri has a clear picture of his entire face. And just before Demetri can come up with a plausible theory on doplegängers, his eyes land on the faint scar rippling from the guy’s upper lip to his nose.

There's just no goddamn way.

So, since Demetri really can’t catch a break this morning, his childhood best friend, Eli Moskowitz, is standing in front of him, covered in his second latte of the morning. 

And Demetri wants to say fuck off or what are you doing here or get out of my city or honestly just walk away, but he’s rendered completely frozen. Demetri feels a little like a cartoon character when their jaw completely unhinges and hits the floor with a comical clang. He’s left buffering like a YouTube video being played with a shitty wifi connection.

He hasn’t seen Eli since high school. Hasn’t talked to him in even longer. It’s probably been four years since they last spoke. Not that Demetri is counting. What the hell is he doing in Boston? What the hell is he doing this close to MIT? Just… what the hell?

Eli’s excited expression falters when Demetri doesn’t respond. He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“It’s uh- It’s Eli. Moskowitz?”

Demetri notes first that he introduces himself as Eli, not that ridiculous nickname he coined in school.

He says it as if Demetri doesn’t know. He says it as if Demetri wouldn’t recognize him faster than the back of his own hand even all these years later. His hair is long, too long. It’s curling over his ears and nearly touching his shoulders, and Demetri is pissed because it still looks good. He looks older, he looks better, and all Demetri can see is the tiny Eli he met in first grade who was missing both his front teeth. 

Demetri doesn’t know what to make of any of it. This feels like some cosmic joke. 

“Uh, no, yeah. Yeah. What- What are you doing here?” Demetri finally manages. His voice sounds a little strangled, but the question comes out bluntly and a bit harsh. 

“Uh,” Eli starts, glancing around, and letting out a confused laugh. He raises an eyebrow and shoves his hands in his pockets, gesturing with his coat around the cafe. “Getting coffee? What are you doing here?” he teases.

Demetri really doesn’t have time for this. He rolls his eyes. “Not here. What are you doing in Boston?” he demands. 

Eli’s playful expression falls. He furrows his eyebrows. “I live here.”

And that’s- that can’t be right. Demetri lives here. Demetri just started his second semester of his junior year at MIT a month ago. He certainly would’ve noticed if Eli Moskowitz lived in Boston. Right?

“You live… in Boston?”

“Yeah,” Eli shrugs, looking much too nonchalant for Demetri’s liking. “I go to BU.” He cocks his head slightly to the side and earnestly says, “I thought you knew that.” 

Demetri did not know that. That’s the thing about no contact. Demetri’s had Eli blocked in all forms of communication since their junior of high school. It’s sort of hard to keep tabs on someone when they’re pretty strictly out-of-sight, out-of-mind. 

[sergeantsporks]

"Lone wolf" character as in "this character will likely die if they continue to be alone and do not find a group to be a part of." "Lone wolf" character as in "this character is actively, desperately looking for friends and family to call their own." "Lone wolf" character as in "this character split off from their family/friend group for some reason, but feels the loss of that connection and wants to replace it."

[8-rae-rae-8]

"Ker was always dealing with some personal shit. That's why, in spite of everything else, we got along."

....

"Johnny?"

Bottom middle image by @/valeriesilverhand on here!!

[esmeislewd]

Princess stress eating because her spouse is out on a dangerous quest and being 50lbs heavier by the time they return. Needing all of her maids to help lace her dress closed as she holds a ball in celebration of her partner's return. Then instead of dancing she spends the entire evening stuffing herself as the seams of her dress split, her belly desperate to make an escape into the amused hands of her spouse who is rather smitten with their softer wife and can't quite help but keep bringing her more to eat~