#but I've been fine tuning it and was like might as well post it for valentines day lol

[personinthepalace]

Feligami - Give Your Heart A Break

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (1 - Honey! I shrunk the kids! 18+)

Summary: Wanda accidentally shrinks your kids while trying out a spell that would benefit both of you in the bedroom; Jimmy and Darcy attempt to find out more about the Hex, particularly when they discover a remarkable detail about you. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Tags: Smut, Campy Humor, Language

A/N: I've been working on this series since late August and have finally figured out what to do with it, enough to share it with you all. The story will be told in three parts: Westview (The Missing Town), Pre-Westview, and Post-Westview. This follows some events in WandaVision, but it's very canon-divergent. It's going to be different from my other works (I've never written humor before and I'm quite insecure about that), as this one is very plot-driven but at the same time, still very much Wanda x Reader (especially in parts 2 and 3). Updates will be every Wednesday. Chapters will be 2.5–3.5k words long, except for the ending chapters of each part, which are twice as long. So, without further ado… More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

-

“Honey! I shrunk the kids!” 

Wanda bursts into the basement, apron billowing out like a cape. Except, there's no draft down here; that apron shouldn't be moving like that at all. But then again, considering your wife’s claim, maybe the laws of physics are taking a day off.

You glance up from the miniature model home you’re meticulously working on, unsure if you heard her right. Did she really just say that? 

“You what?”

Wanda, flushed and a little breathless, skids to a stop in front of you. “Okay, so I was experimenting with a new spell, one that was supposed to…” She bites her lip, hesitating, her face glowing a deeper shade of red. “...it was supposed to do something else, but it backfired and... well, it’s not important right now!”

“Jesus, Wanda.”

Your poor, beautiful, occasionally clumsy wife stands there, teetering between a freak-out and a fit of giggles. 

“It was an accident! I didn't mean to!” Wanda shrieks, causing the room to tremble from her panic.

Wanda's powers have always been a wildcard. You can child-proof the entire house in a day, but that definitely doesn't cover child-proofing Wanda herself—especially not when your kids are involved. Luckily, the boys have inherited some special abilities of their own, which leaves you as the sole non-superpowered member of the household. With that in mind, you know better than to panic. Getting worked up alongside her would only escalate things, and you’re not exactly keen on being shrunk next.

“Okay…where are they now?” you ask as calmly as you can manage.

Wanda takes a deep breath and leads you to the living room. You trail her in silence, clutching at composure. It can’t be that bad, right? The distant sound of playful music trickling through the house almost makes it seem like everything’s fine. You hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that you think about it, it’s like your brain has learned to associate that kind of tune with situations that somehow always end in collective sighs of relief.

Sighs, giggles, and applause—sounds that don't belong to Wanda or the boys.

Where are they coming from?

Before your mind can completely sink into the oddities of your life here in Westview, Wanda halts in the middle of the living room. Your eyes dart around, searching for Billy and Tommy, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Where?”

“Right there,” Wanda points toward the coffee table, her finger trembling slightly.

You squint in the direction she’s pointing. Next to the TV remote, two tiny figures wave up at you—your sons, each about the size of your thumb.

“Oh my god, they’re tiny!” you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. You expected them to be at least half their normal size—a size they might grow out of eventually.

“Shhhh, Y/N!” Wanda hisses, pressing her index finger to her lips. “The neighbors might hear you.”

Neighbors. Which usually means just Agnes from next door. There’s literally several meters of spaces between your houses, but somehow, she always manages to hear things she shouldn’t and pries like she’s in some perfectly timed routine.

Wanda kneels by the coffee table, her eyes soft. “I told them to stay right there until we sorted this out.”

The twins start making noises, sounding like tiny bells, though still hard to make out. You pull out a magnifying glass from your back pocket—has that been there the whole time?—making sure your sons are okay. As soon as the lenses zoom in on their faces, you're relieved to see them laughing uproariously, seemingly unbothered by their predicament.

“They seem... happy?” you say, lowering the magnifying glass.

“They think it's hilarious,” Wanda grumbles, her lips curling into a pout.

“So,” you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. “Any ideas on how to fix this?”  You're tempted to suggest just letting it run its course, waiting for the spell to fizzle out, but you know Wanda wouldn’t go for that. She's fiercely protective of the twins, and you can't blame her—it’s all her handiwork, after all.

Then you hear it—a hiccup. Another follows, and then another, each one a little louder than the last.

Before you know it, Wanda's a sobbing mess.

You cup her face in your hands. “Hey, hey...it’s okay,” you murmur, gently brushing away a tear with your thumb.

Wanda’s breath hitches as she looks at you, her eyes brimming with worry. “What if I can’t fix it?”

“We will,” you promise, looking into her eyes.

A collective ‘awww’ rings in your ears, pulling you out of the moment. What the hell—where did that come from? You've had this creepy feeling of being watched lately, and it's only getting worse.

Wanda brings you back to focus when she nuzzles into your palm. “Oh, Y/N, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You give her a small, lopsided grin and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Good thing you’ll never have to find out.” Something passes over her eyes as soon as you say it, but it vanishes in a split-second, replaced by a moment of inspiration.

“Wait,” she bursts out, stepping away from your embrace. “I think I have an idea.”

She heads straight for the fridge, and you trail after her, holding your breath.

“I’ve been trying to reverse it, but my magic isn’t cooperating. It’s like... it’s tangled,” Wanda mutters, yanking things out of the fridge.

You scowl, arms crossed, watching her. “Tangled? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. The more I try to fix it, the worse it gets. Like it has a life of its own,” she says. she says. After a few more seconds of rummaging, Wanda finally grabs a tetra pack of chocolate milk—the twins' favorite.

“I’m hoping this will do the trick,” she says, giving the carton a shake.

You cock your head, clueless on what’s going on. “Honey, what’s going on?”

Wanda mumbles, barely glancing up as she vigorously shakes the carton. “Just doing what it says—’Shake well before serving.’”

You roll your eyes, muttering, “This woman...”. Then louder, you ask, “I mean, what’s the chocolate got to do with our tiny children?”

Wanda stops mid-shake, a look of realization dawning on her face. “Oh, right,” she slaps her forehead. “You can’t read minds. I keep forgetting,” she chuckles, setting down the carton with a sheepish grin.

There it is again—a chorus of laughter from somewhere far off. Your mouth twitches at the sound—it’s really starting to get on your nerves. You make a mental note to bring it up with Wanda later.

Wanda gathers herself, then pitches her plan. “Instead of directly casting a spell on the twins, I think it’s safer to enchant this chocolate milk.” She picks up the carton again, giving it a final shake. “The idea is to infuse the milk with a spell that will gradually restore them to their normal sizes.”

You nod, beginning to understand what she’s trying to do. “Sounds less risky than zapping them with more magic head on.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, her eyes lighting up with excitement. You’d swear she’s getting a kick out of this macabre parenting hack—kids and all. The background tune keeps playing, like a promise that the universe won’t let things turn to shit. You’re wondering if maybe Wanda hears it too.

“This way, the magic is diluted and can adjust more naturally with their systems. It’s like... sneaking the cure into their bodies,” she says, snapping her fingers, red swirls of magic emanating from them to the carton of milk.

“I'm so proud of you, baby,” you say, leaning in for a quick kiss which she happily accepts. “For finding a fix, I mean. The whole shrinking our kids thing? Still not great.”

–

“What kind of spell do you think Wanda was going for?” Darcy asks, her eyes fixed on the credits rolling across the screen before it fades to black. She’s really gotten into Wanda’s little show, a welcome distraction from the freezing depths of hell that is New Jersey in November. Though exciting things are finally happening to her, the timing couldn't be worse. 

“No clue,” Jimmy mutters, his attention glued to the laptop in front of him. It’s been two days since Quantico sent him to look into the bizarre case of a missing town—a phenomenon almost unheard of in the 21st century. Upon arriving, they discovered that the town in question, Westview, was enveloped by some sort of anomaly—or a Hex, as Darcy has started calling it, referring to the hexagonal shape of the barrier encasing the town. 

Around the same time as the discovery, S.W.O.R.D. agent Monica Rambeau was quite literally sucked into the anomaly by accident. The only breakthrough has been Darcy Lewis’ detection of the signals, providing them with a window into the mysterious shroud, even helping them identify some of the show's characters as actual residents of the town.

But overall, they're still desperately trying to piece together why this is happening and how to stop it.

Darcy peeks over at the data on Jimmy’s screen. “Find anything new?”

Jimmy sighs in frustration. “No, not really. Everything we dig up just adds more questions instead of answers.”

“Like what, for instance?”

Instead of answering directly, he slides a thick file across the table toward her. “See for yourself.”

Darcy catches the file and starts flipping through it. Murmuring, she says, “So, Google finally returned search results?” The stack of papers is downright daunting. Jimmy’s right—any mountain of information would raise more questions than answers.

“No, not Google,” Jimmy corrects her. “Stark's highly confidential database did. The woman Wanda's married to in Westview? She’s not in any public records. Turns out her records were wiped clean two years ago.”

Darcy looks up, puzzled. “Why would Stark's company have this?”

“Just read, Darcy. It’s all in there,” he says, turning his full attention back to his research.

Darcy frowns slightly and begins scanning through the pages more attentively. It takes her a few minutes to piece together the information she's reading, with her mind going in different directions and still burning with curiosity about the spell Wanda botched.

Finally, she reads aloud, somewhat incredulously, “Subject was recognized as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s youngest marksmanship prodigy prior to recruitment by Stark Industries following the dissolution of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Subsequently provided tactical support on multiple classified operations in conjunction with the Avengers initiative.”

She sets the file down thoughtfully. “Kinda reminds me a bit of Romanoff or Barton. Total badass. I hadn’t pegged Maximoff for that crowd.”

“What crowd did you have Wanda filed under?” Jimmy asks, just out of curiosity.

Darcy’s gaze drifts off, a dreamy smirk on her lips. “Honestly? I always pictured her—or anyone for that matter—swooning over someone more…mythical hammer than tactical espionage.”

Jimmy snorts to himself at Darcy's whimsical take and says, “Of course, you’d say that. Thor's everyone's type.”

“He’s yours too?”

“Yeah, why not,” Jimmy shrugs, his tone more reluctant than sarcastic, which only amuses Darcy more.

“So,” Darcy begins, “Wanda's settled down in New Jersey, married to a woman? I mean, good for her. They all deserve a break. Maybe even an early retirement.”

Jimmy lets out a long, tired sigh, like he's just about done with everything. Darcy notices and raises an eyebrow. “What now?”

He barely glances up. “Like I said, everything’s in there. Just keep reading.”

Darcy groans but goes back to the file, flipping through the pages again. She’s about to make a snarky comment when something catches her attention—something that has her eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“It… it says here Y/N’s dead.”

“That’s right,” Jimmy responds without missing a beat.

“Not snapped five years ago. Dead-dead.”

“Yep.”

Darcy stares at the page, disbelief all over her face. “That can’t be right, can it?”

Jimmy finally swivels his chair to face her, looking as tired as he sounds. “That’s what I’ve been trying to wrap my head around for hours. If aliens and superheroes are real, maybe bringing someone back from the dead to star in a sitcom isn’t so far-fetched, right?”

–

You carefully pull the blankets up over Billy, smoothing his hair and whispering a soft good night. Tommy’s already half-asleep, but you make sure to tuck him in just as snugly, brushing a kiss on his forehead. Wanda stands in the doorway, watching you, her heart swelling in her chest. You were so clueless when she first had the twins, but now, being a mother just seems to come naturally to you. 

And you pulled it off in a week, while the twins stretched into six-year-olds just as fast.

“Honey,” you call softly, noticing the way she’s lost in thought. “Aren’t you going to say good night to our boys?”

Wanda steps into the room, giving each of the boys their good night kiss. You pucker your lips, silently asking for your turn, and she playfully swats your arm, whispering, “Not here, baby.”

You pout, giving her your best puppy-dog eyes, which only makes her smile. Without warning, you grab her hand and hurriedly pull her out of the boys' room, making a beeline for your bedroom. Wanda’s laughter fills the hallway, and just as you reach the door, you suddenly sweep her off the ground, lifting her into your arms.

Wanda lets out a shriek, her laughter infectious, and you can’t help but grin, even as you let her thump onto the mattress—a sloppy, graceless drop. You follow her onto the bed, rolling onto your stomach to peer down at her, still sporting that stupid smile.

“So, about that kiss you owe me,” you whisper, hovering closer, teasing her with your proximity.

Wanda nods distractedly. “I think I can manage that,” she murmurs, and then her lips are on yours.

It starts simple and sweet. Though soon, her tongue is gently nudging your lips apart, and it quickly becomes anything but. Her hands slip down to your back, pulling you close until her heartbeat hammering against yours. You break away, lips trailing down to her neck, exploring every dip and hollow, your tongue darting out to taste her skin. When you hit that spot just behind her ear, the one that always drives her wild, she gasps.

“Don't start something you can’t finish,” she warns, her voice already thick with want.

“Who says I won't?” you shoot back with a wolfish grin.

You both fall into a familiar routine, as easy to slip into as the back of your hand. There’s no hurry, just the two of you moving languidly—whispering against skin, giggles turning into sighs and breathy moans. Sometimes, being with Wanda feels like a desperate need, as if not having her completely would literally be the end of you. But it’s moments like these that are your favorite—the ones where you’re barely even trying, yet she still comes apart at your touch, at the mere feeling of your fingers on her. 

Eventually, you both settle down, a contented sigh escaping you as you curl up against Wanda, your skin slightly damp with the effort of your love. You like this, being the little spoon, hiding your face in her neck like you’re hiding from the world, though you vaguely recall a time when it was usually her in your arms. 

As you’re staggering on the edge of sleep, Wanda’s fingers gently massage your scalp, her lips dropping soft, pensive kisses on your forehead. You're almost out, but one last question keeps you from drifting off entirely.

“Wanda, that spell earlier that shrunk the boys—what was that about?” you mumble, your words slurring into the dream nipping at your consciousness.

Wanda’s laughter rumbles through her chest, nudging you slightly from your drowsy state.

“Come on, tell me,” you coax, giving her side a playful pinch to keep her talking.

“It’s embarrassing,” she mumbles, her face turning a delightful shade of pink again that spreads down her neck and chest. Her coy reaction wakes you up some more. As a twisted kind of payback, you run your tongue rough over her nipple, snatching a sharp gasp from her. Moving up, you hold her flushed cheek, making sure she’s looking right at you. Your thigh presses between hers, and it doesn’t take long before she’s wet and ready again.

“Are you going to tell me, or do you plan on sleeping with a wet pussy tonight?” you whisper, brushing your lips against the corner of her mouth. Under different circumstances, Wanda would scold you for your crudeness, but right now, she's too worked up to care. Your dirty mouth has always been one of the most irritating yet irresistible things about you. Even having kids hasn’t changed that.

“I was trying to... enchant your...” she starts, but then your hand tightens on her butt, spurring her subtle grinding movements. By this time, she’s practically dripping onto the sheets, her thoughts scattering as the tightening sensation below her stomach builds.

“My what?” you push, smirking as you watch her fumble for words. You hoist her leg, resting it on your shoulder, laying her wide open. You slide two fingers inside her, fucking her slowly while your thumb brutally circles her clit. As she hesitates to answer, you hook in another finger, drawing a sharp cry of pleasure from Wanda. Your gaze stays locked on your wife, a part of you as surprised as she might be at your boldness tonight.

All day, she’s haunted every corner of your mind, fantasizing about stealing a quick, desperate moment while the twins are asleep or at Agnes’s. But there’s been something—an unnameable restraint—holding you back from indulging those wicked impulses. It isn’t until the boys are asleep, the house quiet, that those invisible chains start to loosen. That’s when you can finally allow yourself to desire Wanda the way you really want to. The way you’ve always been meant to.

“Your... clit,” Wanda finally spits out, seeing you've drifted off, stuck in your head. “I thought I could make it... well, longer. Like a...” She chokes on the words, too embarrassed to finish.

“Like a cock?” you throw out crudely, looking down at her impishly.

Wanda nods, mortified but also a little defiant. “Wanted you to fuck me with it,” she mumbles, finding her backbone now that the secret's in the open.

“I am fucking you,” you whisper hotly right into her ear. “But if you want it like that, all you have to do is say the word.”

Wanda clenches around you at the thought of doing it like that in the near future, her breath hitching. “Please,” she mewls, the word dripping with need. 

“Good girl,” you growl, cranking up the pace as you drive your fingers harder inside her, making her gasp and arch towards you. “You can come.”

With a choked whimper, Wanda surrenders, her body seizing as her orgasm washes over her. She soaks your wrist, the clear fluid trickling down onto the sheets, but you don't stop, pushing through every pulse of her release until she's quaking, utterly wrecked beneath you. You patiently wait until her spasms subside before slowly pulling your fingers away.

Wanda's hand shoots out, stopping your movements. “Stay,” she implores, sounding like she's on the verge of tears. You're momentarily startled by her reaction, concerned something might be wrong. Swiftly, you slide your fingers back where they belong, nestled deep inside her.

“Okay, baby, I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, pushing back the damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead with your free hand. Exhaustion begins to cloud your senses as you sink down beside Wanda, still keeping your hand where she wants it. 

“I'm sorry for needing you so much,” Wanda murmurs, her voice shaky with tears you can't see, your cheek pressed against the pillow beside hers.

“Don't be,” you mumble, half-lost to sleep as she clings to you more tightly. “I’m here.”

“You love me,” she says, a hint of wonder, of fear.

You nod, lips brushing the nape of her neck. “And you love me,” you murmur back, your eyes slipping shut. “I'm not going anywhere, Wanda.”

“For now,” she whispers to herself, once your breathing evens out in sleep.

Tears betray her then, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to keep quiet. But just before her sobs fully break free, she flicks a finger, a thin red wisp of magic ensuring you stay deep in sleep.

With you unaware, Wanda surrenders to her grief.

[gentaro-kinniecom]

Jealous much?

Characters: Solivan Brugmansia/gn!reader

C/w: jealousy, friends to lovers troupe, reader helps Solivan with some bullies, Crowe and his feelings for the reader, Sol takes care of reader <3

A/n: I might make a sequel to this post cause..why not? I have at least 3 more works in progress of tkatb so stay tuned for more >:3. This was SUPPOSED to be more early but with graduation and my summer job its been hectic 😔 (not proofread)

Rain drops fell gently onto the surfaces that it could. The cloudy and cold atmosphere bringing back unwanted memories for me. It took me back to when I was a happy child running around the fields that my family owned. Why did fate had to be this way? I couldn't relish in the sad moment for long, my life had changed, some may think for the better, but in all honesty, I've lost myself in it.

The city life was not for the weak, especially in this society that judges you based on your backgrounds. Hallways and classrooms were empty as I walked by, meaning another day where I would stay behind until the sun rised up, studying in the library. It felt depressing, well, it was. Even with all my friends who share classes with me, I’ve never felt a sense of comfort around anymore. Upon arrival, I sighed gently while scanning my library card, heading towards my favorite spot and to hopefully meet him again: Solivan Brugmansia, the same man who I aided long ago.

Some bullies had cornered him, if it weren’t for me, he could’ve gotten bruised up badly(or so I thought). Sol’s strength was enough to not be messed around with yet, he was always careful with me. His long, black hair with green stripes was noticeable from afar, a smile subconsciously appeared across my features, walking towards him with my books in one arm and a cup of coffee in my hand.

“Hi” I spoke, my voice a mear whisper as he smiled, kissing my cheek while allowing me to sit beside him.

“Hey..thanks for the coffee, I saved your seat in hopes you’d be here” His gaze remained on the hoodie I wore, a purple-ish one with some designs around it, though I could tell something bothered him.

“Aw, that’s real sweet of you Sol..!” Taking the vacant seat by the window, Sol’s eyes returned to the book at hand, analyzing the text while taking a casual sip or two after some pages. I placed my books aside, taking out my computer and working on some last details for an upcoming presentation.

“Is that sweater you’re wearing someone else’s?” The question caught me off guard while Sol closed the book, his attention returning towards me as I continued to type away

“Crowe made me borrow it, he said it would get cold during the night, even if I insisted it was fine” A glint of jealousy made his eyes glimmer with a bit of rage, directed towards Crowe who had the audacity, in Sol’s words, to lend me something of his. After the small talk, we returned to our devices while Sol’s cup inched close to me. Which I thought nothing of it until the, now warm, liquid splashed against Crowe’s hoodie.

“Sol! Ah..what am I going to do now?” My eyes widened as the panic settled in. Pouted lips looking down at the mess that occurred while Sol spoke.

“I can wash it, and hand it over tomorrow..if you don’t mind?” The offer was tempting, and besides, the washing machine at my apartment had broken down. It was like an angel had been sent down from the heavens truly.

“Really? Well, if you’re offering..” With a smile, Sol helped me take the sweater off, folding it and placing it in his backpack. Was he really concerned or jealous by me wearing it? After an hour or so spent in the library, my sleepy eyes gazed over at Sol’s figure that had finished his book a few minutes prior 11:00pm.

His eyes turned to stare at me, as if, he knew I was staring beforehand. The library air making goosebumps arise on my skin as Sol noticed. A small warmth wrapped around my body, making me sigh while laying my hand down onto the table, resting for a bit as he smiled.

It was past noon when I woke up in a different place rather than the library. A soft, warm bed beneath me made contrast to the heavy rain pouring outside, making me groan and stretch my limbs, still remaining in the bed as the door suddenly opened. Solivan stood outside, entering shortly after while smiling, his body beside my own as I wrapped my arms around his waist.

“Mn, how did I get here?” Too tired to even acknowledge the strength he had to take me here, in his home, I was glad he did. The moment didn’t last long as I was now wide awake, staring up at the crimson eyes that gently creased while smiling

“You were tired and..we couldn’t stay at the library for too long, I hope you don’t mind” Room infused by Sol’s cologne made my heart flutter, it seemed he recently got out of the shower. Soft damp hair met my face as I buried it on the crook of his neck. Our actions were far too intimate to call this as “only friends”. Every reasonable thought left me as Sol wrapped an arm around my back, lips caressing my forehead and cheeks while smiling.

“It’s okay, you know I trust you Sol..” More rain could be heard from his room, creating a cozy and cold atmosphere around us. There was no one else I’d rather be with during these moments, so close yet…

“Are you hungry? I made some soup earlier..perfect for this weather, isn’t it?” I nodded, watching as he parted away from my body. Planting a kiss on my neck while walking towards the kitchen. The fresh and soft aroma of the miso soup he prepared made my stomach rumble with hunger

“You always make the best food Sol” Now reachinh the kitchen area, I sat by one of the bar stools, admiring the pink apron he wore. A bowl was later on placed in front of me, its contains making me smile as Sol spoke

“Mn? You really think so?” He asked, grabbing a bowl for himself. Standing in front of me while meeting my gaze, smiling as he enjoyed eating with me.

“Mhm! There’s no one else’s food that I’d enjoy then yours..” A hand was placed on my cheek, staring at Sol who leaned towards me, our lips meeting briefly as he smiled.

“Then..I wouldn’t mind cooking meals for you, my darling.” We shared another short but sweet kiss while smiling. Sol quickly went to wash the dishes, later returning to his bedroom, hand in hand. Warm touches graces my skin as Sol filled my embrace, kissing my face while sighing in peace.

Sequel (coming soon)

[captain-bubble-wrap]

Hello, babes. How was practice? I'm Maven, your tumblr hockey mom. Below you'll find a complete masterlist of imagines, series, and OC chapters and what you can expect from me and my writing style.

- I've been writing near twenty years, yes I'm an old cow, by tumblr's standards I'm sure. 

- I don't read fics, I just write them. 

- I'm a stickler for attention to details. I like to do research to make sure what I'm writing is legitimate and believable. I pride myself on realism. 

- I don't do hockey romance novel-type writings. If you want a realistic approach to a relationship (as best as I can envision) with Quinn (or any other hockey player I should write) then you've found the right girl. I won't write the reader as the Taylor Swift of the hockey world where she's in the limelight at every game she attends, caught on camera, noticed by fans, ect. For example, something like, "can it be the reader's birthday and Quinn calls attention to it on the Jumbotron during warm-ups?" I'll decline unrealistic plots like this, I'm sorry. Stuff that would never happen in real-life, I won't do. There are people on here who write like that, and that's fine if that's what you're into, but you won't get it from me. Simple as. 

- I don't write smut. Nothing against it, not being a prude. I just don't write it.  (stay tuned)

- I try to post a few times a week, to keep my inbox a manageable degree of cleaned out. I try to knock out requests from oldest to newest, but sometimes certain plots don't come to me as easily as others and I might skip one (for the time being) until something comes to me.

- Artistic license is used at my discretion but I try my best to keep your request as was...well, requested! 

- I try to give you guys a minimum of one-thousand words per imagine. Sometimes they're longer, but never shorter than 1k. It's just is a good number which allows me to post as many as I do while working two jobs everyday.

- I don't like writing my version of another author's original idea. General plots like a first date, a surprise birthday party, ect, is one thing because it's a very broad umbrella, but if someone approached me, telling me they read a story where the reader was Quinn's maid and he fell in love with her, and if I could write something similar, I would have to decline. It just feels too "stolen idea" for me and I don't want to step on toes. I understand no one can own or lay claim to an idea for a fanfiction, but still... person preference. 

- Apologies if this has come off very...strict. I just want to save myself time and not have to break anyone's heart because they didn't know what I was about, or what I wouldn't do. I'm easy to get along with, but I just know what I'm comfortable with and what I'm not interested in. Again, I'm not the only writer on this side of tumblr, but I appreciate all of those who have interacted with me and who have helped build this budding account. 

Pretty Boy Blues | You notice Quinn dealing with some troublesome skin issues, and you ask to help him. | No content warnings apply

Last Call | You're late getting home from a night out with the girls. Quinn's pacing waiting for you. Where could you be? | Implied alcohol consumption

Sleeping Beauty | Quinn learns of you having fainting spells while he's been away on the road. | Implied depression-induced eating disorders

Post-practice Cuddles | Quinn returns from practice in pain and needs your to help to get his mind off of it. | No content warnings apply

Take Your Pick | You let Quinn pick your outfit for the day. | Suggestive themes; implied sexual interactions

Baby me | Quinn refuses to take his medicine. | No content warnings apply

Plague-bringer | Quinn tests positive for Covid. | No content warnings apply

Leave Me Where I Lie | You get sick in the middle of the night and Quinn comes looking for you. | No content warnings apply

Princess on Board | Quinn and yourself go on a short road-trip and you're well prepared, crown included. | Implied daddy dom/brat aesthetic

Partners in Crime | Quinn insists on helping you make breakfast. | Mild bratty-reader aesthetic

Kitchen Kisses | Quinn and yourself stay in on New Year's Eve and welcome the new year alongside a batch of cookies. | No content warnings apply

Detour | Quinn has other plans before you fly out of Vancouver for the holidays. The ring box in his pocket might be why. | No content warnings apply

From Me: With Love | You finally get to give Quinn his custom gift for Christmas | No content warnings apply

When it Rains it Pours | Your day goes from bad to worse while trying to get the apartment ready for Quinn's return. | Mild reader bodily injury, mentions of blood

A Night In | Quinn picks you up for your birthday but takes you to his apartment instead of a restaurant. | No content warnings apply

Two Lines | Your cycle is late. Are you pregnant? | Anxiety themes

Tease Me | Quinn is week-to-week with his hand injury and is getting bored of not being on the ice. | Mild adult themes

Just Because | Quinn brings you a surprise to apologize for something out of his control. | No content warnings apply

Knock, Knock | You rush to Quinn's apartment following the high-sticking during the Lightning game. | Brief descriptions of bodily injury, blood, and mild adult themes

Cold Sheets | You're struggling with insomnia when Quinn comes looking for you in the middle of the night. | No content warning apply

Broken Glass | Your car gets totaled en route to Rogers Arena. | Graphic descriptions of bodily injury, emotional distress, and reader in pain

Broken Glass Pt 2 | Weeks after your car wreck, Quinn gives you one simple rule to follow. | 18+, dominate partner, emotional manipulation

Coupons | You go grocery shopping with Quinn before he leaves to go back on the road. | Separation anxiety, and mild depressive thoughts

Bang-bang, Kiss-kiss | You break off your relationship with Quinn. | Emotional distress, anxiety, heartbreak, and blame

Damaged Goods | You attend a home game and all hell breaks loose. | Depictions of bodily injury, and blood

Chapter I | A Chance Meeting

Episode 1 | Season opener: Flames v. Canucks

Episode 2 | Thanksgiving

A Second Cup | You have an unfortunate run-in with Jeremy Swayman | No content warnings apply

[ddarker-dreams]

re-reading bits and pieces of SR have helped me quite a bit with post-election depression; it turns out an impending sense of doom can be evaded quite well with The Sillies! that being said, how would the bucci gang help SR Reader if she was going through a depressive episode?

i'm grateful to know that SR is able to bring some solace in what's been an awful state of affairs, as i've always considered it a comfort series myself.

[Scarlet Ribbons index]

Giorno senses something is off before you do. He's deeply in tune with your emotional state, taking mental note of everything you do down to the tiniest details. His initial instinct would be to identify any underlying issues that might have brought the depressive episode about. He's a man driven by action, willing to fight against unfavorable odds if it means enacting his vision. This leads to some internal struggle on his part, as there's no clear-cut solution to these bouts. He views you as his significant other in the purest sense — relying on you and wanting you to do the same with him. He'd eventually recognize his own hubris in his quest to 'fix things', opting for a more supportive role instead. Giorno matches his approach based on his perception of what he feels you need.

Bruno is surprisingly susceptible to your first few attempts to explain away your shift in mood. In the back of his mind, he knows something is wrong, but it's such a frightening prospect. He observed the signs in his father after his mother abandoned them. He'd get uncharacteristically stern with you, imploring that you confide in him if you keep dodging the issue. Essentially freezes your work and puts you on an indefinite sabbatical. He worries over you to the point of self-neglect. Not the healthiest approach, but there's no doubting his commitment to restoring your wellbeing. Bruno would take a break from his obligations and bring you to his hometown, where he hopes the change of pace will have a positive influence.

The ever-pragmatic Fugo would struggle with this greatly, he's not exactly a shining example of mental stability himself. He recognizes what's happening and feels utterly powerless to stop it. A bit hypocritical in the sense he'll pitch therapy or some other pharmaceutical treatment that he'd never undergo himself. He suffers from acting as an armchair psychologist, critiquing any habits that might contribute to your depression and getting frustrated if you don't actively work to resolve them. It comes from a good place; he's devastated over what's happening. You're supposed to be cheerful, making terrible jokes and pop culture references that drive him insane. He'll work himself to the bone for you to feel an iota better.

Narancia is at a loss at first. When your change in mood extends past a few 'bad' days, he can tell it's something serious, even if he can't put it into words. Ultimately, he decides it doesn't matter if it takes a week, year, or a decade; he will stick by you through everything. Narancia isn't one for subtlety, it's obvious that he's checking up on you multiple times throughout the day. He's tripping over himself to make you smile, even if it's for a fleeting second. Additionally, he's a better listener than most would give him credit for. There's absolutely nothing you could do or say that'd make him think less of you, so you never feel judged.

There is no one better at helping you feel 'normal' than Mista. He won't demand an explanation like Bruno, get frustrated over a perceived lack in progress like Fugo, or coddle you as Narancia's inclined to do. He's consistently himself. He'll take you on dates, make awful jokes, and go on unprompted spiels about his latest musings. It's not that he doesn't care — far from it — his view is just that knowing you, you'd feel bad if you realized how worried he is. If you open up to him, that's fine. If you don't, that's also okay. He moves at your pace and you never feel pressured to act a certain way around him.

Abbacchio's like well, that makes two of us. It's a complicated development. Having gone through a major depression, Abbacchio can technically empathize with you the most, but seeing himself in you is initially disconcerting. He's similar to Fugo in that your weird, peppy ways have become a lifeline. It's soul-crushing for him to recognize those first few signs. Unlike Fugo, however, he doesn't linger in this limbo for long. He takes a 'tell it like it is' approach. He won't shower you with platitudes or sugarcoat reality, but there's an undeniable thoughtfulness behind his every action. He'll give you space when necessary, sit in silence if you want company yet lack the words, ensure sure your pantry is stocked and laundry done. Abbacchio can be what he wishes someone had been for him.

[ddejavvu]

i used to have a reoccurring fantasy about teaching cal how to kiss and i think i’d like to request some kind of cal + fingering where your hand is over his and you’re letting him get the feel for how you like it 🤚 if you enjoy the idea

i got carried away i think but indy this was just too delicious of a prompt <3 please everyone send me more cal kestis requests

this post is 18+, minors dni.

Cal's fingers are roughened by a lifetime of labor expedited into 20 short years. They're gentle, though, trepidatious as you nudge his hand further along into your cunt, squirming in place to accommodate for his lithe digits.

"It's-" His breath catches in his throat, his voice dimmed from it's usual brightness, seeming almost nervous, "It's warm."

Warm. Other men might have said tight, or wet, or pretty, all lust-driven shocks to their own pleasure centers. Cal, though, Cal who'd called your mouth and your hands the same thing, says it's warm.

Speaking of mouths, you press yours to his, coaxing him into a relaxed, messy sort of kiss to soothe his nerves. He'd been torn between rigidly puckering up and going slack-jawed at first, and you've finally fine-tuned his kissing skills into a perfect blend of both. He lets you guide- he always does, but he follows your lead, sucking gently on your bottom lip and leaning in, his head chasing yours downwards as you recline against his chest. You lick along his soft, slightly chapped upper lip as you begin dragging his two conjoined fingers out of you, and he lets you because he's lost in the feeling of your tongues brushing against each other.

When you push his fingers back in, that's when he whines, sounding almost caught off-guard by the way that your cunt has begun sucking him in. Cal is so intoxicatingly slow and tender that the brief minutes of kissing and heavy petting that you'd engaged in before this were enough to thoroughly soak you, and your cunt is eager for more of his fingers- in quantity or length, it doesn't care. You rock slightly against his hand, your slick entrance pressing nearly to his palm. He watches, blinking like he can't believe what he's seeing when his fingers have a glistening, sticky residue coating them upon removal.

You kiss fondly against his flushed, ruddy cheek, perhaps a little greedy in the way that you shove his fingers back in for more. He keens again, lips parted and breath hot against your skin, "It's- and it's soft. It's really warm and soft."

You nearly laugh at him, but you could never be cruel to him, so you nod.

"You can touch me more, y'know. You can go further in, you can spread your fingers, you can feel it however you want."

"I want-" He begins, but the firm press of something beginning to present itself against your back is enough to let you know how he wants to feel you, "I want it- I want, to- y'know, make you feel good."

You're not sure if it's his sincere, tender words that do it, or the way that his fingers have curled slightly in the abandonment of your own, but your cunt clenches around his digits, and his eyes blow open wide. He experiments, finding his footing, and you swear his pupils dilate as you squirm against the rubbing of his fingers against your walls.

"You are." You groan, turning to dig your face into his chest as he continues slowly raking his fingers in and out of your sensitive cunt, "You're doing really good, Cal, are-" You make a half-hearted attempt at a joke, "Are you sure I'm your first?"

"Mhm." He nods without hesitation, glancing up at you with his endearing eyes, "I've never- well, done any of this before."

It's painfully obvious in the way that he stammers after you take a well-timed smack at his ass here and there, but now, as he strokes his fingers inside of your cunt like he's been making your legs shake for years, he seems like an expert.

Perhaps he's just an expert on you, perhaps he's proficient in everything that he tries.

His thumb brushes your clit by mistake, and you jolt around his hand, thighs clenching to trap his hand in place. He seems apologetic at first, like he's done something wrong, but when you grab desperately for his thumb and guide it back to your clit, he watches with an intense gaze.

"Do it again. That's- ooh, that's perfect, Cal, you're- please do that again."

"Like... that?" He licks over his lips, worrying at the lower one with his teeth. Your body convulses in response, a shockwave of pleasure rippling through you, center-to-limb.

"Like that." Your voice is little more than a whine, something almost petulant as you slump your body weight against Cal's chest, "Please- please keep doing that, and- and start again with your other fingers- mmh! And- and everything together is-" He's watching your cunt intensely, it's angled upwards by your hips and he tests an especially strong press against your clit with his thumb.

Perhaps another time you'd hold yourself off, fight your impending orgasm down so that it will be more intense later, but instead you let your climax wash over you, teeth nearly pinching at Cal's shirt in an effort to restrain most of your vocal pleasure. You allow yourself muffled moans into his rough tunic, but you almost feel like you'd scare him if you screamed.

His free hand comes to wrap around your stomach, caging you gently against his body as you try not to writhe on his fingers. It's a makeshift hug, you suppose, something entirely Cal, tender and earnest and unknowing. Maybe one day he'll suck a mark against your collarbone, or tug at your breasts with his teeth, but today he hugs you, letting you ride out your orgasm on his hand.

When you calm, you push against his hand, prompting him to pull it out of your pussy. He lets you, staring still at the residue on his fingers.

"You can-" You start, ashamed of the words even before you say them for fear of scaring Cal off, "You can- taste it, if you want."

His brows raise, but he doesn't look put off. Instead, he raises his fingers slowly to his mouth, tongue padding his lower jaw as he envelops his fingers between his lips. He hums, almost thoughtful as he tastes your slick release, but he tucks his ring finger into his mouth next where some of it had spread to the space between.

His fingers shine only with spit when they come out of his mouth, and he tucks the damp hand beneath your jaw, tilting your face up for a kiss. He hesitates first, like he's asking if you're okay with tasting yourself on his tongue, and you nod instead of bridging the gap.

This time he leads, and you're happy to taste your own sex in his mouth.

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 45!

what a week... i'm greatly enjoying all of the post-8x06 buddie fic (many more recs to come!) and took some time to revisit old favourites, which can be found in previous rec lists. enjoy!

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

all that we need | not1_2write | 26.4k | M

When Buck buys a Powerball lottery ticket he doesn't think much beyond his need for change to air up his tire. He forgets all about the ticket until word spreads that the winning ticket was sold in LA and hasn't been claimed yet and pretty much dismisses it. After all, there's no way he won the lottery. Turns out no, he really did win the Powerball, to the tune of 295 million dollars and just in time for Christmas. He's going to make sure the 118 has the best Christmas of their lives. And just maybe he'll have a good one too. idk about all of you but i do dream about winning the lottery regularly (way too often for someone who's never bought a ticket, that's for sure). this is such a lovely look at what buck would do with a whole lot of money <3

i take this magnetic force of a man | playinginthunderstorms/@playinginthunderstorms | 9k | M

Turns out, he isn’t actually afraid of commitment. He’s just afraid of committing to the wrong thing, or the wrong person. Ana, obviously, had been a mistake, because he hadn’t been ready, and he’d put other people’s expectations above his own wants and needs. With Marisol, he’s done the same thing. Moved too fast, doing what he thinks is the right thing according to who? His parents? For Chris’s benefit? Again, pushing past his own comfort, discarding any doubt because it doesn’t fit like… Like Buck. blanket rec for one of my favourite authors who has been posting incredible fics lately!! this one in particular is so beautifully written and so romantic and just so very buddie <3

if i need to rearrange my particules i will for you | thelikesofus/@thelikesofus | 7.9k | GA

Eddie catches a cold and Buck takes care of him while having a minor, non-platonic emotional crisis. this is definitely influenced by the fact that i've been ill myself but wow truly nothing hits as hard as buddie taking care of each other when one of them isn't feeling well. the bed sharing in this is so good <3

let me | facewithoutheart/@facewithoutheart | 1.6k | T

Eddie doesn't think he needs romance. Buck, respectfully, disagrees. AKA the fic where Buck picks Eddie up and kisses him breathless against a wall. and buck is so right for doing that!! i love it when buck turns eddie to jello <3 so lovely!

second child, restless child | lesbianrobin/@lesbianrobin | 23k and counting| M

how Evan and Maddie make it out of Pennsylvania, and Buck and Maddie build a family. okay so listen these past few weeks i've been doing this thing where i only rec finished fics, and every time i scroll through my ao3 history for these rec lists, i come across this one and go oh i wish i could rec this already. and then i realised wait it's my rec list i can do whatever i want, and so then i did. anyway, mind the tags for this one, but wow are you in for a treat here! i love the character dynamics (chim is brilliant in this!! and maddie!!) and i'm so so excited to see the rest of this fic unfold <3

said that i was fine, said it from my coffin | justhockey/tumblr | 7.3k | T

And it doesn’t matter that he feels like he’s dying. Like the version of himself that he’s always been is suddenly a stranger to him - just a mask he’d spent his entire life hiding behind, without ever even realising he was wearing it. It doesn’t matter that Eddie is…that he’s gay. Because he knows - as surely as he knows that the sun will rise again tomorrow - that the only person he has ever, and will ever, truly love is Buck. And Buck isn’t his to love. another blanket rec for an author who's been posting incredible fics!! this one in particular has such brilliant eddie characterisation and i just devoured it the second i got that little ao3 email hehe

there's no place like home-spun | icewhisper | 4.1k | GA

Buck has spent most of his life trying to find something to settle fidgeting hands and the restless need for a home. He found the key to the latter when he was thirteen. He finds the former in a cozy home on South Bedford Street with two of his favorite people. (AKA the Buck-crochets fic that literally no one asked for.). this fic makes me want to learn how to crochet. i am the least crafty person ever and i have like minus time but just know that if two weeks from now i'm posting about yarn and crochet hooks and whatnot, it's all thanks to this fic. i love buck who crochets so very much <3

you get your dreams for free | llovely/@butchdiaz| 14.9k | T

five times buck and eddie cuddle drunk and one time they cuddle sober. buddie bed sharing my absolute favourite. i read this late at night curled up under three blankets and it hit just right <3

[hexxedghost]

Uhh bsky seemed to like this thread when I posted it, so thought I might put it here too.

It's the only smut I've written (and man am I in awe of people who can just write smut all the time, I was in struggle town lads)

Top!Ghost, Bottom!Soap. Little hint of praise kink, I just want Ghost to call Soap a good boy and have Soap's brain melt over it.

Good Boy

In Soap’s defence, it had never happened before. He’d been praised for his work. 

A clap on the back and a ‘Good work, son’ from Price.

A cheeky grin and a ‘There’s a good lad.’ from Gaz

It felt good to have his work recognised. It left a warm, comforting sense of pride in his chest.

But when Ghost rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, leaning over with hot breath against his ear to say: “Good boy, Johnny.”

It nearly takes him out at the knees. The blood rushes south so fast, he nearly blacks out. As he walks away he can feel Ghosts eyes on him, face hot as the stumbles the first few steps.

The prick looks amused. Fucker.

It could have been fine, though, a one-off oddity that he can safely ignore until he’s in the privacy of his bunk.

But it wasn’t just once.

He swears Ghost is doing it just to fuck with him now.

He's sly about it, never saying when it's obvious or going to draw attention.

It's almost like he waits until Soap feels like he's back on solid footing before he casually drops it into conversation.

It was a quick murmur as they leave the helo after a mission, the sound of the chopper blades drowning out everything else as the hand on Soap's shoulder sears him like a brand.

Or an offhand comment when they've gone for a smoke, the words cheeky as Soap hands over the rolled cigarette.

The others don’t notice, too used to tuning out their banter by now. The addition of the occassional 'Good Boy' blending in with all the other colourful commentary they normally keep up.

Which is probably why Ghost feels ballsy enough to pull that shit during a mission.

After Soap has a frantic few seconds disarming a tangle of trips rigged to blow the building out from under them.

"Building safe, copy." he radios out, hands still shaking from how close that call had been.

“There’s a good boy, Johnny.” comes the heavy rasp crackling over the speaker.

On comms for fucks sake! Soap wants to fuckin throttle him.

Ghost is doing it just to get a rise out of him. And he hates that it's working.

Even when they’re at mess afterwards, hail and hearty with a successful mission right behind them, he can't seem to help teasing Soap.

“Nice job on that last one, Tav.” Gaz slaps him on the shoulder as he takes his seat.

“Youngest in the SAS for a reason.” Soap says around a mouthful of food, winking as Gaz pulls a face.

“Was well handled, nicely done, Soap." Price murmurs behind his mug.

"Proper good boy aren't you, Johnny?" comes the rumble at the end of the table.

His cheeks burn as Gaz and Price laugh. They don’t mean anything by it, they figure it's just being lads and taking the piss.

Soap risks a glance at Ghost and sees his eyes trained on him, a glint of something burning and dangerous peeking through the mask.

Christ he was so fucked.

-

It’s later on, past midnight, when he decides that something has to be done about it.

His can't focus when they’re on mission, either fuzzy with lust or trying to walk in a way that doesn't give away he’s hard enough to punch through wood.

He's not putting his squad at risk just because he's tenting his shorts like some hormonal teenager.

The sound of his knuckles rapping against the door feels louder in the late night air.  There's no answer at first, and he wonders if he's made a mistake, should just go back to his bunk.

But then the door opens, Ghost blinking languidly at him.

“Took you long enough.” he rasps.

“Piss off, ye feckin reprobate.” Soap shoulders his way past the door into Ghost's room and throws himself into a chair and feeling a little pissy he’ll admit.

Across the room, Ghost leans against the door, arms crossed and looking at Soap expectantly.

This was going to be like pulling teeth, and he can tell the bastard is amused by it all; eyes seeming to brighten under the mask.

“So, what's your reason, then?” he finally gets out.

“For?” Ghost asks, tilting his head.

Of course, the cunt was gonna make him say it. Part of Soap wants to just give up, storm out. Just go to his room, wank himself unconscious to be done with it.

But Ghost was blocking the door. On purpose, Soap would bet.

“Why do ye keep callin' me a fuckin good boy, eh?” he presses

Ghost holds his gaze and blinks slowly, “Morale”

Fuck it, Soap is leaving, he’s not playing this fuckin game. Even if he has to wrestle the man out of the door. He shoves at the big bastard to move.

“Telling me you didn’t like it, Johnny?” Ghost asks, barely moving from the force of the push Soap gave him.

Soap growls, frustrated, “No’ about that, is it? You dinnae call Gaz or feckin Price that. Is only me you do that to.”

“S’right. Only you.” Ghost counters.

He looks up at Ghost to find that gaze burning into him. This feels dangerous.

“Feelin a bit singled out is all, LT.” he mumbles, hand coming up to awkwardly rub at his neck.

He feels like he's on the wrong foot now, not sure where's safe to step in this minefield of a conversation.

Ghost pushes off the door and moves toward him. It feels like being hunted, and Soap is very quickly learning that apparently he likes that.

He stumbles as the back of his knees hit the bunk and suddenly Ghost is looming above him.

His blood feels molten, too close to his skin and rushing through him. There’s a buzz in his ears and his throat clicks when he swallows.

This close, he can feel Ghost chuckle, feel the hot wet breath on his neck when he leans down.

"D'you want this?" he asks, voice low.

Soap's tongue seems to stick to his mouth, unable to form words.

The prospect of finally getting to have the thing he'd been obsessing over for weeks.

The thing he'd spent the dead of night fucking his fist too, face hot with the shame of it.

It left his head spinning.

Eventually he manages to choke out,   

"Yes. Fuckin' yes, Ghost, pleas—"

He cuts off as Ghost grabs him by his hair, pulling just enough for his scalp to prickle as he growls in his ear.

"Good boy."

The whine that comes out of Soap should be embarrassing, but he's too gagging for it to care.

Ghost lets go of Soap's hair and stands back, just out of reach.  

"Get your kit off then, or do I have to do all the work?"

“Shoulda known you’d be a nasty bastard.” Soap snarks as he pulls his shirt over his head.

“Reckon you like that, Johnny.” comes the smug reply.

Soap ignores him, fumbling for his belt, shoving his pants down to his knees.

His head falls back, groaning lowly as the pressure on his cock finally lets. He goes to take a moment to collect himself. But instead there's rough hands tugging them the rest of the way, boots yanked off and tossed into the corner of the room.

"Impatient aren't we LT?" he jokes weakly, heart hammering in his chest.

The words die out as the bed dips. Ghost straddles him, settling on his chest heavily.

Soap feels like nothing exists beyond him, the way Ghost fills his vision. Calm and collected as he casually unzips and takes himself in hand.

"Done this before, Johnny boy?" he asks lightly, as if he wants to know the weather and not whether Soap's sucked cock before.

"Dinnae flatter yersel' Ghost. No' my first." Soap eventually rasps out, eyeing the thick length in Ghost's hand.  "I can take ye."

Ghost chuckles at that, "We'll see about that."

He taps the heavy head of his cock on Soap’s lips.

“Open up.” he orders.

God fuckin help him, Soap does, and tries to ignore the way his blood fucking sings at the single huff of approval out of the man over him

His head swims at the scent of hot skin and musk, mouth flooding with saliva at the taste of salty skin on his tongue as Ghost steadily feeds him his cock.

Part of him wants to drag his teeth against the tender flesh, just to be a brat, but there are strong hands in his hair and his eyes fall half closed.

Ghost hasn’t even taken his gloves off, still practically dressed.

At the realisation, Soap feels himself moan around the length in his mouth, Ghost's hands tightening in his hair.

“Knew you’d be good for me.” Ghost says, his voice is dark, and eyes bright in the dim light of the room

Soap can feel the sticky pool on his stomach from his cock, already angry red and steadily leaking.

“With me, Johnny.” Ghost demands.

Soap tears his eyes back to the man above him, the lighting making it seem like Ghost's eyes are molten gold.

He can tell under the mask he's smiling.

“There you are sweet'eart.”

He can’t stop the groan that comes out of him, stomach clenching at the petname.

Ghost adjusts his grip on Soap's hair, testing how much he can take before adjusting and rocking his hips forward.

“Just take it, there you go. There’s my good boy, eh?”

He relaxes his throat and breathes deep until his eyes start to water and his head swims with it. He’s already so close and he hasn’t even been touched yet, cock twitching each time Ghost bottoms out.

There's a moment, which his nose buried in the coarse hair at the root of Ghost's cock that he looks up and locks eyes with him. It's like staring at glowing coals, flickering embers held in the dark with a smouldering heat that scalds his blood.

Soap's feels his cock twitch in warning, he's so fucking close, he feels his eyes start to roll back.

But then Ghost smoothly pulls out of his mouth, leaving Soap gasping and blinking away the tears. Lightheaded and dizzy from the sudden rush of oxygen into his lungs.

“Not bad. Reckon there's room for improvement.” Ghost says, chuckling at the frustrated sob Soap lets out against his thigh. There's the soft touch of a hand through his hair, before Ghost moves away, sitting at the side of the bed. Soap throws an arm over his eyes, chest heaving with each breath.

There's the feeling of a gloved hand trailing over his stomach, making him jump.

“Nearly made a mess of yourself, though.” he hears Ghost tease.

“Fuck off” Soap's voice cracks, Christ he sounds wrecked

He looks at Ghost from under his arm, seeing his eyes trace the same path as his fingers had.

“Ye could get more comfortable, ye know?” he grumbles, causing Ghost to look over at him. As much as it had been exciting, he's starting to feel awkward completely starkers while Ghost could zip up and be ready for the tarmac.

“I look uncomfortable to you?”

The bastard is grinning, Soap can tell.

“Ye look like yer dressed for a fuckin funeral.” Soap quips, looking at the ceiling, heart still beating too fast.

“Can’t have you dying before I’ve had my fun.” Ghost teases as he gest to his feet and  strips off.  The pale flesh and scars are devoured by Soap’s hungry gaze as his eyes are drawn back, like a moth to a flame.

As he drops the last piece of clothing to the floor, he looks over to Soap on the bed.

“Mask stays on.” he says, the rest of him bare.

“I dinnae care.” Soap lies.

Both of their eyes tracking how his cock jumped at the idea.

Ghost laughs, not unkindly, “Slag.”

The bed shifts under him as Ghost settles at the end of it. Soap sits up on his elbows, suddenly nervous.

He's no stranger to casual dalliance, to a quick and dirty release stolen in a pub bathroom or if he's lucky someone's flat if they're generous.

But it's Ghost.

It matters. It's not something he leaves in the early hours, hidden in cigarette smoke and strangers mouths. What if it ruins everything?

"Johnny?" Ghost is looking at him, a hand circled around Soap's ankle.

"M'fine," he says without thinking, scrambling for an excuse for his sudden silence, "was jus' wondering how ye want me?"

He goes to roll over, but there's a sudden fierce grip on his hips as Ghost tugs him down the bed, keeping him on his back.

"Wanna see you." is all Ghost says.

Soap feels like his heart is lodged in his throat, as Ghost rummages around in the bedside table.

"You've done this part before, haven't you?" it's a genuine question. But there's that teasing tone to it that has Soap rolling his eyes, falling back into the rhythm of their banter.

"Oh aye, I'm a fuckin blushin virgin." he jokes, kicking out and catching Ghost in the side. "Chaste as a priest, I am."

Ghost glances up at him, the heat still in his eyes.

“Better start praying then Johnny. Won’t be after I’m done with you.“

Soap feels his breath catch at the threat. “That a promise, LT?”

Ghost doesn’t respond, instead just clicks the bottle of lube open, pouring some onto his fingers and pressing two into Soap. There's an intensity to his focus as he presses deeper until they brush against the spot that punches a groan out of Soap.

"There we are."

"Hurry it up will ye?" Soap growls. He'd been trying to ignore the dull ache of being stretched open. But now there was a steady building at the base of his spine, his breath coming in shallow, cock filling out again after flagging.

"Patience is a virtue, Johnny." Ghost murmurs.

Soap winces at the feeling of Ghost removing his fingers, looking down as there’s a pause.

“Ye alright?”

He can't help but ask.

He gets a nod in response.

“Well, come on then. Show me how nasty ye are.” he wiggles his eyebrows and revels in the small huff of a laugh from Ghost as he lines himself up.

“Might regret that, Johnny.” Ghost says, locking eyes with him.

“Regret you takin yer fuckin tim-” he cuts off in a groan as Ghost smoothly presses the head of his cock in, his other hand tightly gripping Soap's waist.

“Fuckin hell, coulda warned me.” he says to Ghost's shoulder.

Ghost hums. "Could’ve.”

“Prick.” Soap lets his head fall back. He relaxes into the feeling, letting his body adjust. Ghost waits until Soap gives him a nod before slowly sheathing himself to the root.

That lightheaded feeling is back as Soap rests his head against Ghost's sternum. That languid bloodwarm feeling of being full trickling up his spine.

“You solid?” he hears from above him.

Soap shifts a bit, feeling the ache of how stretched he was. “Aye.”

“Good.” is all the warning he gets before the first thrust knocks the breath out of Soap’s lungs. His hands come up to grasp at Ghost's biceps, groaning at the drag of skin on skin, wet heat and rushing blood.

It's not gentle, he’s sure he’ll have bruises on his hips to hide for weeks from the whiteknuckle grip Ghost has. But he could tell the bastard was holding back.

“I’m no’ made of glass, Ghost, I can take it.” he bites out.

Ghost laughs in his ear. “Careful Johnny, or I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

The response is automatic.

“Ye already have.”

Ghost stills and Soap feels immediate panic he’d overstepped.

They hadn’t spoken about what this was.

Whether it was just a bit fun to left off steam or something more that they'd been dancing around for years.

Before he can scramble to come up with an apology, a joke to lessen the seriousness of what he’s just let fall out of his mouth, Ghost gives a snarl.

He snaps his hips forwards and Soap can swear he feels it in his throat.

The grip on his hips tightens so hard it nearly hurts as Ghost drives into him. It feels primal and possessive, heady and addicting as he rakes his nails down pale flesh, urging for more.

Ghost grabs the back of his neck, pulls him forward so he can growl in his ear.

“Made for this aren’t you, made for me.”

It isn’t a question, though Soap thinks he’s nodding. He feels dizzy with it, how much he wants this, how much Ghost wants him.

“Gonna be a good boy for me, Johnny?”

Ghost voice sounds raw, eyes burning as the meet Soap's.

“Fuck.” Soap sobs, it sounds more like a plea than an answer.

“There you are, sweet'eart, show me how well you take me.”

Soap falls back on the bed, Ghost's hand drifting from the back of his neck down to his thighs. He can feel the rough calluses on his skin, feel his teeth nearly rattle as Ghost slams into him.

It’s too much, just on this side of painful and he never wants it to end.

There's a dizzying feeling every time he feels Ghosts cock drag against him in just the right way. There's bruises blooming on his hips under the near deathgrip Ghost has on him.

“Thought about this a lot. How good you'd be for me.”

Soap doesn't have it in him to respond, he feels like he’s sinking deeper into a calm. His body goes lax and boneless, mind buzzing at the pleased growl from Ghost when his body just submits.

“Love seeing you like this Johnny, fucked brainless and still fuckin desperate for me.”

That pulls a whine out him, clenching down around the cock still driving deeper into him. He thought Ghost would be quiet, but each word of praise fills him like warm honey, mind swimming.

“Show me you can come like this, sweet'eart.”

Soap can already feel himself hurtling towards the edge, wrapping an arm around the back of Ghost's neck and pulling him close.  

"Fuck, Ghost, please." he pleads.

He hears Ghost's voice in his ear, raw and rough, “That's it love, be pretty for me.”

That does it.

Soap's entire body seems to lock up for a moment, pleasure sparking through him and settling into the base of his skull with a blistering heat. His cock pulses, untouched and painting his stomach.

“There’s a good boy.” he hears Ghost murmur. He bites down on the meat of Ghost's shoulder to muffle the whine that threatens to make its way out, hearing those words.

As he comes down, dizzy still, his head lolls forward, like his strings have been cut. He dimly registers the twitch of Ghost’s cock inside him, and softly groans at the feeling of it slipping out of him spent.

Soap slumps on the bed without Ghost’s grip holding him, body heavy and lax after the orgasm that was wrung out of him. He should get up, he knows the routine. He should leave so he isn't intruding.

Instead, his eyelids grow heavy and he drifts into darkness.

When he comes back to himself, he's been cleaned up, blanket pulled over him to keep out the chill. There’s a solid weight beside him.

“Back with me?” Ghost asks.

“Solid.” his words sound slurred, but the laugh from Ghost isn’t cruel. Soap pushes himself up so he's sitting, before Ghost speaks again.

"Didn't hurt you, did I?" There is a weight to his words, even though he's clearly trying to keep the tone light.

"Reckon me hips'll have a few bruises. I dinnae mind that though." he glances down at the purple on his side. It's not quite a handprint but enough of a suggestion of one. Showers were going to be fun.

He jumps as Ghost trails a finger over one, gentle and completely at odds with what had caused them.

"I'll keep that in mind." Ghost says. There's something about his voice that's off, doesn't feel like it's hitting Soap's ears like it normally does. He looks over to ask him if he's alright. It takes Soap a moment to realise what’s different.

“Ye weren’t lyin. Yer a bonnie bastard beneath the mask.”

He gets a smirk in response, and his heart fuckin clenches with it. He still hadn’t asked what this meant, for them. He suddenly feels vulnerable, naked and tucked into the covers of Ghost’s bunk.

"Eh, sorry for passing out on ye at the end there," Soap mumbles, his ears burning.

Ghost shrugs, "S'fine. Don't mind."

Thre's a quiet, but the buzzing unease under Soap's skin doesn't settle. Just like before, he doesn't know where to put his feet, worried he'll detonate whatever this is between them.

"Do ye want me to leave?" he asks like an idiot.

“Got somewhere to be?” Ghost raises an eyebrow.

"You reckon there's somewhere I should be?" he counters with another question. It's the same dance they've done for years, always toeing the line but neither crossing. Strange to have the feeling after they've fucked like they'd die without it.

Ghost sighs after a moment, and Soap readies himself for the pushback. The return to status quo.

Instead, Ghost grabs him by his chin, holding his gaze steady.

"If I wanted a quick fuck I've got more than enough offers, Johnny. Wouldn't have risked this."

He rests his forehead against Soap's.

Their breaths merge in the space between them,

"Fucking said before, didn't I? Only you." he says softer this time, thumb absently running along Soap's jawline.

It feels like the minefields behind them. Throwing caution to the wind, Soap moves forward and kisses him.

Something in him settles when Ghost's hand shifts from his chin to cup his face, a warm feeling in his chest that burns brighter than pride as he drags his teeth and gets a nip back in retaliation.

It feels just like the normal back and forth in a strange way that makes him laugh, Ghost grumbling a bit.

"Was enjoying that." he murmurs into the crook of Soap's neck.

"Was enjoying not doing missions half mast, but ye ruined that ye fuckin bastard," Soap counters, frowning as he feels Ghost smile against his skin. He shoves him.

"Ye can't be calling me fuckin good boy in front of the others." he says seriously. As much as his blood sings with how good this all feels, he doesn't want it to effect the team, or his ability to do his job.

"I won't." Ghost says, and actually sounds like he means it. 

He pulls Soap close to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pressing his face into his neck. Sleep doesn't make them wait long.

[honey-and-sims]

𝙈𝙮 𝘾𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨 & 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜

A while back I received this question asking if I'd mind explaining what my creative process is like and some wanted further explanation about what goes into planning multiple generations & arcs. I do apologize that this is so overdue, and it's literally taken me months to get to. My process is always changing, and I'm constantly adding in pieces that help make the process easier. Because of this, the way I answered the question back then is also quite outdated, at least in terms of how I plan each shoot/post, and I'll hopefully provide further clarification below the cut.

However, first and foremost, I want to say I am by no means an expert and different processes work for different people. Your creative process might look totally different than mine, and that's okay! Whatever keeps you coming back and sharing your work is always going to be the best & most efficient way of doing things.

But I do think it's helpful to get insight into what works for others when you have no clue how to plan things like this, or where to even begin. So, without further ado, here is my process.

Mainly, I use a website called Milanote. It's super helpful for organization purposes, and it's mostly free. They have free templates you can use, or you can make your own. The only downside to it is you're limited on the number of "cards" that are available to you. They do have a promo that you can use where if you get someone else to sign up, you get more cards, which is what I did.

My main folder basically looks like this:

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙀𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃

The research folder is an unorganized, organized mess and basically just looks like this:

This is where I keep all my resources, and all of the things I've researched for my story. As you can see, this includes various sources like YouTube videos, various articles, quotes, photos and even some music as well. I like having this all in one place so it's easily accessible for me, but you could just easily keep all of this in a Google or Word doc if you're low on 'cards'.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙎

Next we have these two sections. Obviously, I had to cover them up to avoid spoilers but I did label them to hopefully provide insight. Essentially, for this decade in particular, there are going to be various arcs happening at once, especially since the children will be growing into adults and laying their foundation is going to become crucial to the story. However, I'm trying to limit myself from having too much going on at once, which is why I try to limit myself to only four arcs playing out at once.

I will also say that Plot's A through C are interconnected, or at least they will be eventually, while Plot D concerns one of the children and will impact things later down the line. This is super important for really tying different ideas together, and making sure random plots don't seem to just pop up out of the blue.

The table for myself helps a lot with this, so that I can easily see what arcs have been started, and how many 'scenes' each one has. I find this to be useful because then I know that none of the arcs are stretching too long, which ones might need more fine tuning and which ones have yet to flourish or even begin.

Each arc basically has something like this going from beginning to end, essentially following the classic three act structure. Not all of them have five components, some more or less, but generally it ends up being five. Now, this doesn't mean every plot is only five posts or anything like that. Most of the time, the timeline of events needs to be broken off into bite sized pieces and that's okay.

The resolution doesn't always mean a happy ending, and can also serve as a way for me to introduce any new arcs for a specific character, which would then start the process over. You can kind of think about this when watching a lot of television shows. We watch all this build up starting on episode one, and things get more and more intense until we finally reach the season finale. And then woah, with two minutes left of the episode, we see that the character they just thought was dead is actually alive?! Which then leads us into season two.

I do think planning this way could feel really tedious for some, but I like to map things out before I start introducing any arcs so I at least know it isn't a quick "one shot" plot, something without actual purpose or an arc that doesn't really seem to have any sort of end goal that makes logical sense. It also just helps me remember what everyone's up to, especially when there are so many characters to keep track of.

𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙊𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙀

Before I go into the game, I basically write out a "rough draft" of sorts. This includes dialogue, any background noises (things like a clock ticking or the tapping of a pencil), a brief description of each shot/photo (including any post-editing things like adding blur effect), and a summary of what's happening in each panel.

Because I only use one document for this, and clear it out once I complete a scene, I do not have any examples to show from The Baudelaire Legacy, so I created a mock-up scenario in which Ozzy flunks a difficult test at school, as seen below.

Once I have that written, I plug it into my 'scene planning' board. However, I only include the shot/photos, and the short summary. On Milanote, I also plug in the location, time of day, attire and any pose accessories I might need (so that I remember to create an extra outfit for it). This ends up looking like the example below.

I typically will only have this open on my second monitor while I'm shooting the scene, and I just tick the boxes as I go along. This is really nice if you have to stop mid-shoot, and helps me pick up where I left off without getting confused.

I do also edit each panel in-between shooting to make sure I'm getting the shots I want, however, I don't encourage everyone to have Photoshop and Sims 4 open at the same time.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙎

Then we have the character sheets for each of our characters. Right now, I'm only focusing on Lawrence & Winifred (though, the children's arcs are in a 'idea dump' document).

For me, this is the most important piece of the story. One of the reasons shows like The Sopranos and Breaking Bad are considered some of the best writing in television history, is mostly due to the fact that, in my opinion, they prioritize this as well. It's always good to have a strong character in mind before you begin, and this is because you don't want them to step outside themselves.

Of course, your character can change and bend within their environment or plots happening around them, and they certainly should, but you also need to ask yourself if it's being done logically. Asking yourself, 'Why did they end up this way?', 'How did we get here?' and 'How would this character specifically react to an intense situation, stress or hardship?' is crucial when writing a character that feels alive.

Having something like this helps me build their "character arc" and map it out so no one ends up being left in the dust and makes sure that everyone is important in some way. Each of the children will have a sheet created for them once they reach the teen life state as well.

I also use this page as a way to record any quirks, or habits they have. These don't have to be major or super important either. So for example, on Lawrence's character sheet, I have it written down that he wears glasses to read; a very small thing casual readers probably wouldn't even pay attention to, so it feels like an important detail to me.

𝙈𝙔 𝙎𝙋𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙎𝙃𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙎

In addition to Milanote, I also Google Sheets/Docs. This is where I keep my spreadsheet and write / keep a hard copy of my story.

My spreadsheet is basically broken up into four different tabs - one for the main sims information (the Baudelaire's), side household information, my story posts and my ageing table.

My information tables look something like this:

For story posts, I use @aheathen-conceivably's method of tracking, which you can read about here. The only thing I have added in addition to what she has is a "notes" section, and this where I include any sort of post that doesn't specifically fit into any arc but is still important - things like birthdays, marriages, holidays, etc.

𝙈𝙄𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙇𝙇𝘼𝙉𝙀𝙊𝙐𝙎 𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙈𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉

In addition to all of these things, I also use Pinterest to create moodboards for each decade, as well as each character. I like to include all sorts of things like any inspiration I'm drawing from (so, things like Greta Gerwig's Little Women or HBO's Gilded Age), photos, quotes, etc.

Annnnd that's basically it! I'm hoping this provides some good insight, and is helpful in some way. I know it seems like a lot, but the more you do it, and the more you plan, the more natural it will start to feel. Again, I am not an expert in any way, and it's always difficult to explain your process in this way (and probably why I put off trying to do so for such a long time). So, please feel free to ask for clarification in regards to any part of the above.

Happy Simming ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

Nothing Above the Knee

Inspired by @eggcats post on Vox's hoof worship, here is my radiostatic hoof fic. OG post can be found here.

⪫ Pairing: Alastor/Vox (Radiostatic)

⪫ Wordcount: 4k

⪫ Summary: Alastor wants something from Vox. All Vox asks in return is a few hours with Alastor's hooves.

⪫ Content notes: Explicit sexual content, hoof stuff, contractual obligation, interdigital scent gland play, hoof licking, hoof fucking, electrostimulation, Vox is very much on top here, did I mention this is about hooves?

“You’re slapping the contract down on the table?” Vox narrowed his eyes. “What are you, twelve?”

“You’re the one stipulating such a juvenile… thing,” said Alastor.

“It’s called a kink, Al,” said Vox, shaking his head.

“I suppose you always were a twisted one,” rejoined Alastor, a spark of something returning to his eye. “I’ve specified my own terms. I trust you remember how to read old fashioned paper contracts?”

“Not like I haven’t been an overlord for the better part of a decade now,” grumbled Vox, to Alastor’s terse smile. He picked up the sheaf of paper, reading through it. He knew Alastor well enough to pay attention to the fine print. He didn’t expect any cheap shots in the clauses, no I own Vox’s soul forever with no conditions, Al was too classy for that kind of bullshit, but that didn’t stop Vox looking for them, out of force of habit.

The meat of the contract was as Vox had initially proposed; Vox would get to look, touch and manipulate Alastor’s hooves as he saw fit, between the proposed times, a binding nondisclosure clause preventing either of them broadcasting the event during or after the fact, with an exception for recordings for personal use. In return, Vox would owe a favor of Alastor’s choosing; nothing suicidal, nothing that would cost above a certain price, a list of caveats that went on for a page and a half. Vox stopped when he got to the clauses Alastor had added, reading them through a second time. “Nothing above the knee, huh?”

Alastor lowered his eyelashes. “Since you only seemed interested in my… hooves… I thought it was a fair addition.”

Vox grinned to himself, sensing the discomfort that radiated from Alastor as he ran through the wording. “No-one gets to touch you above the knee, your pants stay on throughout the act… you realize that this applies to you, too, right?”

Alastor sniffed. “If you’re implying that your inept pawings might cause me to become so overcome with lust that I divest myself of all dignity and jump into your arms, Vox, then you’re a bigger narcissist than I feared.”

The truth lay low and unpleasant between them, unacknowledged by either party. Alastor needed the other end of the contract, needed the unspecified favor from Vox, or he wouldn't be here.

And much as Vox would have enjoyed Alastor's complete subjugation, he suspected that the man would rather die than endure it. Which led them to this interesting compromise. It was something he had wanted for a long time; even when they had been friends, he had fantasized about that part of Alastor's body. And, as Velvette liked to say, you were only unalived once.

“I'm surprised you didn't put in a clause stopping me inflicting pain,” said Vox.

Alastor shrugged. “I've never seen you torture someone when you didn't have to. You're not much of a sadist, old chum.”

“I could prove you wrong,” said Vox, an eyebrow raised.

“But you won't,” said Alastor, comfortably. “Are you going to sign it?”

Vox produced a pen with a flourish, blue electricity sparking around it. “One more stipulation. You have to be paying attention. The whole time. No tuning out.” He added the line to the bottom of the document.

“As you insist,” said Alastor, his voice level.

Vox grinned and signed his name, sliding the contract and pen across to Alastor, who signed in turn. Their human names. Not in blood. This wasn't a contract for their souls, after all. Just a favor for a favor.

And nothing above the knee.

There was something about kneeling between Alastor's legs that made Vox feel a little light-headed, even if it was simply to remove his shoes. The signal that Alastor gave off at close range was so strong that it was nearly tangible to Vox, his antennae giving a soft quiver as he bowed his head, taking Alastor's right hoof in his hands, the sole of his boot against Vox’s palm.

Alastor didn't seem immune to the tension either, his red eyes lighting with something like interest as he looked down from his seat on the edge of the bed, his ankle flexing to allow Vox to pull off his boot. He wore black cotton socks with nearly no elastic to them, a sight that made Vox start, his gaze running up Alastor's leg to the knee.

Vox ran his hand up Alastor's shin, the bump under the fabric of his trousers confirming his suspicions. “You're wearing fucking sock garters?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Oh, you freaky fucker.” Vox swallowed an error message. “You have no idea how fucking hot that is.”

The sock was shaped to accommodate a hoof rather than a human foot, the toe wide for the spread of the standing toes, a woven circle at the back to protect the dewclaws and allow for the ankle.

Vox cuffed the leg of Alastor's trouser, rolling it up to the knee, staring all the while at the gracile limb beneath.

Taupe skin faded into dark fur, the slenderness of it making Vox's breath catch in his throat. He could wrap his fingers around the limb at any point. Cradling Alastor's calf in his palm and along his forearm, he lifted the hoof to his lips and breathed in.

Holy fuck, the smell. Even through the cotton, Vox could smell Alastor's musk, deep and earthy and pungent. Vox pressed in with his screen, until Alastor's hoof pressed squarely between his eyes, a groan escaping his lips as he felt his cock twitch to half mast just from the sensation.

Alastor himself was meticulously clean, Vox knew, but part of the curse of a deer body was the scent glands, constantly excreting musk that would help an earthly deer find its way but held little use for a demonic one. It was why Alastor rarely removed his shoes. It was also why, when Vox opened his eyes to look back at Alastor, he found the smile strained, eyes wide, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Fuck, that was almost better than the smell.

“I love the smell of you, Al,” Vox purred, reaching for the clasps on Alastor’s sock garter. “You’re fucking musky, ripe, you stink like a damn animal. I am so fucking hard right now.”

“I can see that,” said Alastor, his smile fixed. “I don’t need you to tell me.”

“Oh, but the contract says I can talk as much as I fucking want. So I’m gonna talk.” Slowly, as if unwrapping a gift, Vox pulled the sock from Alastor’s hoof, eyes widening as he took in the sight.

Alastor’s standing nails were perfectly formed, the same crimson as his fingernails and lustrous, a beautiful end to the long, elegant limb.

“Holy shit, you are fucking beautiful,” breathed Vox, running his hands over the hoof, fingers over the smooth keratin, round and into the fleshy pads behind the standing nails. He felt Alastor shiver at the touch, and made a mental note to probe there some more later. “You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”

He stripped Alastor’s other hoof in a similar manner and pressed his lips to each of them, learning the shape of them with his hands as he praised them.

“Are you quite done?”

“Oh, you’re bored?” asked Vox, taking a slender hoof in his hands and feeling the arch, the space between the crimson dewclaws and the pads beneath the standing toes. “Let’s see if I can fix that for you, Al.” With a grin, he pushed the knuckle of his thumb between the tendons in the arch, pushing hard into the flesh as he stroked up and down.

A strangled hiss from Alastor was his reward, another shiver through the Radio Demon’s body. “What’s that, Al?” Vox teased. “Speechless for once?”

“No, I-” Alastor started, but Vox picked the moment to push his knuckle into the pad of Alastor’s standing toe, and Alastor gave a little gasp instead, a noise that went right to Vox’s already hard cock.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enjoying this, Al,” said Vox, continuing the massage with a smirk.

“Fuck you,” Alastor snarled, his grin dangerous and sharp.

“Not on the menu tonight,” said Vox, his answering grin triumphant, his fingers kneading the pads of Alastor’s standing toes. “Nothing above the knee, remember? So, instead-” Vox ran fingertips over the red of Alastor’s nails, tracing the gap between the two. “Instead you get this.”

Vox pushed a finger between the two crimson nails, spreading the hoof apart, and grinning as he felt the fur around Alastor’s scent gland, oily and slick with his musk. The noise that Alastor made was everything; as if Alastor had just tuned to the wrong station, his voice thick with distortion. “What are you doing to me?”

Looking up, Vox noticed two things. First, Alastor was angry, antlers branching, eyes black with glowing red dials. Second, Alastor was hard.

“Holy shit. Fuck. Christ.” Vox stared. Al’s cock was pitching an impressive tent in his pants; any larger and he would be threatening to tear the seams. Vox had expected Alastor to endure the attention, maybe enjoy the hoof rub in a sensual sort of way, maybe be embarrassed. Not for it to do something for him. From Alastor’s expression, he hadn’t been expecting this either. Vox realized he was salivating, and swallowed.

Vox pushed his fingertip further into the gap between Alastor’s toes, feeling the weeping slit of his scent gland, the stink from the hoof intensifying as Vox smeared the musk back and forth.

“You frivolous piece of technological frippery- ngh!” Alastor’s grin was unhinged now, gums bared as well as teeth.

“I’m just doing what you agreed I could,” said Vox, drinking in the scene before him, glad he wasn’t the one coming apart at the seams this time. He kept his fingers moving, back and forth, looking at the spread of Alastor’s beautiful toes. “Speaking of which, uh…” Vox trailed off. His cock could fit between them, at a stretch. “You didn’t stipulate that I couldn’t use your hooves to jack off.”

Alastor was silent, but the widening of his eyes told Vox that he hadn’t considered the possibility. His poker face wasn’t that good, smile or no.

“If you object, I won’t,” said Vox, quietly. “I’m an asshole, not a monster.”

Alastor gave an annoyed little huff, staring at the two fingers that Vox had wedged between his toes. “I signed the contract. I don’t need your pity.”

Vox smiled when he heard it. “Atta boy,” he growled, spreading Alastor’s toes further apart as he freed his cock from his pants. His first glimpse of the slit of Al’s scent gland, the whitish discharge beading on it like dew, set an ache to the base of his cock, and he swore under his breath. “Oh, that’s fucking pretty, Al. Jesus, look at you.”

Vox lifted the hoof to his face, fingers still forcing the standing nails apart, and opened his mouth, curling his tongue into the gap. Oh, Alastor tasted fucking filthy, organic and overwhelmingly male. If Vox’s head had been biological, the combination of smell and taste would have made him gag, but as it was, he simply pushed away the mounting pile of error messages, keeping his senses as highly tuned as he could without shutting down entirely, feeling the emotion in his gut flicker from disgust to arousal and back again like a fucking metronome. The stink was soaking into his casing; he was going to smell like hoof for weeks. Tongue laving wet between Alastor’s toes, Vox groaned, teasing the slit of the scent gland as he made the crevice nice and slick for his cock.

From a secondary camera, Vox watched Alastor’s face, the quivering at the corners of his smile, the bobbing of his larynx. The tent in his pants, where an honest-to-god wet spot was forming, dark against the red. Alastor reached for his own crotch, looking to find friction, only to have his wrists snapped back into place by the chains of their contract. Vox groaned into the crevice of Alastor’s hoof as he watched Al snarl at the chains, hand going to his own cock and giving it a slow pump as he drew his head back.

“I’d love to help with that,” leered Vox, Alastor’s ankle still in his hand. “But no-one touches you above the knee, Al, not even you. You put it in the contract yourself.”

Alastor stared down at him, dial-eyed. “Fuck you, you tacky rectangle fuck.”

“Is this your idea of dirty talk?” Vox matched Alastor’s grin as he lowered Alastor’s hoof to his dick, a shock through his system as he made contact, pushing his dribbling glans against the pads on the undersides of Al’s standing toes, rubbing small circles into the yielding flesh there. Alastor made a soft, animal noise in his throat, and Vox guided himself to the gap between the toes, rubbing his glans there. “Haah- I think you need practice.”

“Why?” Alastor’s gaze on him was intense, even as his breath huffed between his teeth. “It seems to be working, after all.”

Vox glitched, freezing for a second before shaking it off. How the fuck did Alastor always seem to know just how to get under his skin? Vox watched Alastor’s face as he smeared his glans between Alastor’s spread toes, the pearly white of Alastor’s musk mixing with the neon blue of his precum, back and forth until the space was slick with it and Vox could push the shaft of his cock between Alastor’s toes without much friction. The contract compelled Alastor to watch, so he did, his hips rolling futile as he sought friction the air above him could not give him.

“You’re looking pretty out of it there, Al,” teased Vox. “Sure you don’t want any help?”

“What-” said Alastor, chest heaving, monocle askew. “-can you do to help, Vox?”

“Roll over,” said Vox, sitting back a little. “You can hump the mattress.”

Alastor gave a radio hiss. “Fuck you.”

“Would love to, believe me,” Vox shot back.

“The contract says I have to watch you.”

“Is that all?” Vox snapped his fingers, feeding his visual inputs through to the screen on the wall on the other side of the bed, his view of Alastor’s hoof, the lustrous crimson of his standing nails spread apart with Vox’s shaft between them, Vox’s electric blue claws wrapped around Alastor’s slender arch. “There- that should count.”

Alastor glanced at the screen, then back at Vox. “Are you going soft?” Alastor hissed. “Why give mercy? You want to humiliate me.”

“Says who? Says you?” Vox pulled a face, stroking his hand up the delicate bones of Alastor’s ankle. “I’m not here to play carnival freak show dominant, Al- god knows I get enough of that at home. I just wanna worship your hooves.”

“And stick your garish dick between my toes.”

“Yeah. And stick my garish dick between your toes, so sue me.” Vox shrugged. Just hearing Alastor say dick was a pleasant little throb. “I think you’re enjoying this, Al. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Another heave of Alastor’s chest. “You’re wrong, Vox. You’re wrong and you’re tacky.”

“Then why are you still hard, Al?” Vox raised an eyebrow. Alastor didn’t have an answer for him, so he continued, pushing the head of his cock back between Alastor’s standing toes and into Alastor’s intercapital notch, as far as it would go, wedging the two halves of the hoof apart. Vox slid himself back and forth, and Alastor shivered, blood running from his lip where he had bitten it, his grin fixed as he refused to make a noise, refused to groan, or whimper or gasp.

“You wanna know what I think?”

Alastor stared at him. “No.”

“I think,” Vox continued, unperturbed. “That you’re just too fucking proud to admit you like this. You like me, on the floor in front of you, you like my touch, and you like me fucking your hoof like the sloppy little pussy that it is.” With each like, Vox gave a thrust of his hips, Alastor’s hoof slick and tight around him, his thumb curling round the standing toes to the flesh underneath, pressing through the fascia and against the cruciate ligament. Alastor cried out; ears back, eyes wide, still deliciously hard in his pants, as Vox continued. “I think you’re too fucking proud to take me up on my offer and roll over and hump the mattress like the rabid animal that you are. Because you’re afraid that you’ll like it when you cum from me fucking your hooves.”

Alastor snarled at him, arms lashing out and catching on the chains of the deal. “You’re pap,” he growled. “Slop. Mass-marketed, overhyped, underproduced, noisy garbage. Your viewers are idiots and so are you.”

Usually this would get right under Vox’s skin, but usually he wasn’t using Alastor’s hoof to jerk off, so the insults lacked their usual barb. It was easy to see who was in charge, which one of them was an animal snapping at the bars of their cage. Vox grinned, radiating smugness. “Are you gonna roll over and hump the mattress for me or not, Al?”

“Go fuck yourself,” growled Alastor, which meant yes. Vox pulled himself out of Alastor’s hoof, and got to his feet as he watched the Radio Demon roll over for him.

With Alastor face down, Vox ran his fingers over each of Alastor’s hooves in turn; one slick and covered in the blue smears of his precum, the other untouched, the scent gland still beading white with musk. Alastor’s narrow ass, fully clothed, flexed back and forth as Alastor found friction in the bedding below him, grinding himself into the bedding with a strangled groan that seemed to thrum through Vox’s loins.

Vox felt an irrational surge of jealousy for the mattress, and dismissed it.

“It’s a shame an old fucker like you gets pretty hooves like this,” said Vox, running a talon over the edge of one crimson nail, dipping his fingers between the toes of the unfucked hoof and smearing the musk over it, watching Alastor watch him do it on the big screen in front of them. “Anyone else, and they would be out on display, for the world to see, all shiny and crimson and shit.”

“Really? I thought you’d appreciate exclusivity.” Alastor’s tone was sarcastic, but his words made Vox’s cock ache. The thought that he was deflowering Alastor’s hooves. Despoiling them. A part of Al that pretty much no-one else would even see.

“Oh, I do, Al.” Vox’s voice was a groan as he stacked Alastor’s hooves one atop the other, lined up so that he could slide himself between both sets of toes, and pushed himself in.

“Fuck,” hissed Alastor, his voice lower in his register now, his eyes losing focus. Vox wondered what his O-face looked like, wondered if he stopped smiling when he came. Al’s hips were still twitching, still grinding himself sordidly into the bedding, and Vox matched his jackrabbit place, grinning as the motion brought a whine to Alastor’s throat.

“Look at you, Al, you wanton little minx,” purred Vox, listening to the obscene squelch his cock now made sliding in and out. “You’re gonna cum with my cock in your hooves, arentcha?”

“N-no-” Alastor groaned, gritting his teeth, a quiver through his body as he willed himself to stop humping the mattress. A good attempt, but futile.

Alastor’s assessment when writing the contract hadn’t been wrong, per se; Vox didn’t much enjoy torture. But, long experience as an overlord had shown him a thing or two, and his powers. Well, his powers were quite useful for this sort of thing.

The electricity that ran through power sockets and the electricity that ran through nerve endings were pretty similar, after all, and Vox could feel all of Alastor’s nerve endings, firing through the strands that wrapped the bones of each hoof, up into the braid of nerves that ruled his body. What sensation went where wasn’t an exact science, but Vox was practiced. A zap to the prostate was always surefire, but hooves had a lot of nerve endings too, enough to get someone off.

Carefully, Vox brought electricity to the surface of his cock as he pushed it once more between the pads of the prone Alastor’s feet, enough to tickle the nerve endings. The reaction was instant; not an orgasm, but a quiver through Alastor’s body, a strangled capacitive whine in his throat. Alastor’s fingers clenched, rending the bedsheets with his claws.

“Good?” asked Vox, gentle because gentle pissed Alastor off more than rough did. “We can stop anytime, y’know. Nullify the contract. Just say the word.”

“Cheap tricks-” gasped Alastor, trying to turn in on himself and finding he could not, too stubborn to do anything save submit as the electricity from Vox’s cock made him quiver again, whine again. His breathing was shallow, his eyes wide as Vox fucked his hooves, squeezing his delicate ankles as the sound of electricity arcing through air and into skin sounded at the apex of each squelching thrust. “-fuck.”

“Good boy,” Vox ground out, his voice breathy as he applied a little more voltage. “Give in. Lemme make you cum.”

“Damnable -ngh- picturebox,” whimpered Alastor, a sweet sound on his lips as he came, quivering, into the bedsheets.

“A picturebox who makes you cum,” growled Vox, wishing to hell that he could touch more of Al than just his calves and shins as he fucked the still-slick still-sensitive space between Al’s standing toes. “How does it feel, Al? Getting fucked senseless by a clout-chasing, mediocre video podcast? Fucked by mass-marketed, overhyped- ngh- noisy garbage?” Vox could feel himself getting close, his audio lagging and glitching, the movement of his hips becoming irregular, a pressure in his shaft, his balls hitting the underside of Alastor’s neatly manicured crimson nails at each stroke.

Alastor gave a noise that wasn’t even a word, half animal, half distorted signal, and Vox came, hard, one arc hitting the side of the bed, the second hitting the backs of Alastor’s legs as he pulled out, vivid blue stripes over dark flesh and fur. A third and fourth spurt drizzled over his own hand and Alastor’s sublingual pads. Vox stood there for a moment, cock in hand, staring at his handiwork as he blinked away the error messages displayed on his screen. The great Radio Demon, covered in his cum. His cock, smeared with Alastor’s musk. Fuck.

Alastor sighed into the bedsheets, a slightly sulky edge to his tone. “You’ll clean that up, I hope.”

Vox felt a swell of something other than triumph in his chest; something warm. “Yeah, I’ll wipe you down, Al.”

There was something nice about both being in a post orgasmic haze, Vox thought, as he knelt again at Alastor’s feet, a warm cloth and basin in hand. Alastor, now back in the position he had started in, had little inclination to do anything other than regard Vox with languid red eyes as he wiped the evidence of their encounter from Alastor’s ruby red hooves, the bones delicate in his hands.

Vox planted a soft kiss on the front of Alastor’s hoof, below the dewclaws. “We should do this again sometime.”

Alastor lifted his leg from Vox’s hands, and in a fluid, measured movement, pressed his hoof to Vox’s forehead, grinding it back and forth with a twist from his hip, leaving a damp, scent-laden mark on Vox’s screen. “Absolutely not.”

“Say next week? I have the quarterly review Tuesday, so I’ve gotta keep the board happy, but Wednesday I don’t have anything I couldn’t blow off.”

Alastor gave Vox a level smile, pushing his face with his hoof. “If there is one quality of yours I have never had reason to doubt, Vox, it is your capacity for blowing things.”

Vox grinned. “That sounds like Wednesday night to me.”

[crescencestudio]

๋࣭⭑ Devlog 36 | 11.26.23 ๋࣭⭑

:rises from the dead: I'm.... BAAAAACK!!!!!!

Long time, no talk (kinda) everyone! I hope you've been happy, healthy, and well since we last saw each other and that the wind-down for the year is being kind to you all <3

We have a lot to catch up on, so let's do just that ^^ This is.... so long. I'm really sorry in advance tbh---I thought I hadn't done much because break, but there's quite a bit to show.

It's been a while since a formal update on the routes, so I'll start by telling you all where they officially stand. Before I do, it might be helpful to tell you all how I define percentage completion in my head. Basically, when I finish the draft of a route, I consider it 70% complete. This means I could ship it as is. I wouldn't be happy with the product, but it's playable and makes enough sense---just not the best quality.

When Wudgey finishes their edits, a route is 80%-85% complete, meaning I could ship it as is. I think it'd be pretty good actually and players would be happy. Beyond this point, I am just making fine tuning edits to incorporate more player interaction, polishing the flow of things, etc.

After that, there's basically only Elm and Vi's edits left. When Elm finishes, a route is 95% complete. Again, I think at this point, it's good. Like edits from this point onwards are purely for polishing purpose. After Vi, it's 98% complete. Then the last review comes back to Elm and I for it to be 100% complete. Right now, this is where the routes stand:

Kayn: 98% Complete

Fenir: 95% Complete

Druk: 80% Complete

Etza: 60% Complete (Still working on their draft!)

Do Not ask me about Kuna'a or Aisa LFMASOEIDJ

So most of the routes are actually looking pretty good! They're just getting bounced around to different editors at this point, but the changes made for most of them are basically small. Fenir and Kayn especially could be shipped as is in my eyes if I really wanted to.

Art recently has mostly been focused on commissions. Vui actually is almost done with ALL of the BGs for Alaris!! Isn't that crazy?? In about a year, he was able to create almost 25 BGs with daytime variations!!! He's a phenomenal artist, and I couldn't be happier to be working with him. It's also a bit bittersweet (and alarming??) to know that part of development is already close to ending! q.q

The most exciting art update I have is that we got the GUI assets finished and I've started coding them into the game!! AAAA!! These were the final updated assets I needed, and seeing the fully revamped demo come to life has been so.... Emotional HAHA! It's crazy to see how far Alaris has come from when I was first making it with my little fingies and throwing things together like paper mache. I'm incredibly in love with how all the assets look together, and I couldn't be more grateful for the artists who helped me update the assets!

Updated History Log. Please say you like the dividers between entries---I'm most proud of those

I'm still making my way through coding everything, but here's a couple screen previews so you all can see how things now look in the game!!

First off, is the Dialogue/Choice Screen. You can see that we have a brand new dialogue box (She's Stunning) and Choice Screen! I'm hoping to add some sfx for the choices when you hover over them, and sfx for the new UI in general so there's more user feedback when you click and hover on things. But for now, enjoy this preview of the new dialogue box, choice screen, and the new personality indicators!

Updated Dialogue/Choice Screen: You can't see it as well in GIF format, but the BG also has particles floating around, so there's a tiny bit of animation going on in some of the BGs as well!!

Next, we have the Free Time Screen. I actually posted this on Twitter recently but I don't think I posted it on Tumblr! ISN'T SHE STUNNING... ESPECIALLY WITH THE NEW BGS.... I'm especially happy with the text animations that show up at the bottom when you hover over the different choices! I was inspired by a couple other devs (specifically GUI god, @siyo-koy, and renpy animation master @just-a-carrot) to start incorporating animation style elements into my GUI. And I really like how it adds a little ~something~ to the feel of everything ^^

Updated Free Time Screen: begging someone to say they like the text animation so I feel validated for finangling with it

Finally, for our last preview, we have the Save Screen! While it looks new obviously with the new assets, I also did a lot of backend coding revamping for how it actually functions since my coding experience is a bit better now compared to when I was first fighting for my life figuring out save/load screens. The biggest change for you all is that there are now chapter markers so save slots will tell you what chapter that save file is from! And instead of screenshots, it's now a custom icon inside that shows the chapter card. I think it'll make the save screen look more cohesive now and hopefully more intuitive as well!!

Updated Save Screen: With a sprinkle of updated Chapter Card screen preview

That was long. Are any of us surprised, considering I had two months' worth of devlogs piled inside of me, begging to burst from the seams?

Anyways. Only two miscellaneous updates. One is that all soundtracks have been completed for Alaris! Peter finished the last of them recently, and they're all beautiful!!! For ppl who love piano soundtracks... :holds hand in piano lover solidarity:

Other update is that I finally fixed that godforsaken sprite bug that was associated with the energy vision feature from the demo!!! FINALLY!!! AFTER.... SO LONG. Extremely huge thanks to @robobarbie for taking time out of their day to do that; everyone please say thank you!!!!! OGs know how long that bug was bothering me!!!! Robo also gave me a pretty new rain code, so I'm showing you how both look in the new demo so you can appreciate them with me!!

Last miscellaneous update is more on a.... logistical development level?? Basically, now that I have new GUI assets to code, that means I can get a beta build of the routes currently written out. I was feeling really overwhelmed by that idea because most of this year has been focused on writing and making assets, not really coding. Knowing that I can Code and get Playable Builds out to people was stressful because I have to divvy up my time a bit more.

After an extremely insightful talk with beloved and admired Esh of @steamberrystudio I decided I'm probably going to be shifting how development goes from here on out. Instead of focusing head low on getting as many words written for the remaining routes everyday, I'm going to be making smaller but consistent progress and spend the rest of my time coding so that I can have more of a continuous cycle of production going on (e.g., writing a bit, making playable builds, gathering playtester feedback, etc. instead of doing each stage in blocked, sequential order).

I'm mainly telling you all this because it means writing updates will probably seem slower from this point on, but I think production overall will be more efficient because of it! This is also exciting news for playtesters and/or early access backers/patrons because it means you'll have playable content in the near future for content outside of just the demo :')

have u all heard of wudgeous of herotome. of course u have. they r all i talk about at this point

No market research because I've actually been addicted to BG3 LFMAOLSDJF. Actually, I'm taking some inspiration from it for the personality mechanic but eh.

On a more important note, @herotome demo is coming out December 2nd!!!! PLAY IT WITH ME. Wudgey is my editor, so you might think I'm biased but I'M NOT!!! I WAS A FAN OF HEROTOME BEFORE WUDGEY EVEN WORKED W ME!!! They have an exception eye for detail and player experience, and they are actually one of the devs that inspired me to even get into game development.

I just know the demo is going to blow everyone's socks off. OG Herotome prologue build fans know exactly what I'm talking about. Please mark December 2nd on your calendar---you will not regret it.

This was so unbelievably long, but I hope it's appreciated since there was no real devlog update for a hot minute. As always, Thank you all for your patience and continued support. With the year ending soon, I'm getting wrapped up in my feels in usual Crescence fashion. I am a Cancer so no one is surprised.

Next month will probably be more of an end-of-year devlog rather than the usual format. I know the devlogs of late have been all over the place, but once we get into the new year, it will be back to business as usual! Hope you all have a wonderful end to your year; I'll talk to you soon! <3

[krono-knight]

Like A Weighted Blanket

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Word count: 669

Content warnings: Character losing time (it's played for comedy and caused by Magic Reasons, but I figured I should warn just in case)

Misc: Truth be told I've had this written for months by this point and just never bothered to post it, but I like it and figured hey why not! Plus all my other fics are between 5 and 75% percent done and I really just wanna post something already. Might put it on ao3 later who knows.

][][][][][

“And it just keeps happening! I keep losing time when I’m in this place, I come in for half an hour and when I go back out again it's feakin’ 3 AM! I can’t be awake at 3 AM! I have a reputation to uphold!”

Joe looks around the place critically while Bdubs is talking: It’s a small, beautifully decorated cottage with Bdubs' signature building style written all over it. The walls are an expertly crafted gradient including everything from andesite to dead coral, the furniture is neat but detailed, and it all has a wonderful character and atmosphere to it.

It is also, most definitely, a Temporal Zone.

The weight of Time usually lays heavy on Joe's shoulders, like a familiar weighted blanket wrapped around him. It’s a comforting constant in his life, reminding him that no matter what he or anyone else does, Time still goes on. Stepping into this house is like tripping on a sharp stone and hearing the blanket tear, right down the middle. It’s still there, of course — you can never really escape Time — but now the weight is distributed unevenly, and it hangs half on and half off your back, dragging on the floor collecting dirt. It’s unnerving. It’s uncomfortable.

He tunes back into the world and realises that Bdubs is still talking. “—I went to X about it cause I thought, well it's a problem with the code right? so he can fix it! But he told me to see you for some reason so— Here! Fix it so I can sleep again!”

Joe does another spin around the room, just for good measure, and asks, “How long since you spoke to X about it?”

Bdubs grunts in that way he does when he's being overdramatica on purpose. “For me or for you?”

“Either.”

“Well for YOU it's been about a week, but for ME it happened two hours ago.”

Joe nods along, only half paying attention to what Bdubs is saying. In truth, he already knows what's happened; it's hard not to feel the frayed edges of Time against his mind. He knows what he has to do, so he goes towards where the tear is widest — near a window by happenstance — and sits down on the floor in one quick motion.

As Joe starts rummaging through his inventory, Bdubs keeps talking.

“What are you gonna do about it, anyway? I didn't think you were any good with code.”

“Oh, I don't touch that stuff. It clashes with my nature.”

Ignoring Bdubs’ confused stare, Joe pulls a needle and thread out from the fabric between space, carefully avoiding the fabric between Time as he does so. Best to not get those two mixed up, in his experience.

Bdubs is apparently still having trouble grasping the situation, because his eyes get somehow even wider and he asks, “What the heck, are you sewing?! The fabric of spacetime is warping around my house and you’re sewing?!”

“Fabric of Time,” Joe says.

“Huh?”

“The fabric of Time is warping around your house, no space. And actually, it's always warping around everything. What's happening now is more like the fabric of Time is tearing around your house in particular. It's very uncomfortable.”

Joe takes the threaded needle and closes his eyes, reaching, this time, for the fabric between Time. He feels around until he catches the edge of the tear, and then holds firm.

“You might want to leave for this bit, by the way. It gets a little weird.”

With his eyes closed, Joe can't see Bdubs' expression. But he can hear the exasperation in his voice regardless.

“You know what, sure! Fine! I'll see you in half an hour, and that half an hour better actually be half an hour this time, and— and not five minutes, or a month, or, or yesterday! Got it?”

And with that, Bdubs stomps out of his house, grumbling all the way down the hill.

Joe chuckles fondly, pierces through the fabric of Time, and pulls.

[mythserene]

I got a message I figured I would try to answer out here because updating my less-informed, earlier Lewisohn musings has been on my To Do list for a while.

From anonymous:

I am enjoying your Lewisohn analysis. Do you think he has taken a bribe from the Lennon estate to play down J&Y’s heroin addiction? I can think of no other reason he would lie about this. He is obviously aware how stupid it makes him look.

Thank you for the question, anonymous. Back in October when I first started publicly posting about Mark Lewisohn I knew a lot less about him and hadn't been able to form any sort of picture about what happened between him and Paul/Apple. Or the ongoing and seemingly increasing enmity between he and Paul (+ the Beatles' families), or the anger that seems to be almost boiling over in Lewisohn these past few years.

And for what it's worth—as far as I can understand—even Yoko has locked Lewisohn out. Apple is a unified front on this one.

I do not think that anyone has gotten to Lewisohn to make him say these things, or even that he is aware that he looks stupid. I think that Beatles' fans are extremely straight-laced in the best way, and that the habit of trusting someone like Lewisohn dies hard. Until AKOM's Fine Tuning series I'm not aware of anyone ever putting forward a concerted challenge to even his most extreme narratives. The voluminous word count of the book and the simple fact of all those citations lulled most people into complacency. Until Fine Tuning no one had looked further, or if they did they were shy about stating it. People in the Beatles' community are afraid of criticizing Lewisohn, and I've heard that again and again these past few months. But AKOM went for it, made a persuasive case, and opened the floodgates. (And gave me an opportunity and an outlet for the problems I had been finding, and supported me. Phoebe and Daphne are the only reason you're reading this.)

Back to the question.

First of all, I think that Lewisohn genuinely idolizes John, and I think he is fanatically committed to the narrative of John-as-demigod. And I tend to think that he is now perhaps more committed to his telling of the Beatles' story than even to the beliefs that undergird his narrative. But the other half of the equation that the Solomon-like part of my mind failed to accept for a long time is just how much Mark Lewisohn seems to hate Paul McCartney. And I do not use that word lightly.

When AKOM started their Fine Tuning series I was half-excited and half-nervous. I am a citations freak. I like original sources and I basically mine books and podcasts to find sources and hunt them down. I also came into the Beatles without the background that most fans have. I didn't understand the John vs Paul fight in Beatles historiography. I loved John and Paul both, for different reasons, but mostly I loved them together. What initially caught me about Tune In were all the claims that were completely unsourced, and before long I began discovering more troubling issues, but after a while I forced myself to set it aside because I was just frustrating myself and it seemed like a waste of time to argue with Mark Lewisohn on my computer.

It was Shells and Barriers that made a new thought intrude and begin to become inescapable: Mark Lewisohn must genuinely detest Paul McCartney. This was the episode I most dreaded because, well, because I was ignorant of a lot. I expected it to be the most subjective, and I have a lot of empathy for John as I am an only child who lost both parents a month apart. It makes you feel like you have no tether at all. Like you're floating in space and that any breeze might carry you off. There's no cushion and you feel exposed.

But that episode did something that I was unable to do on my own—that I didn't have the breadth of knowledge to comprehend on my own—it filled in a lot of gaps that I was unaware of. And I simply could not fathom any reason for most of how Lewisohn framed Paul's childhood besides pure loathing. Daphne's word counts are pretty incredible, too. John is jealous twice, both times of Cynthia. (+a "Jealous Guy" mention.) The numbers that stood out to me right away and have stuck in my memory were Paul being "jealous" eight times and "envious" five times = thirteen. And even beyond Lewisohn making Paul out to be completely unmoved by his mother's death and painting the aftermath as safe and comforting, it's notable that Paul is only said to be "loved" four times in the entire book, and he is only said to be loved by John. (Stu is said to be loved nine times.) I realized when I listened to that episode that my picture of Paul's relationship with Mike had been refrigerated and flattened out by Tune In, all without me noticing it. Because Lewisohn doesn't hit you over the head with things, instead he subtly and slyly frames things in a careful and deceitful way, and that framing shapes the reader's opinions.

The case of bias in his writing about John and Paul's childhoods is not easy to make, especially in the ways I like to make a case—finding discreet objective evidence that can be straightforwardly disproved—but AKOM's overall case in that episode was devastating, and there were several details that stood out to me and have stuck with me. Jim hitting Paul until Paul basically threatened to hit back as a teenager and the unnoted redaction of that in a John quote Lewisohn uses is fairly indefensible, and the choice to leave out that Jim was suicidal after Mary's death and to instead paint a picture of a loving and nurturing extended family swooping in that almost sounds better than what the boys had had before losing their mum impressed me as almost malicious when patiently laid out. And then there were a lot of smaller details that struck me. Lewisohn describes Mike as "shattered irrevocably" by Mary's death, which is contrasted with Paul's callousness. (And the way the "shattered" sentence is written it also leaves the impression that Paul wasn't that close to his mum, although Lewisohn is careful not to say that in so many words.)

Jim broke the news to the boys. Mike, who was especially close to his mother, burst into tears, a core part of him shattered irrevocably. Paul's response was less expected and not at all what Jim or anyone else wanted to hear. ... Eight years later, Mike looked back with candor on these first few days ... "Paul made some flippant remark which sounded pretty callous at the time" ...

(Emphasis mine)

Then in a Frankenquote that is half author interview, Paul is quoted as saying about both he and John losing their mothers:

“We had a bond there that we never talked about—but each of us knew that had happened to the other ... I know he was shattered, but at that age you're not allowed to be devastated, and particularly as young boys, teenage boys, you just shrug it off.”

And Dusty Durband, Paul's English Master, was quoted in Chris Salewicz's 1986 biography of Paul describing him as “shattered.”

“Paul had a bad break, his mother had died. He did go through a bit of a rough patch then. I think it shattered him a lot. Maybe it made him turn to other things like practicing his guitar...”

It's like Lewisohn is screwing with Paul by keeping that adjective away from him and even teasing him by handing it to his brother, just out of Paul's reach. I hesitate to write that because it probably sounds as extreme as some of Lewisohn's conclusions, but my Lewisohn immersion has made it seem completely logical, and in fact, almost undeniable. It's a small detail that doesn't seem that important in isolation, but even with just the context of the rest of that AKOM episode it was a piece of evidence that my mind caught and held onto. Lewisohn, by his own testimony, is a Paul watcher. He obsessively listens to, watches, and reads McCartney interviews and is forever bringing them up on podcasts, waxing on about how he understands Paul McCartney like no one else. (This is invariably followed by an example that is freakishly twisted inside Lewisohn's mind to reveal some negative aspect of Paul's character.)

I don't think that Paul and Mark Lewisohn had some great falling out. Instead what I think occurred added up to a thousand paper cuts in Lewisohn's very thin skin. He felt humiliated by Paul one too many times, and he pushed every humiliation down into his gut, coated them in bile, and remembered them.

Last November there was a Lewisohn interview in a Spanish language magazine, Jot Down, where Lewisohn tells one of these little anecdotes. They're always couched in neutral language, and he usually says how whatever happened was understandable, but the theme is the same: some perceived slight by Paul that he had to swallow in silence. (The translation is 98% Google translate. I corrected three or four pronouns that it had mistranslated, but nothing else.)

“He didn't say goodbye to me, he didn't give me a hint of grace.”

Q. I remember a television program in which Paul was asked for a detail of his own life, and he answered "ask Mark Lewisohn." LEWISOHN: Yes. It was a little weird, sometimes. On one occasion, for example, I worked with George Martin on a television documentary about Sgt. Pepper. But he also kept working with Paul. So there we were, on Abbey Road interviewing McCartney with all the equipment, the television cameras and everything else. Then the director of the documentary tells me to let him know if Paul makes a mess with any information, so that I can ask him to repeat his answer with the correct information. I sat there, hoping that I didn't have to intervene. But Paul said he had the idea of making the album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band flying back from the United States. And I knew that hadn't happened like that. Let's see, I wasn't there, but I know he had the idea coming back from Nairobi. In fact, he didn't fly to the United States until Sgt. Pepper was finished. And, on the return trip, he was already thinking about the Magical Mystery Tour. I usually let these details go, they're really not that important. Except if they are recording him for a documentary about the 25 years of Sgt. Pepper that was going to be broadcast on television. So, while the cameraman was changing the movie roll, I approached the director and said "Paul was coming back from Nairobi and not from the United States when he had the idea for the album, I don't know what you want to do about it." And the director goes and releases him, "Paul, Mark says you didn't understand it well. That you didn't have the idea when you were flying back from the United States." To which Paul stared at me and replied "Yes, I did." It was a very uncomfortable, difficult and embarrassing moment when I wanted the floor to swallow me. He didn't say goodbye to me, he didn't give me a hint of grace. And I had to learn when to say something and when not to. But, in that place, my job was to say something. I was paid to say something. So I said something, and he didn't like it. Nobody likes to be corrected.

Sorry, anonymous. I wrote far more than an answer because I used your question as an excuse to get on the record an addendum and some corrections to my earlier musings, but I do not think Lewisohn has any idea of how ridiculous he sounds. He is insulated from almost all criticism and is constantly praised as a sort of Beatles' god. He worships John and wants to shape the Beatles' story to redeem him, but I also think he believes in the story that he has shaped. I think he is lost and frustrated at being locked out by Apple—and actively thwarted by them—and that has made his criticisms of Paul much more public. It's as if his new job is just going on podcasts and taking pot shots at Paul McCartney. And for Mark Lewisohn it's clear that the Holy Grail is the breakup. He is intent on recasting Allen Klein as much more of a positive force than history has given him credit for, and Lewisohn has foreshadowed a parallel between Klein and Epstein by manipulating all the evidence about Paul and Brian. He is going to cast Paul as the bad guy and John as the hero. As always. And if John and Yoko are addicted to heroin that throws his whole rewrite into chaos. He simply cannot concede that there was a real issue. John cannot be fully human. He robs John of what makes John so magnificent.

So everyone else has to be wrong.

Just for fun before I go, another narrative Lewisohn was working on putting forward in this “John was actually right” case, was rehabilitating Magic Alex. “Get Back” seemingly thwarted this line of nonsense, but after bingeing the Nagras Lewisohn was seriously pushing the idea that Magic Alex had been slandered by history and that John's judgment about him had been vindicated. It takes listening to a lot of these interviews—something that I can only do in small doses—to begin to see the fuller picture that Lewisohn was wedded to, and Magic Alex is as much a part of that as the heroin comments are. They are all of a piece.

“And they just had to get mobile gear in. So, big deal.”

In the end, I think what Mark Lewisohn means by “right” is different than what “right” means to everyone else. “Right” to Mr. Lewisohn means warped quotes that tell a fabricated story of Paul McCartney not wanting Brian Epstein as his manager. “Right” means Magic Alex being a wizard, unfairly tarnished by the lesser Beatles. “Right” means Yoko being John's artistic savior, and of a heroin addiction dreamed up by bad actors who don't understand things the way he does. A myth perpetrated by those who cannot grasp the truth. And I genuinely believe that Mark Lewisohn revels in the power of being able to take Paul McCartney's own story away from him and use it to hurt him and to hurt his legacy. To use his power over the Beatles' story to wound Paul, the way he feels that Paul wounded him. In so many interviews when Lewisohn talks about Paul he seethes. (It's quite impressive.)

And I think the thought of Lewisohn's retelling slipping away or being supplanted is a very threatening idea in his mind. I think it scares him. I think he is holding onto a delusion of his own making, and he fears that he will not be able to finish his life's work of solidifying that warped tale into historical fact.

Nothing is Real - Lewisohn seethe quick mix

[pippytmi]

Hey there! I absolutely loved your Kacy Post Breakup AU stories. I was wondering if you could write "Cop AU where I've been undercover for years" or the one with the ring. It would make my day, but seriously, no pressure at all!

(this is. 100% an excuse for me to write a kacy + fast & furious au)

///////

The first time Kate gets a breakthrough while undercover, it’s in the form of a cryptic text which only reads: meet me at the bar. 2 PM.

Jane Tennant’s bar is the worst-kept secret of the street racing community, and though Kate has been there dozens of times already, being invited is a game-changer. And being invited by Jane Tennant herself? It might as well be a neon sign—Kate is in. This could be the invitation that can crack the whole case wide open.

But with every push, there’s the demanding pull from the universe which demands equilibrium, because when Kate walks into the bar none other than Lucy Tara is the one behind the counter.

Their eyes inevitably meet. Kate tries to smile; Lucy only stares back, expression carefully blank, and Kate’s smile falls.

“Hey, Whistler.” Ernie—Lucy’s best friend—is the only other patron in the bar, and he makes no attempt to hide his obvious surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Tennant asked me to come,” Kate says, uncomfortably placing her hands in her pockets as she walks over. “Is she here?”

“She’s in the back,” Lucy answers for Ernie. “You can wait for her here.” It’s not a suggestion, so Kate slowly takes a seat. Without asking, Lucy pours her a club soda, and Kate accepts it gingerly.

“Thank you,” she says, but Lucy makes no indication that she’s heard, just turns and continues talking to Ernie about whatever they had been discussing before Kate arrived. Kate only catches a few words here and there, something about slashed tires and mangled gear shifts, before she tunes them out and starts scrolling through her phone instead.

That is, until Ernie says, “Wow, you went on an actual date?” and just like that, Kate’s stomach twists into itself. “Let me see. Hello Skylar…” He starts swiping through Lucy’s phone, which Lucy only makes one halfhearted attempt to steal back. “Points for the can’t wait to see you again text. I like that there’s a heart emoji, too. Carla is always saying something about heart emojis and kind auras.”

Lucy shakes her head. “I call bullshit,” she says. 

“I might be paraphrasing a little. But you get the point.” Ernie lets Lucy snag her phone back, and she’s laughing as she cradles it to her chest, face alit with such joy that Kate’s stomach twists for a whole new reason.

All Kate can do is drink in the sight of that joy, utterly helpless—helpless to the way Lucy’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the softness of her smile, the genuine mirth that makes her whole body shake when she laughs. Suddenly, Kate wishes her drink was something stronger. 

Thankfully, Jane pushes her way into the front from the mysterious back door, and Kate welcomes the chance to redirect her attention. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Whistler,” Jane says, leaning over the side of the bar next to Lucy. “Can I get you a beer?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine with soda,” Kate declines.

Jane smiles in an unnerving way, like she knows something Kate doesn’t. “I heard about the race yesterday.” She tilts her head towards Ernie and Lucy, effortlessly inviting them to join the conversation. “Ernie wouldn’t stop talking about it, actually.”

“It was glorious,” Ernie says, nodding vigorously towards Kate. “Kai’s still sulking about it, but hey. All’s fair in love and…automobiles…” 

Lucy winces. “Oh, you need to workshop that one.” 

“I know,” Ernie sighs, dejectedly sipping from his little straw in whatever tropical mixed drink he’s been nursing.

Jane pointedly clears her throat and they both shut up. Kate would be in awe of how Jane commands a room like that under any other circumstances, but then Jane is surveying Kate again, one eyebrow quirked but the rest of her face inscrutable. “I’m not trying to poach you from Curtis, but I do want to make you an offer.”

Kate nearly holds her breath. “What kind of offer?”

“Work for me when you’re not working at Curtis’s,” Jane says simply. “I can always use a fast driver on my team. We make deliveries from time to time—special cases. The pay per run is guaranteed to be more than whatever Curtis is paying you.”

“Deliveries for the bar?” Kate asks, and Tennant gives her that secret smile all over again.

“Among other things,” she says. “Are you in?”

For a single, fleeting moment, Kate glances at Lucy. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for—not even sure what reaction she wants. When Lucy gazes impassively back, though, Kate gets a sinking feeling in her stomach which she can’t possibly rationalize. 

“Definitely,” Kate answers at last, trying to feign as much enthusiasm as she can.

Jane doesn't seem to notice the pause. Or at least, she doesn't question it. “You’re family now, Whistler,” she says, sealing the deal with a firm handshake. “Lucy will give you all the details about the next job.”

“Me?” Lucy blurts out, panicked, before she quickly tries again with: “Boss, I’m sure Kai or Jesse could do a much better job.”

“Your shift’s over, isn't it?” Jane asks.

“Yeah…?” Lucy trails off like she isn't sure what the right answer is.

“Then it works out, you're already here,” Jane says. “I’m sure Kate can give you a ride home. You can discuss everything on the way.” There it is again: the unquestionable authority in her voice, the kind that means Lucy doesn’t try to argue.

So that's how Kate and Lucy end up alone—sitting in the flashy red sports car which was previously seized at a crime scene—in complete silence. Kate doesn’t start the car, and Lucy doesn’t ask her to. Through the window, Kate sees Kai and Jesse pull up in a blue pickup truck, but Lucy doesn’t even comment on that.

Kate clears her throat, finally. “If you want one of the guys to take you home, you can go.”

“One of the guys?” Lucy repeats, shakes her head disbelievingly. “Wow. Already jumping right in, aren’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Lucy won’t face her, just keeps her eyes firmly on the window. “This is your dream, huh? All this time, I never guessed.”

“My dream?” For a brief, sickening moment, Kate thinks her cover is blown.

“Oh, come on, Kate.” Finally Lucy whirls around to glare her down, and she’s so openly furious that Kate does a double-take. “You wanted to be part of this team all along. That’s why you walked into the bar the first time, isn’t it? That’s why you kept following me around like a lost puppy?”

Lucy’s words sting, and Kate swallows thickly—hears the anger, but also hears the quiver of Lucy’s voice and knows what it means. “It’s not what you think.”

“People always say that in the movies and it is, it is exactly what they think!” Lucy exhales sharply. “You used me.”

“That’s not what happened,” Kate says desperately. She has an explanation on the tip of her tongue. Hell, she has the entire confession just waiting to explode. That she has been in deep cover in pursuit of Jane Tennant and her team for almost a year—that she met Lucy by accident, and didn't know she was part of said team—that the reason Kate broke up with Lucy at all was because she knew it was the right thing to do, and not because she wanted to. But it would be worse than just self-sabotaging to tell the truth; it could ruin countless lives. So Kate can't say anything.

“How else would you describe it?” Lucy demands. “You’re the one who kept chatting me up, asking about the bar and the races. So what is it you want? Money? Protection?”

“Lucy—”

“No, tell me! Tell me what was worth stringing me along for? What was worth giving me some dumbass excuse to wait for you while you ‘figured things out’?” Lucy’s voice sounds choked now. “Did you figure it out, Kate? Huh? Did you get what you wanted?”

“I want you!” The first sharp prick of tears aren’t a surprise, but Kate still tries not to let them fall. “But I can't—I— “

Lucy’s expression softens, just a tad, like a thought is occurring to her she hasn't considered. “Are you in trouble?”

The question is unexpected, and Kate discreetly wipes at her eyes. “What?”

“You could've told me,” Lucy continues, “if you were in trouble. You didn't have to—” She doesn't finish her thought, but Kate can fill in the blanks. “I could've helped you.”

Kate knows, logically, that the “help” Lucy is referring to would likely be of the not-so-legal kind. But the fact that Lucy is willing to offer it? It makes Kate’s heart hammer in her chest like a lovesick teenager and she just doesn't understand. How on Earth is she supposed to betray Lucy Tara?

“It's complicated,” Kate says at last, which is true. “I can't talk about it.” Also true.

Lucy sighs. “Well, whatever you’re into,” she says. “It’s not going to get back to Jane, is it?”

Kate sucks in a shaky breath. “It won't,” she lies. 

“Good. Because I can totally kick your ass if I have to.” Lucy drums her fingertips against the car door like she wants to say something else, but doesn’t. “Can we go now?”

“Yes, of course,” Kate says quickly, starting up the engine. “Do you want to just tell me where to go?” Though she still remembers where Lucy lives, she also doesn't want to be presumptuous and start driving there either.

Lucy seems to begrudgingly accept this turn of events, in any case. She goes through the motions of giving directions, but the entire drive over she still does not broach the specifics of the next job like Jane asked her to. 

Kate has the sense not to push. She dutifully parks at Lucy's apartment complex when they arrive and just waits—lets Lucy take the lead on where to go next.

“We're doing a delivery to a warehouse on the south side next Friday,” Lucy finally says. “We go in pairs. I'll pick you up at eight.”

“What kind of delivery?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Lucy says. “Jane won't say it, but this is a test run. No details until she’s sure that you're trustworthy.” She turns to make sure Kate is looking at her, then asks, “Are you?”

Faced with the rawness of Lucy’s voice—of the guarded frown on her mouth—Kate can only nod ever-so-slightly. “You can trust me, Lucy,” she says softly, and wishes more than anything that she could mean it.

She wishes a lot of things, actually. Selfishly, for the chance to reach across the center console and hold Lucy’s hand, press a kiss to her knuckles like she used to, because it would make Lucy smile. (And also make Lucy try to push her luck at every red light back to Kate’s place). But she mostly wishes that she could go back in time and fix everything.

“Then I’ll see you on Friday,” Lucy says. “Are you still crashing in Curtis’s back room?”

“Yeah,” Kate says, thinking wistfully of days where Lucy used to squeeze into the makeshift bed along with her. “Do I have to meet you anywhere, or—”

“I'll pick you up,” Lucy says, but pauses just before she reaches for the door handle. “Is your phone number the same?”

“Since three months ago?”

“Don’t—try to be cute,” Lucy huffs. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

Kate feels the burgeoning twist of a smile try to form, unbidden, and she has to bite it back. “Okay,” she says. “Um, goodnight,” she adds, so as to not say something stupid like I still love you.

“Night,” Lucy mutters, throwing open the door without so much as a glance back.

Kate watches her leave, and only when she is sure Lucy is safely inside does she allow herself to look away, down at her phone where Lucy’s smiling face is still her screensaver. She thinks about it once or twice, but ultimately gives in and calls Curtis. “Hey, it’s me,” she tells his voicemail. “I’m joining Jane’s team for something next Friday. Can you get everyone together tomorrow? I’m going for a drive tonight, don’t wait up for me.”

And she does exactly that: puts her windows down, lets her music blast loud, drives and drives and drives until her fingers are numb against the wheel in an attempt to make her inner turmoil go away.

(It doesn’t).

[kitkatt0430]

2,8 and 56 for Harrisco, please ;)

2.) What would they do if the other woke in a manic state after a nightmare?

When it's Harry having the nightmare? Cisco breaches them to STAR Labs and then gives Harry some space. Harry's got a lot of trauma and his nightmares tend towards the violent and I think one of his fears about his nightmares is that they might cause him to hurt Cisco in those moments between sleeping and waking, so sometimes he just needs some time alone to calm down after.

But while Harry's cooling off - maybe blowing off steam in the lab or hitting something in the STAR Labs gym - Cisco makes some coffee or goes on a Jitters run. Gets some donuts. And when he checks on Harry usually it's been enough time that Harry is ready to have Cisco there with him again and accept the comfort that Cisco's presence brings.

When it's the other way around, Harry hold's Cisco and pets his hair soothingly. Talks him down quietly from the panic that's got a hold on him and then bundles him up in blankets in front of the tv. Depending on the hour, Harry will also make coffee and breakfast items first before settling down with Cisco to watch something familiar on tv. Star Trek maybe. Or Stargate. Just something fun that is easy to tune back into if Cisco looses focus because he knows the episodes by heart.

8.) What happens if one of them gets sick?

Harry absolutely pretends he's fine until he's just about collapsing from fever, so when he starts getting sick Cisco usually has to threaten to sit on him to get Harry to stay home and take medicine. He's very much a grumpy cat about the whole thing, but he likes the way Cisco takes care of him. He likes getting to sleep in too and the way it feels to trust someone else to take care of him.

Once Harry relents and lets Cisco get his way, he'll stay put until Cisco lets him go back to work. For all his grumbles, when given a chance to cuddle with Cisco while recuperating, Harry will take that cuddle time every time.

Cisco on the other hand is typically sensible when he's coming down with something. Harry will make him soup and stay with him - working from home, he's a workaholic, though he's definitely not as productive while he worries over Cisco. But once Cisco starts feeling better? He wants to get back to it and that's when Harry has to turn the threats back around onto Cisco and make him stay home and finish resting until he's actually well enough to do more than veg in front of the tv all day.

This makes Cisco grumpy because he wants to do science. He really, really does. And it is not fair that his lack of energy is conspiring with Harry to make him rewatch his favorite TMNT cartoons and he is not being a pouty brat about this, just shut up Harry. >_<

56.) What do they do turn the other on/put them in the mood?

Honestly, Cisco being brilliant turns Harry on. He's somewhere on the ace spectrum and Cisco being just so damn smart... and a smart ass too... Harry likes the way Cisco's eyes light up from a challenge, the flush to his cheeks when he argues with Harry, the fond smile on Cisco's face when Harry brings him a cup of coffee... And depending on Harry's own mood this could easily turn from appreciating Cisco's intelligence, kindness, wit, and/or how pretty he is to... wanting to drag Cisco off somewhere comfy to canoodle.

Cisco really likes to romance and be romanced, so they'll often do romantic things for each other. Date night, wine on the balcony watching the sun set, leaf peeping picnics... Cisco really likes to feel special. Appreciated.

Of course, Harry bragging on how smart Cisco is to others gets Cisco all flustered and sometimes that might lead to the two of them breached back home for a quick (or not so quick) roll in the sheets.

[subtle-as-an-earthquake]

phew, ok gonna just ramble for a minute! for the last couple of days i've been getting so caught up in my milex feelings and the letdown after the anticipation that i almost forgot to be properly excited for this trip 🙈 but now that i'm actually in dublin, after listening to arctic monkeys and miles tunes on the flight and getting hyped about seeing my one of my best irl friends from london again for the first time since june, it's much easier for me to put things in perspective, thank goodness!! i'd have kicked myself later if i spent my time here moping (which i've kind of been doing these past two days) instead of being excited about getting to see my all time favourite band play again (twice!!) AND with miles as well, and just have a fun trip with my friends in dublin (even though it'll be raining cats and dogs, but we'll be in the pub most of the time anyway 🍻)

after the london gig in june i really thought that was it for a couple of years, so to have been given this extra opportunity to see them again so soon is insane and an absolute blessing. i'm SO fucking excited, i can't even tell you 😭 these will be my 8th and 9th arctic monkeys gigs to date, and i'm still just as hyped as i was 10 years ago, and i think that's worth reflecting on for a minute ❤️

i'm putting some more musings about the milex situation under the cut for anyone who might be interested in a different perspective, but mostly it's just for me, to be able to untangle the mess that my mind has been in these past few days. also, please know that i'm definitely not trying to invalidate anyone's concerns or diminish anyone's feelings, because lord knows i've been feeling all the things the past few days and all those feelings are very (very) real!

i guess what i just keep coming back to is the fact that arctic monkeys (or alex, really, lbr) asked miles to be the support for these four dates when they absolutely didn't have to do that, and that if there was any bad blood between them then they totally could've asked anyone else. but they didn't, they asked miles! and miles agreed! it's much more likely that the fact that they're not playing together is due to logistics (with the orchestra and limited rehearsal time) and wanting to highlight miles's new album than any personal reasons tbh. they're professionals doing their jobs first and foremost, and while obviously we'd love a display of sentimentality, if that doesn't fit the show for whatever reason then it makes sense they don't give us that. i'm sure it's all been discussed and agreed on between them, and that they're doing perfectly fine behind the scenes. it's true that miles shows us a lot of himself, but alex and the other boys do not, so it also makes sense to me that what miles shares about them/their interactions with him is limited too, much as i'd love to see him gush about them and post bts footage. i always find that i get easily swept up in emotions and conjecture when i'm watching things unfold from a distance, through the tumblr/fandom lens, but i forget sometimes that that is a heavily coloured lens, and that real life is often very different, despite what social media etc. may seem to show. and for me personally, i've noticed that sometimes it's really good to break out of the bubble for a bit and see things from a different perspective, so i'm glad i was able to do that before my shows!

also, on a side note, i've seen some people being disappointed that alex didn't dedicate bodypaint to miles but just gave him a shoutout, but to me the distinction doesn't matter too much. he mentioned miles when he didn't have to, and miles stayed to watch the boys do their thing after his own set, and he didn't have to do that either if he wasn't feeling it. the fact is that recently there have been more and more signs that our boys are actually growing closer again than they seemingly have been for a few years, and while obviously i just want them to give us everything and announce a tlsp reunion and also profess their undying love for each other while they're at it, maybe their doing what they can right now, and they just need a bit more time to get to where they once were. we all need time to heal, or something like that, anyway. i obviously don't know anything, but this possiblity seems just as if not more likely to me than the other option (which would be that any of this is a sign they're growing further apart, instead), so i'm good with that for the moment.

anyway, this is just me talking to myself on the plane and creating some perspective for myself, but maybe someone else might find it helpful too, who knows. in any case, i'm going to do my best to enjoy it all to the fullest!! and while obviously getting to see them do something together would be brilliant, it would just be the cherry on an otherwise already really fucking delicious cake ❤️