#first time publishing writing

[ineffable-baker-street]

Merlin had been gone for five days. Arthur had been in bed for those five days. Well, technically he got out of bed on the first day, but then he'd tried to dress and bathe himself, had had to walk around the castle trying to find the kitchen to get food, and decided it wasn't worth it and climbed back into bed.

The crown prince had not spoken in Merlin's absence, and though he hadn't yet said a word, the kingdom, and certainly the royal household knew why. His servant was gone. Though servant was a word used lightly by most, just Merlin's formal title really. Anyone who had seen them together knew he was far, far more than that. Not just Arthur's friend, nor even his simple lover, but his soulmate. More than a soulmate in fact, Merlin was truly Arthur's other half. The two walked in step beside each other, them and only them, lost in the world they'd built to surround each other, a coin that flipped through the air, travelling from place to place, both sides always next to each other, never once straying apart.

But now, one side was gone, and a coin is not a coin with one side missing. A coin with one side is... well it's nothing. An unformed mass, doomed to being cast aside, with no use and not worth a second glance. And that was now Arthur. He had no purpose without Merlin, no future, no destiny. There was nothing more for him to achieve in this world, for Merlin was his destiny. From the day they had met, Arthur had known his life served no purpose without Merlin by his side. No matter what plan was formed, what decision was made, what path he walked, Merlin was beside him through it all, from today, and into the beautiful abyss of forever.

And so Arthur knew where he was next headed, where he had to go to find the other side of the coin. In the dead of night, as the sixth day was arriving, Arthur mounted his horse, wearing the cloak Merlin had once lent him, drawing it around him as tightly as possible, holding nothing but the Horn of Cathbhadh. It was all he needed, for it would take him home. He rode out of the gates, not sparing a glance back, his heart becoming more desperate the closer he got, his eyes fixated ahead of him, until the Great Stones of Nemeton finally come into view. And peace flooded him, over his skin and through his blood, knowing he was almost there, that he had very nearly escaped this grief, a torture he had never had to endure before. Arthur lifted the horn to his lips and blew, every second spent in this world without Merlin unbearable.

Once, all he had cared for was Camelot, and he had thought nothing would come between his duty and loyalty to the kingdom. How unbelievably wrong he had been, proven the day a young boy stood up to him, in a way no one ever had. And how he had been proven wrong every day since then, as he became intwined with Merlin, with every aspect of him, with his very being, until they were one, and finally he was whole. Every moment with Merlin came back to him, and he dropped to his knees an sobbed in agony. Because it hadn't worked. He was still here, and Merlin was still gone. And he reached the end of his memories, to the very last one where Merlin held his face and whispered,

"I love you."

But it was louder, louder than everything else, and then he felt arms around him, pulling him up and drawing him in, and finally, as the whiteness grew brighter and brighter, and the world behind him faded, finally Arthur was home.

[stuckinapril]

I want to read books I want to write more I want to play the piano I want to sing in key I want to delve into fashion history I want to travel I want to publish research papers and I want to become a surgeon and I’m supposed to do all that in this one wild and beautiful life

[dewywrites]

making him shy // isaac x reader

you fell for isaac's charm and ability to always make you laugh

he was always the one to make you flustered in whatever flirty remark he said

whenever you went over to the walters' house, everyone would always tease him about you

those were some of the only times you actually saw him get embarrassed

you liked seeing this shyer side of him and decided to try something new

instead of him always making you blush, you wanted to get back, and you told him something out of character

one day in class, he leaned towards you and whispered in your ear, "don't worry princess, i noticed you used a different shade of lipstick today. it looks really good."

"thanks for noticing, but i'm sure the color would look look much better all over your neck."

he was shocked, but immediately smirked and turned away

isaac couldnt look you in the eyes for the rest of the day

lee ended up approaching you to ask why isaac came out of class with his face red

[youchangedmedestiel]

Friend: What are you doing right now?

Me: I have a lot of projects.

Friend: Oh so cool, what are those? New job, new business, new home, new relationship?

Me: Ok, I have a lot of SPN/Destiel projects.

[crybaby-bkg]

cw: Bakugou dies but comes back to life, “comes back wrong” trope, implied fighting, angst

When Bakugou died, you’re not sure how you went on living. Grief had taken over your life, sat you in the passenger side while it cruised off the highway into icy waters. And even then, you couldn’t find the energy to drown.

It’s why there’s a sudden uptick of energy when you’re promised to have him back. Some top scientists contact you months after his death, tell you to hurry down to the headquarters labs, come and rejoice for what you’re about to witness. And you’re horrified, to say the least.

“This isn’t my husband.” Are your first words when you walk in, watch the figure on the other side of the glass examine its own hands. It looks like your husband but—but his hair isn’t the right shade of blond all over. His nose bridge had a slight bump after a scuffle with a villain. He had a scar on his hand but—but it never looked like it was to sew a pinky beside the other fingers.

“Is that really my husband?” You ask next in disbelief, slowly entering the room. Bakugou’s head snaps up, his eyes a little brighter than you remember but—they hold so much emotion. So much memory, so much panic, so much guilt.

“I left you.” He mutters, his voice raspy and ragged, and you wonder if it’ll always be like this now. It makes you cry a little harder than it should, but you only embrace each other. He’s cold and his shoulders don’t hold the same mass and his back doesn’t carry the same scars. There’s one, jagged and rough, running down his back, and you think, you think that’s where they slipped a new spine in.

“Welcome back home.” You tell him, weeks after meeting him again, new and not totally—Katsuki. He’s stiff and he doesn’t immediately take off his boots when he enters, and it worries you. Makes you think if you’ve just let a stranger into your home, one that has stolen your dead husbands face. Makes you wonder if he’ll be as loving as Katsuki once was, or if he’ll become your monster looming over you with the guilt of not being able to rest anymore.

“I’ve missed you so much.” You whisper against his mouth one night, a little while after he’s moved back. You don’t know why you lay under him, why you let him nestle himself inside of you, why you let him hold you against his chest. Katsuki always ran his hands over your cheeks and neck whenever he held you like this, but this…man, only holds himself up with his hands resting beside your head. It’s alien, how he looks at you, how his hips are methodically measured with every thrust, how he kisses you every 8 seconds. You wonder if he’s more robot than Frankenstein monster.

“Why did you come back to me like this?” You ask him one night, barricaded in the bathroom away from him. You can hear his sobs on the other side, his pleading to be let in. He tells you he never wanted to come back if he had to be like this, that he’s sorry, please let him in, he misses the warmth of your skin, he’s never been so cold before, he’s never liked the cold.

“Is this considered cheating?” You ask yourself aloud one night, when Bakugou is forced back to the lab when he becomes too…un-Bakugou. To sleep with a man that is your husband in every way but? Your husband has been dead for a year now, and yet you stroke the chin of the man that tries so hard to be him everyday, but fails so miserably at it every time.

“I’ll come back to you right this time.” Bakugou promises to you when he’s strapped down to leave for the lab and before he’s sedated. But you don’t believe him—you never did. Your husband is dead, and this animated corpse has been nothing but a cheap mockery of everything you’ve lost and something you will never truly get back.

[lijojo]

yandere! telepathic classmate headcannons

yandere! telepathic! classmate x telepathic! reader

premise: whenever someone falls into a pit of obsession with you, they open their mind and heart, therefore somehow giving you the ability to read your thoughts. having endured this for a long time, you’ve managed to avoid meeting disastrous ends with these admirers. that is, until you meet your new classmate (who claims it’s the first time you’ve met) who is somehow always able to see through your tricks. 

warnings: stalking, manipulation, unhealthy relationships

- thinking about yandere classmate! who, despite your claims, says it’s his first time meeting you. 

- yandere classmate! who has somehow stolen the hearts of your teachers and classmates alike with that dashing smile of his and amicable personality.

- yandere classmate! who you’ve sworn up and down that you’ve seen before. he looks so familiar, you can’t put a finger on it. 

- yandere classmate! who ignores all of your attempts to brush him off and always seems to be where you are. 

- yandere classmate! who greets you twice: once when he’s introducing himself to the class, and once in your head, in your thoughts. 

- hello, pretty thing. 

- yandere classmate! who’s thoughts are so...structured. who’s thoughts sound so scripted and unnatural yet you can’t call him out for it. as if he’s deliberately hiding from you. as if he knows. 

- yandere classmate! who you know has some sort of obsession with you but you just can’t read him. 

- yandere classmate! who somehow knows how to make you say yes to him, no matter how much you don’t want to.

- oh? you don’t want to help him bring the lab equipment back to the science classroom? well, you can’t, not when he’s asked you in front of everyone (including a very pushy, very expecting homeroom teacher). 

- you don’t want to study with him? well, you’re going to have to if you don’t want to fail calculus. he’s the top student in the grade, and everyone else seems busy. 

- you’re hiding in the corner during lunch to avoid seeing him? all of a sudden, he wants to eat in this specific spot in the corner of the school where no one goes to as well, conveniently right after you decided you wanted to eat there. 

- you want to go to your favorite bakery to relieve stress and forget about him? he’s sitting in that exact spot, your spot, the one you always go to to people-watch. and he’s sitting there with your usual order and an inviting smile. it unnerves you so much. 

- you don’t want to date him? you already are. he’s already told everyone through subtle social cues. by the end of the week, everyone thinks your dating, but doesn’t really let you know they know, convinced you like your privacy. 

- it isn’t until your friends ask you, offended that you kept something so important from them, that you realize what’s going on. 

- yandere classmate! who doesn’t accept your rejection, who just puts his hand on your shoulder and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. 

- yandere classmate! who interrupts every conversation you have with another guy. who wraps a possessive arm around your waist and presses a pretty little chaste kiss on your neck. 

- who thinks your mine, mine, mine, mine, whenever he sees you with someone else. 

- yandere classmate! who is somehow your partner in every group project, yet you somehow can’t get a read on how he accomplished such thing. 

- yandere classmate! who always knows what you have on your wishlist for every holiday and brings them to you wrapped in your favorite color. 

- yandere classmate! who one day slips up when he’s laughing with your friends that he’s somehow charmed without you knowing. 

- those same friends, who congratulated you on a happy relationship, happy you’ve managed to open up to other people. who you can’t bear to disappoint after years of being so-closed off and being a downer. 

- yandere classmate! who thinks you think reading my thoughts will change things? when will you give in and accept it? 

- yandere classmate! who pretends nothing is wrong when you freeze, baffled. instead, he kisses you on the cheek and your friends coo. 

- yandere classmate! after months of constantly making you say yes to his ‘requests’ finally lets you in on his secret. 

- yandere classmate! who now openly engages in telepathic conversations with you when employing his tricks. who smirks whenever you try to push him away. who enjoys the chase. 

- your thoughts are so pretty. won’t you decorate them with more thoughts of me?

[sacchiri]

Hellsing 2002 calendar illustration.

Ein wunderliche und erschröckliche Hystori von einem großen Wüttrich genant Dracole wayda Der do so ganz unkristenliche marrter hat angelegt die mensche, als mit spissen als auch die leut zu Tod geslyffen

A wondrous and frightening story about a great berserk called Dracula the voivode who inflicted such unchristian tortures such as with stakes and also dragged people to death

[wish-i-knew-what-i-am-doing]

1. Leaves

(Slightly off topic, because apparently I cannot read 🙈)

Lena was having a bad day. Since she had set foot in her office that morning, everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. At this point, it feld like Murphy was laughing at her. An explosion in the lab, followed by an emergency board meeting, the head of the marketing department leaving for the competition, and her mother calling her incompetent. (Admittedly, this last point wasn’t something she wasn’t used to). And to top it all off, she had spilled some coffee on her shirt mid afternoon, with no spare left in her office closet.

Now, hunched over her desk, drowning in paperwork with a migraine on horizon, Lena was gently going mad.

"You should go home", offered (un-)helpfully her assistant.

"I can’t, I still have to review these contracts and start having a look at the resumes we got to replace Johnson, and -"

"Please leave, now", Jess interrupted.

"You’re aware I’m still your boss, right?" Lena teasingly asked while Jess was closing her laptop and stacking the documents that were scattered on her desk.

"Yes. I’m merely looking out for you, with your luck today, I wouldn’t be surprised if your computer caught on fire. We cannot risk that now, can we? And besides, Kara is probably already home and waiting for you."

"The wife argument, that’s a low blow" Lena mumbled, reluctantly accepting her jacket that Jess was holding up for her. "Thank you, Jess".

—

As soon as she closed the door of her flat behind herself, Lena sighed in relief and dropped her shoes in the vicinity of the shoe rack. She made her way to the living-room where Kara was reading on the couch.

Upon seeing the brunette, Kara put down her book on the coffee table.

"Rough day?", she asked while opening her arms in invitation.

Lena gladly accepted. "You have no idea." She admitted, sinking into Kara’s embrace.

Yes, Lena had had a bad day, but as she was being held in her wife’s strong arms, she couldn’t find that she cared anymore.

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 1

Rowan is an activist with the Pet Liberation Front. He has spent the better part of a decade assisting the cause as a multimedia specialist, but never spends much time with the victims he is so intent on saving. After going undercover as a buyer to capture systemic abuse on camera, he finds a broken boy that steals his heart. Before Rowan knows it, he has a rescue pet at home. Both Rowan and his new houseguest must take steps to heal and adjust to their new normal.

Masterlist

// Chapter 2 (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, mention of noncon, noncon touch, sexual and nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

“ID, please.”

Rowan handed over his driver’s license with a smile to the woman behind the counter. Marie, her name tag said, with a smaller typeface beneath that read she/her/hers. A faded cartoon sun sticker was wrapped halfway around the edge of the badge, almost completely covering the familiar WRU logo.

“Mr. Bailey,” she said with a soft smile in return, “welcome to today’s Opportunity Sale. Is this your first time attending one of WRU’s most special events?”

“No, I’ve been before.” 

It was hard to keep his voice level, especially at first. He’d been to dozens of these events around the country, and each was proving to be harder on his spirit than the last. The weight of the phone in his shirt pocket, already recording, weighed him down as much as his words.

Opportunity Sale. He loathed the euphemism. It was a liquidation, a fire sale, a last chance for the souls the institution had broken beyond repair. These so-called pets up for sale today were what WRU considered damaged goods, defective products. These are pets who don’t live up to WRU standards of excellence, they’d say, so we’re offering them at a discount, each sold as-is.

The “defects” varied. Some were marred by years of physical abuse, no longer able to perform the tasks they were trained for as their bodies failed. Others had simply lost their minds, slipped into catatonia, a permanent dissociation that rendered them a husk of the person they’d once been. Sometimes, albeit rarely, there were victims that WRU couldn’t fully break and bend to their whims, pets who were marked by attitude and defiance that no typical buyer would tolerate. Some were simply old, the incessant labor and abuse having weakened their bodies, unable to fulfill their purpose with the grace and ease that was expected.

They called it an opportunity, but It was nothing more than a last-ditch effort to recoup the costs that went into each “product.” Fully breaking a person’s mind took considerable time and money, and a broken pet sold for pennies on the dollar was still better for WRU’s books than a total loss. 

Those pets that weren’t sold before the close of business would be unceremoniously euthanized before the next sunrise. 

“If you’re familiar, then I’ll spare you the usual spiel about how this works,” Marie continued as she ran his ID through the desktop scanner. If she noticed the edge to his voice, she didn’t show it. “But I’ll give you a few reminders, just to refresh your memory. WRU salespersons will be stationed throughout the sales floor, wearing yellow shirts and WRU name tags just like mine. They’re available to answer any questions about merchandise or to help close any sales. We also ask that you refrain from live video or photographs for the privacy of our staff.”

“Got it.” Rowan felt the lie sticky on his tongue. The staff present today would be afforded no privacy, not if he could help it. Their atrocities, their complicity in this system, would soon be aired to the growing world of people who cared. Even this interaction at this front desk would be on tape, ready to share with the world in a matter of days. 

“Wonderful,” Marie said as she handed his ID back with a pamphlet tucked beneath it. “You can find the map of our sales floor in this brochure. Domestic will be in the front right through the double doors, Platonic towards the center, Romantics and all other classifications behind the black curtain on the left. I will say that we’re particularly low on Platonic inventory for this event, so if that’s what you’re after, I’d recommend coming back for next month’s Opportunity Sale. If you’re looking for anything specific, a WRU salesperson would be happy to assist.”

Rowan retrieved his ID and the map out of her hands, and he silently hoped she wouldn’t notice his fingers shaking. 

“Got it, thanks for your help.”

A final smile was all he afforded her before turning to the heavy double doors beyond the entryway. 

As he stepped closer to the threshold of purgatory, a familiar memory rose from the back of his mind. It always did at these places, the familiar sensation overwhelming him as his subconscious dragged him back nearly fifteen years.

---

“Hey, prof, are we there yet?”

Benny’s familiar voice cut sharp through the otherwise low murmur of conversation on the bus. 

“Benny, please,” Professor Engelhardt groaned, exasperation obvious in both her face and her voice. “I would appreciate it if all of our volunteers could act their age. You’ll know when we get there, I promise. In the meantime, try and exercise even a modicum of patience”

Rowan felt Grey squeeze his knee, and when he looked over the other young man gave him a toothy smile.

“For once, the loud-mouth has a point,” Grey said as he stifled a giggle.

“I have to agree,” Rowan agreed as he swallowed a laugh of his own. “It feels like we’ve been staring at nothing but cornfields for the last two hours. Where could we possibly be going this far out of the city?”

“Professor Engelhardt did say it was essential to our training as PLF volunteers, and I know that it’s a requirement for anyone who wants to do investigative work for the PLF. But as far as I know, there’s no WRU facilities out west of the city like this.”

“You’d be correct.”

Rowan looked up as his ears burned in embarrassment, the tired professor looking down at both him and Grey from the aisle. She continued, seemingly unaware of the blush that also tinged Grey’s cheeks. 

“This is a required journey for all volunteers who are looking to take the next step in their PLF activism. We’d rather you each know now whether this kind of environment will be too much for a sensitive stomach. And you’re also correct on a second count, Greyson. We’re not going to any WRU facility, at least not yet. You each have a considerable amount of training ahead of you before you go quite so far.”

By now, Professor Engelhardt’s voice had grabbed the attention of the other volunteers squeezed into the rattling and repurposed school bus. Faces of all ages, from the hopeful university students to the equally tired retirees, were rapt as their chaperone continued. Rowan’s stomach felt like it was doing somersaults as she spoke.

“We’re going to a cattle slaughterhouse. It’s time that you all experience for yourselves what it’s like when blood soaks the floor and all you can hear is screaming and heavy machinery. You need to see what happens when a collection of personal choices and systems meant to harm come together to determine whether something lives, or whether it dies. These aren’t humans, and they can’t speak to you to share their stories, but you’ll have plenty of time to see those horrors with your own eyes as you continue as volunteers. For now, let’s get you accustomed to keeping a straight face amidst the suffering and bloodshed. Given some of your aspirations, that shouldn't be much to ask.”

This time, Grey grabbed Rowan’s hand. Rowan gripped it back until his knuckles turned white.

--- 

That same smell followed Rowan now, the acrid stench he first experienced in the slaughterhouse on that humid August day. It was a lingering copper heavy in the air, a whisper of blood among festering wounds and fluids. WRU certainly tried to cover their tracks, make this place seem welcoming and inviting to the public, hide the litany of abuse that propped the system up. But to Rowan, and to anyone who knew better, there was no hiding the stench of ammonia and waste that clung to skin as much as sweat. These were sins that neither Pine Sol nor bleach could cover.

Rowan pushed through the double doors and entered the sales floor. It was showtime. 

The repurposed warehouse was milling with bodies. There were throngs of buyers meandering between yellow-clad WRU salespeople and black-clad Handlers, some chatting cheerfully while they contemplated buying a living being, others already busying their hands with prodding the “merchandise.” 

Opportunistic buyers hoping to get a pet at a discount came in a few standard flavors. There would be the middle-class families, unable to afford a brand-new pet, but still hoping to score a Domestic that was good enough to help around the house. There were the desperate perverts who were looking to try out a Romantic, see if flesh was better than silicone to get their kicks. And then there were the truly depraved, those hoping that they can find a legal way to torture - and likely murder - a living being without the threat incarceration hanging over their heads.

Rowan was posing as a long-curious buyer who might finally cave and get a Romantic all for himself. He wanted to be charismatic and sure of himself, but prove to be a bit more hesitant when it came to the “merchandise” itself. He was dressed smart, like he had money, but erred towards frugality. This would drum up the sales people, get them to incriminate WRU and its horrors under the guise of a sales pitch, the very thing that would generate sound bytes perfect for the pro liberation materials. 

He started with the Domestics, he always did. They were typically positioned at the entryway, intentionally so, as both the most in-demand and publicly palatable part of the system. Most families and prospective buyers wouldn’t wander past this point of the warehouse, not needing to look any further. 

A few of the victims were kept in cages, others on long leashes for handlers to parade around. It all depended on the state they were in, how well they’d be able to sell themselves as much as the salespeople did. 

“You look like a busy man,” a woman clad in WRU-issued yellow said with a smile in Rowan’s direction. “What do you say about never having to cook for yourself again? What about coming home to clean laundry every day without needing to think about it?” 

“That does sound tempting,” Rowan answered as he slowed to a halt. 

He looked at the man attached to the saleswoman’s lead, a tall and gangly thing, hunched shoulders with a distant look in his eyes. The defect was readily apparent: he was standing and leaning on a pair of forearm crutches, rather than the expected kneeling, because he was missing most of his left leg.

“This is one of our best deals of the day,” she continued her pitch with practiced ease, “I can guarantee you that. A flawless all-around Domestic, with great command responsiveness and attentiveness. It’s perfect for a busy working man or a family with a few kids. We’ve got it marked down today due to an obvious defect with its legs, which means it moves much slower than we’d expect from one of our model Domestics. Likewise, it can’t assume many of the expected kneeling positions, and struggles to move from position to position otherwise. This pet requires a patient owner, but the reward for that patience is a model that otherwise works as expected.”

This man would likely live another day. Rowan couldn’t see many other physical signs of damage beyond the amputation, and so long as this one ended up with someone who kept up with his medical equipment and any other treatments, he’d likely have many more years of service ahead of him. Maybe he’d even live long enough to see the whole damn system dismantled.

Still, it was Rowan’s job today to get incriminating sound bytes and video, so he pressed back. 

“I don’t like how tall it is,” he said, staring at the man who’d tower over him if he wasn’t slouched over his crutches. “I’d hate someone to think it has any kind of authority or power over me. It would be embarrassing in front of guests.”

“Rest assured, this model is fully obedient and appropriately subservient. After nearly a decade of service, there have been zero complaints of defiance or insubordination. Its last owners simply couldn’t bear the aesthetics of a Domestic like this. They’ve left glowing reviews of its service, and had it receive additional training in hand washing and minor repairs of delicate clothes. Really, this is a steal, and it’s more than discounted for the cost of a leg.”

“I understand,” Rowan said. “Still, I’m not a very tall man, and this one is just too much for me to handle. Your pitch is good, though, I’m sure you’ll have someone take it off your hands.”

“Of course, we want to make sure that each customer gets a pet that’s best suited for their needs, even if it is at an Opportunity Sale like this. If you’re interested in a shorter Domestic designation, we’ve got one over there with my colleague Dominic.” She pointed to the far end of the Domestic zone, to a tall man in yellow with a pet in a cage beside him. Rowan swallowed disgust once more.

“I’ll go check it out, thanks.”

And he did. He walked slowly, moving deliberately from side to side so his camera captured everything. This included the sight of a Platonic falling to their knees as an electric collar went off around their neck. The would-be purchaser gave a lecherous smile and ran her hand through the panting pet’s hair once the crackle of electricity faded. There would be no fairy tale ending for that unfortunate soul. 

“I saw my colleague Debbie point you over here,” the WRU employee said as Rowan came within earshot of the cage tied to the warehouse floor. “Do you mind if I give you the sales pitch while you look the merchandise over?”

“Well, the fact you’ve got this one in a crate while the others are out and about isn’t promising,” Rowan tried to lament as he gazed through the bars of the cage.  

“Ah, but that’s part of the story.” Already the salesman was working to weave a tale, and it was one Rowan would listen to with well-practiced feigned interest. The man gestured at the crate with an expression of false sorrow before he continued. 

“This one isn’t in a crate because it’s a danger to you. No, it’s a danger to itself, and only then because it’s so stricken by grief. You see, this pet is from our very first Domestic-Care line of products, the latest from WRU in home-care solutions. Its extended training made it perfect for older buyers looking to have a Domestic with a bit of extra training in handling low-complexity medical equipment like wheelchairs, walkers, shower chairs, stair lifts, and more. It was paired with a loving owner, carried out its tasks dutifully, and went years with a perfect record. All check-ins from WRU were met with glowing reviews. 

“Given the opportunity, it follows routines to a degree of meticulousness few of our pets have a predisposition for. Genuinely, this pet has always been one-of-a-kind. However, its owner passed away from circumstances entirely beyond this pet’s control. It went out of its mind with grief, and no matter how many new homes we’ve placed it in, and no matter the attempts we’ve made to re-train it, it escapes and runs right back to its old master’s home.” 

Even now, Rowan could see the pet searching for the door, their eyes following the flow of people in and out of the sales room. The human feelings were there. They always had been, and Rowan could all but feel the grief himself. That panicked searching for a way out, that desire to run into the arms to the person that this human felt they belonged to. A desperation for a door to an old life, a familiar voice, an expected touch. Grief as manifest through complete brainwashed devotion. 

Rowan knew better by now than to let his emotions seep through onto his face.  

“So, it’s a runaway risk. A certain runaway, in fact.” 

“I wouldn’t say anything with certainty,” the employee said with a nerve-tinged laugh. “In fact, the reason this particular model is on the floor today is with the hopes it connects with someone as deeply as it connected with its first owner. There’s no guarantee of that, we know, but it’s worth the shot. We’re hoping the right person will come along today and help them find peace. In the meantime, we’d recommend a home outfitted with windows that lock, and doors that are equipped with biometric verification that the pet can’t bypass.” 

The only peace this pet would find would be its death later this evening. No one in their right mind would take a runaway, not a casual purchaser, and not even a liberation group. The risk of a successful escape was just far too great.

The pet wouldn’t meet Rowan’s eyes even now, as it returned hunting, searching for the familiar face it was expecting. A face that would never come. There was no solace in knowing that soon, for the faithful at least, pet and owner would be reunited. 

“Unfortunately, I’m not equipped to handle a runaway,” Rowan said as he looked up from the crate with a sigh. “Honestly, I feel like these Domestics have just sidetracked me. I was here to look at the Romantics, really.” 

“Then you’ll want to head right behind that curtain over there,” the man said with a gesture to the tall velvet curtains that cordoned off nearly a third of the warehouse. “There are plenty of additional WRU employees there to help you find a model that’s suitable to your needs.” 

With a nod, Rowan turned to walk towards the curtains. He lingered for a moment, just long enough to stick his fingers through the bars of the cage at his side, a chance to let the pet seek out comfort if they wanted. No touch came, and Rowan walked away with a familiar pang in his heart. He knew by now that he was never going to save them all, not yet, but it didn’t ease the pain. 

Another flash of his ID was all it took to get him through the foreboding curtains. WRU absolutely didn’t want families and reporters seeing this side of the system, after all. The Romantics division might have been the second best-selling of all the WRU models, but it was also the most secretive. There was good reason for that. 

As soon as Rowan passed the threshold he was hit with the thick aroma of sex and fear. There was a more sinister atmosphere in the rooms that existed behind the curtain, air heavy with that adrenaline-twinged sweat of broken pets who were fighting for their lives, some being used live for demonstrations on the sales floor. Even after all this time, Rowan’s stomach wasn’t quite accustomed to it. 

He kept his chest forward and shoulders out. That was the best way for his camera to capture the sights and the sounds, because after all, that was the reason he was here. He wasn’t here to save these victims, as much as he wished that was the case. He was here in the hopes that their suffering would give those that came after them a fighting chance, that airing these atrocities to the world would bring the system to its knees one day.

The first sight that drew his attention was a man cinched to a table, an unusual arrangement for even the most “defective” Romantics. There were already two potential buyers there, hands on the naked pet, touching his body and fondling his genitals. The pet was unflinching, his chest rising and falling steadily, lips giving out soft sighs and moans in a practiced rhythm. 

“I didn’t expect this one to be so popular,” the WRU employee said with feigned exclamation as Rowan meandered over. “But young man, you certainly have good taste. This model is one many once would have believed was unsalable, but here, at the Opportunity Sale, it’s being given a second chance. Not only that, but it’s proving to be the center of attention.” 

‘What’s wrong with it?” Rowan asked bluntly, still surveying the scene. Something had to be wrong, and even his own seasoned eyes hadn’t figured it out yet. The pet’s gaze was unfocused, its body still, just as a Romantic was trained to be unless given the command to engage. 

“Another tragedy, I’m afraid.” The salesperson didn’t sound saddened at all. “There was an incident during its training that left it paralyzed from the mid-back down. This means that, as a Romantic, its functions are limited. It can’t sustain an erection anymore, and it can’t engage in certain types of play. However, it's still just as tight as our standard buyers would expect, and its mouth is an absolute dream. You’d be responsible for the additional care costs of a paralyzed pet, but for someone with limited sexual needs of their own, this model will more than fulfill.” 

At least once each Opportunity Sale, Rowan swore to himself that this was finally the time he was going to be sick on the job. He’d see something so horrific that there was no answer except to choke up bile and spit there on the sales floor. He’d likely out himself as a PLF agent in that same breath - after all, who else would be so concerned about the well being of pets? - but it almost didn’t matter. These horrors were too much to witness, much less bear as the victim was bearing them now. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. At least that sales pitch would make a great sound byte for the pet liberation materials. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s not what I’m looking for. I’d definitely want one that’s younger and, uh, more mobile.”

“Understandable,” the salesperson said with a nod. “There are plenty of other options here today that might suit your fancy. Feel free to keep browsing, and as always, you’re welcome to ask a WRU employee for any assistance or further direction.”

“Thanks.”

And Rowan did keep browsing. He browsed carefully, angling his chest to capture all of the angles he could, kneeling down to “inspect” pets that were sprawled naked on the floor. The path he took around the Romantics section was methodical. The disabled pets, the catatonic pets, the ones with abuse written on their skin, Rowan tried to capture them all. When he could he gave their hands what he hoped was a squeeze of comfort - possibly the last they’d receive in their too-short lives. 

He was nearly to the back corner, at which point he’d loop around to the front and make a graceful exit, when he saw another Romantic in a crate.

Unlike all the others, this one made Rowan stop in his tracks.

The man in the crate was young, possibly ten or so years younger than Rowan himself. He had a thick hair of black curls and he was looking through the bars of the crate with searching, hopeful eyes. It was almost like he was waiting for something, someone, to notice him. Most of the pets here were defeated, on their last chance at redemption, already chewed up and spit out. Their spirits had been dampened. Somehow, some way, this one was still fighting. 

It was like a thread in his chest pulled Rowan up to the crate. His feet were moving without him commanding them, unlike anything he’d experienced at a sale like this before. He was caught up in something special, something different, about this victim. 

“You have a good eye,” the saleswoman said with a warm smile. “This is possibly one of the best deals we have on the floor today, so long as you’re willing to be a little patient.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Rowan asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy kneeling almost eagerly behind the bars. 

“Let me start off by saying that this pet is in great physical condition. Not only is it one of the youngest we have here today, it has passed almost all of our physical examinations with flying colors. Its strength, speed, and tactile abilities are within or exceeding our typical parameters. Not only that, but this particular pet has something that is typically reserved for only our most exclusive customers: it has dual training, and is classified as both a Romantic and a Domestic.” 

“That’s not something you typically see at an Opportunity Sale, I suppose,” Rowan pretended to muse. He already knew that what she had said was the truth. Dual-classification pets took many more months of training than single-classification, and it often showed in both the abuses and expenses associated with keeping one. A Dual-classification pet could easily cost as much as a down payment on a house. 

“Exactly why this is such a great opportunity,” the saleswoman beamed. “As a Domestic, it even has specialty training in French cuisine. You’ll be eating like royalty every night if you so please. As a Romantic, its skills and abilities are considered quite standard, with experience in training for light bondage.” 

“So, why aren’t you telling me what’s wrong with it?” 

A sigh. Dramatic, almost despairing. It was an act of practiced sympathy that soured Rowan’s stomach even further. 

“Unfortunately, this one seems incredibly selective with the orders it follows, if it follows them at all. No amount of effort from our most experienced WRU handlers have been able to adequately refurbish it. As I said, its behaviors and capabilities are within or exceeding WRU standards, and it certainly seems eager to please its keepers, but I can make no promises on its compliance with specific commands.”

The boy looked up at Rowan for just a moment before turning his gaze back down. From that brief glance, Rowan wouldn’t have put him a day over twenty-five. But God, he just looked so lost. He didn’t seem lost in the way that many others at the sale today did, that catatonic, too-far-gone glaze over their eyes, the will to live entirely sapped out of them. Instead, it looked like this boy was hunting for something, someone who would notice him, give him attention in return.

Rowan couldn’t help himself. He saw it as a sign that this victim wanted to live, wanted to make it off this floor alive, wanted to connect with any human being that came by and could give him a chance. It was a spark, and against his better judgment, Rowan hoped that he could one day stoke it into a fire. 

“How much?” 

The words left his mouth before he was able to swallow them down. His heart began to race almost instantly: this wasn’t the plan, it was never the plan. He was supposed to get in, take some footage, and get out. He wasn’t trained for anything else. He wasn’t prepared to engage in rescue activities, especially not like this. 

Yet Rowan had never known anything with a certainty such as this: he could not leave here without saving this boy. 

“Wow, you’re won over already?” The saleswoman’s voice was light, but she was already pulling out a clipboard with a stack of paperwork on it. “I haven’t even given you all of its physical details yet. You can’t see quite how tall it is in the crate, can you? Here, let me get you its height, weight, vaccine record, some of its other statistics-” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Rowan managed, almost breathless from the sudden influx of stress. “I want this one. How much?” 

“Because it’s lacking in one of the most essential features of a WRU product, the ability to listen to owner commands, it’s offered at a significant discount. This one is seven thousand and five hundred dollars before tax, and the seven percent state and local sales tax will be applied at checkout. We also have optional add-ons, like the pet care package that insures all well-being visits, vaccines, and dental care at any WRU-sponsored pet clinics, as well as training class vouchers to impart additional skills.” 

Rowan had already retrieved his wallet from his pocket, fingers trembling as he pulled out his ID and method of payment. That was a lot of money, yes, but who was he to put a price on a life? His car could hang on another few years, probably. Maybe. It was just money, he’d be fine. 

“I’ll take the base package. I don’t need anything else.” 

The rest of the sales floor became distant, dull, and Rowan took the pen into his hand as the saleswoman shoved a pile of paperwork in his direction. Tomorrow morning, she said, this boy would be delivered to his front door. Initial on this line, sign here, what’s today’s date? It was a blur and Rowan was hardly aware of what his own hands were doing. 

He couldn’t hear her over the thundering of blood in his ears, and the rush of adrenaline made it hard to steady the pen in his hand. He penned his signature on the final line and the saleswoman congratulated him with words he could hardly make out. It didn’t feel real, like he was walking through a dream. 

Rowan was going to be a pet owner. 

---

The din of conversation in the massive room almost overcame the incessant ringing in the pet’s ears. Not much was capable of drowning it out these days, not since it had become so loud. It never stopped, anymore. 

It couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged all around it, those busy groups of people moving back and forth, their legs passing its crate by without stopping. It had a hard time hearing words, no matter how hard it tried, and whether it was somewhere busy like this or otherwise. It wanted to be good, it wanted to listen, it wanted to make its master and its handlers pleased. But the pet couldn’t do that anymore, and deep in its gut, it knew that’s why it was here today. It was here with all the other pets that were broken, that were missing things, that cried when they were brought into the room this morning. Those pets were bad, and the handlers had no trouble saying as much.

The pet wanted to believe it wasn’t like those broken pets. That it would go back to Master, or have a new master, and be able to please them like a good pet should. But for that to happen it had to be on its best behavior. Handler Green had said so, that the pet would be thrown out if it didn’t try its very best to listen and be good. Handler Green had shouted this over and over, as though the pet was being disobedient just by existing, rather than unable to hear him. It didn’t want to be disobedient, and it wished that the handlers didn’t have to repeat themselves so much. It wished it could hear right, like the other pets were able to.

A pair of legs stopped beside the crate, toes pointed towards the yellow-shirt woman that wasn’t a handler, but the pet was told to behave for nonetheless. The pet looked up, eager to see who might be interested, perhaps someone who wanted it. The man’s eyes met the pet’s, and it quickly averted its gaze back towards the ground, cheeks burning. It was a novice mistake to make eye contact with a person like that. If it didn’t get itself under control, remember its training and very best manners, the pet knew that it was destined to fail. 

Maybe it was a broken pet after all. It certainly had the bruises and scarring from seemingly endless corrections by handlers, anyway. 

Those legs finally walked away and a blanket was thrown over the top of the pet’s crate. It yelped in spite of itself as the darkness descended. Did this mean that it had failed? Was that single glance enough to seal its fate, destined it to never have another Master to serve, no second chance to prove itself? Was this the end - alone, in the dark, unable to hear anything but the shrill ringing that had become its only companion? 

I want to be good, it thought to itself, tears splashing down from its watering eyes to its knees. Its fists balled up, hands shaking from the sadness and the longing. I just want to be good.

---

Taglist (please ask if you would like to be added or removed, I know it's been a while :))

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

[runespoor7]

nothing ever did as much wrong to fight scenes than the writing advice that writers should only write short sentences focusing on the action because (supposedly) that drives home that it's a fast-paced exchange of actions.

and that's how you end with a list of actions that are drier and blander than a script and absolutely no sense of urgency, danger or physicality. Why do I care if the main character is kicked into the chest if the writer doesn't tell me that it cuts off their breath, that pain lances through their arm, that blood splashes across their face when they spear an enemy through, that the warm copper smell fills their nostrils?

[just-french-me-up]

Harmonies

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling | Human AU | Writer Dream - Voice Actor Hob | Explicit | 2.2k Porn with some Plot | Masturbation | Literal voice porn | Dream doesn't quite know what to do with himself honestly

@hardly-an-escape recently had this FABULOUS idea of acclaimed writer Morpheus who secretly publishes popular romance novels under a pen name, who shamefully gets off while listening to voice actor Hob Gadling acting out an explicit scene from one of his romance stories. I would say my hand slipped but this was 100% planned and thought through.

Morpheus refreshed his inbox. Early afternoon, Lucienne had told him. He gave a quick glance at the clock. 5:42PM. Early afternoon was fading into late afternoon one second at a time, with nothing to show for it.

Morpheus refreshed his inbox. Again.

This is stupid, he thought, frustration seeping in. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Surely, they had not finished editing or formatting the whole thing yet, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. Perhaps they had forgotten. Morpheus didn't usually request to be sent the beta recordings. He was more than happy to let them do their job unencumbered, trusting Lucienne to green light everything once it was done. Truth be told, he was barely involved in the whole audiobook side of things, except for, well, writing the damn thing in the first place and having his pen name slapped on the cover. Lucienne had arched an eyebrow at him when he'd asked for the latest recordings out of the blue, but had not been overly curious. A good thing, really. Morpheus carefully avoided any occasion that required him to lie through his teeth. This, no doubt, would have been one of them.

His phone buzzed, startling him.

[6PM 09/05/2023 – The Kindly Ones – Edit Zoom Meeting]

Morpheus turned off the reminder. Too many fires at once. That was his problem, his sister had told him once. Stretching yourself thin until you're see-through, she had said. She was not wrong, of course, although Morpheus would not admit it to her face. She would be far too smug about it.

He refreshed his inbox.

Inbox (1)

Morpheus froze and stared at the screen. There it was. Finally. His pulse racing, he reached for his headphones, struggling to plug it in in his haste. The file was slow to download, the recordings accounting for more than half of the book. Morpheus' fingers tapped impatiently against his desk as he watched the bar crawl to the finish line.

5:51PM.

Surely he could allow himself a quick browse through the file. The meeting with his editor―his other editor―wouldn't start for five more minutes, if not more, should they run a little late on their side. Morpheus found himself wishing they would. Unprofessional, a little voice admonished him.

He opened the file. It had been divided into sections, each corresponding to a chapter. Skip. Skip. Skip. He knew what he was looking for. The book had come out a year ago or so. He still remembered the outline well enough. For a while, he heard nothing but the initial breath of the voice actor, one for each chapter, before he would skip ahead. When he finally let the recording play, the voice engulfed him in its warmth.

Although Morpheus had been the one initially weaving the words and sentences together, they found another dimension and depth in that voice. He was rediscovering his work on someone else's tongue, and the effect left him... intrigued. A few voice actors had given life to the words on the page over the years but this one... This one breathed a soul into the story like none had ever managed to before.

When Morpheus had learnt Robert Gadling would narrate another one of his books, he could not resist.

The beta recordings were rough, lacking the polish of the final product, leaving intakes of breath in and other little imperfections editors would cut out. Morpheus could hear every huff, every chuckle when Gadling would stumble over a word and correct himself, going back to the beginning of the sentence. He could picture the smile on his lips then, the playfully apologetic look at the tech team. He had looked up pictures of him online, once. His face matched his voice: warm, inviting, with a hint of mischief. Suave, even. Morpheus had then closed the tab, embarrassed at his own thoughts.

The scene he had skipped to was professionally relevant, or, at least, he tried to convince himself it was. He had always understood sex scenes to be a tricky thing, for actors. At least, when it came to traditional acting, it was a shared awkwardness, a simulacrum of pleasure played by multiple people who could find solace in the fact that they were all on the same vulnerable boat, camera crew included. Now, voice actors... Acting choices could either make or break a sex scene. It required a subtle mix of smoothness and confidence few could manage. The last thing he wanted was for his words to sound clumsy and awkward, when the goal was quite the opposite. It was Morpheus' authorial prerogative to check every aspect of the audiobook fit his vision, after all.

As the chapter began and Robert Gadling's voice filled his ears, Morpheus imagined him in his recording booth, alone. Some audiobooks had multiple actors playing different characters, but this one only had him credited. There were slight fluctuations of tones, accents and speech patterns, as he switched characters. Morpheus listened intently.

"Gabriel gave a fleeting look downward. Nathan's shirt was soaked, revealing hints of the skin underneath. He tried not to stare, but only managed to do so through conscious and continuous effort. 'You should change your shirt before you catch something,' he told Nathan, his tone as casual as he could manage. 'You could borrow one of mine.' "

The acting was good. There was tension in the words, in the tone. The characters sounded like different people, even though they were played by the same man. Morpheus continued. In the book, things heated up quickly after a long, tentative courtship. He braced himself for the following scene, replaying the words in his head from memory.

" 'It smells like you.' Gabriel stared at him, stunned, unable to look away as Nathan stood in front of him, his own t-shirt and boxers for only garments. 'What?' he managed, his throat dry. 'It smells like you,' Nathan repeated, lifting the fabric to his nose with a smile. 'I like it.' Gabriel's gaze trailed down Nathan's body, only now noticing the growing outline of his cock aga―"

Morpheus paused. He had written those words. He knew those words, from having read and reread them a few dozen times during the writing and editing process. Yet he had never heard them. Especially not in that voice. Even the narration was sensual, almost cheeky, dripping with lust like honey. Clumsy and awkward it was not. It was.... something else entirely. Shaking off the feeling, Morpheus hit the 'play' button again.

" ―inst the taut fabric of his boxers. 'I like it,' Nathan repeated, slowly reaching for his cock through the thin fabric, his fingertips brushing the shape of it, well aware of Gabriel's undivided attention."

The rest of the scene followed, word for word Morpheus' work, yet somehow completely new to his ears. He sat there, enraptured, his eyes staring into nothingness while the rich, luscious voice surrounded him, filled him until it became his only focus.

A lewd, enthusiastic hum rose from the headphones, making Morpheus jump. Every word he had been anticipating thus far, but artistic license? It fitted with the narrative well. Too well. Not Gadling's first brush with erotica, he immediately guessed. He played it again for good measure. The sound was deeply erotic, with just enough warmth and breath. Real. It sounded real. It was followed by a breathy sigh Morpheus could almost feel at the back of his neck. God.

He played it again. He could feel the sound, the anticipation, the desire, the pleasure. Gadling conveyed it with such ease it felt genuinely intimate. Arousing, even. Morpheus ran his hand against the front of his own trousers, feeling the very real erection pushing against the hard fabric. This was ridiculous. Yet he could not stop. The scene kept playing, Robert Gadling's voice purring in his ears, words like caresses and gentle tugs, and he could not help but cup his cock through his jeans, seeking friction. He imagined him in the recording booth, leaning over the microphone, his features fitting the suggestive sounds, his lips wet from running his tongue over them. If he could just get a little further in the scene―

His Zoom alarm went off. Instantly, Morpheus removed his hand and his headphones, his back stiff as a board, a cold wave of panic rushing through him. Fuck! He gave himself a quick look through the camera of his phone. He was blushing slightly, to his utmost annoyance. Nothing he could not blame on bad webcam settings, he thought. The rest could be concealed easily enough. Especially when he was only visible from the waist up.

It was with a slight flush and a distracting, frustratingly hard erection that Morpheus answered his Zoom call, his mind scattered between book royalties, publishing dates, and Robert Gadling's voice still deeply embedded in his skull.

--

It was hours before Morpheus found a minute of free time. Night had fallen, the evening spent in front of a screen or on the phone, discussing the imminent release of his upcoming novel, one whose cover would feature his actual name, this time. Book releases were always exhausting affairs, between planning podcast appearances, book signings, press tours, and the likes. Morpheus disliked the fanfare of it all, the exposure, but could hardly complain. There were worse flip sides of the coin, out there.

At least writing under a pen name saved him the hassle, with the other half of his published work.

Lying on his bed, fresh out of the shower, Morpheus sighed, staring at the ceiling. He felt both exhausted and wide awake, his coffee-fueled brain refusing to quiet down. There were a few things the editor needed his input on in person, tomorrow, something to do with the cover art. He'd promised himself to write, too. Perhaps clean the flat a little. Too many fires at once, his sister's voice echoed in his mind.

His phone buzzed again. Incoming email from Lucienne.

Listened to it yet? Thoughts?

Plenty. Enough to know it was good. Enough to keep the reader listening. Enough for him to want to go back for more.

Going through his emails, Morpheus found the link to the beta recordings, and downloaded it onto his phone. He reached for old earbuds in his bedside table drawer. Where were we?

" 'Come here.' "

The latent desire in that voice was enough to get Morpheus right back where he had been, a few hours ago. Lying on his bed, he kept listening, swallowing hard at any well-placed sigh, any improvised grunt and whimpering sound. Was it even improvised? Did he plan on adding those? Did Gadling discuss it with the adaptation team beforehand? Marked the exact spots where he would do it in the printed script?

" 'You're so beautiful like this, love. Look at you.' "

God.

" 'I have thought about you like this. Hard under me. For me.' "

Hesitantly, Morpheus reached under the waistband of his pyjamas, finding himself hard already. He blushed at his own embarrassment, alone in his bedroom, his hand wrapped around his cock, his own words spilling in his ears. Vain, perhaps. Awfully self-absorbed. But deep down, he knew it was not that. Not really.

" 'Do you want me, Gabriel?' Can you feel I much I want you?' "

He hated himself for including so much narration in this passage, keeping him from the lascivious heat of Gadling's voice, waiting for the dialogue to return like a starving man begs for food. How could he do that? A wanton moan reverberated in his ears, quickly echoed by one of his own, harmonies of pleasure filling his head and his room.

" 'Fuck, you feel so good!' "

Why did his editor even let him publish that? Morpheus' mind was bridging the gaps between dialogue bits, ignoring the narration in favour of more pleasurable mental stimulation. He pictured Robert Gadling in his recording booth, focused over the microphone, his lips pressed into a sinful hum, his eyes closed. Gadling next to him, his mouth pressed against his ear, spewing new words, ones he did not write, ones of his own.

" 'Let me see those eyes.' "

Morpheus whined against his pillow, both from pleasure and frustration. He hated this. This was... mortifying, and yet he could not stop. He arched his back, chasing his pleasure.

" 'Fuck! I've waited for this for so long.' "

Morpheus came in his pyjamas in a muffled grunt, the release helping nothing with the shame spreading through him. It brought him some clarity, at least. Disgruntled, he yanked the earbuds out of his ears, Robert Gadling's voice reduced to a hushed whisper, the siren's song finally muffled. He looked down at himself, suddenly aware of the mess he'd made. Great. Fantastic.

His phone buzzed again. It was Lucienne.

Do you want the edited files once they are done? They would love your feedback before they start trimming it down.

Morpheus sighed, struggling against the brightness of the screen.

Yes, tell them I would like them.

[reddamselette]

proud to say since i’m on the last chapter of it that the big pjo project i’ve been working on is in fact a retelling of the books and i think u guys will like it

i indulged in myths and the interpretations of the gods among other things (i posted a snippet of it like a million years ago)

it’s gonna go under heavy editing and looking through obviously BUT i should have it out on ao3 by next week (fully written and completed the same day because i prewrite everything)

[ray935sworld]

The right kind of comfort

This story is based on a very funny post by @yeastinfectionvale that I took a little to serious. I may have misunderstood the assignement and my brain came up with this story so... I hope you enjoy it anyway!

And shout-out to @hotmessmaxpress for explaining to me how to do the under the cut post. Thanks again.

Summary: Bez crashed in Assen and gets his d sucked by Valentino Rossi. But is that really what he needs or who he needs? (Hint Bez x Marc at the end) 3.4k words

Don't like it, don't read it. Continues under the cut and on AO3.

Story includes a negative self-view while dealing with insecurites. Please don't read if this may trigger you

A DNF. Another fucking DNF after Le mans. He had one podium back in Jerez and beside that had to be grateful to even have made it to P6. He had to get used to P14, P11 and P13. And he was regular outscored by his teammate. The year before Bez already had 2 wins before Assen and had lead the championship for 2 races. Now he was lucky to get points. He was fighting against Raul Fernandez in the championship standings for P11, with just 6 points separating them. If he had known that when he was 3rd last year, he probably would have laughed in disbelief.

What had happened? What had happened to him? Why had his performance suddenly drop drastically when he was still working hard? He was still trying his best. Now it was his cursed reality. He was doing everything. He put in the work to figure out what his problem was but it ended up being worthless. Whenever he thought he had made progress, he got in the race and messed up. Every time.

With more self-doubt than ever, he headed back to the garage. Technically his bike was still running and he wasn’t hurt – beside his pride. But he knew if he continue, he would just damage the bike further and he didn’t had to put his mechanics through the troubles. So he went back, keeping his head low. He tried not to face them.

His mind was screaming at him. They were disappointed in him. They had to. He kept messing up their hard work. He didn’t deserve being part of the team or even being in MotoGP. He should just go back home and beg his father to give him a job in his shop. He could hide in shame in the back and work on some cars, never to be seen again. Maybe that wasn’t the worst idea after all. No more cameras, nasty comments and he wouldn’t disappoint everyone the way he does now.

He felt random hands on his shoulders, trying to encourage him. Fake. Someone told him it was okay. It wasn’t. They said that he was just struggling. He’d soon make his comeback and show them what he is really able to do. Lies. They didn’t actually believe he could do it. They didn’t thought he was a good rider. They didn’t believe in him. They just had to say it. After all, his action determined how their work was depicted. So if they fucked him up further, they would hurt their own career. Right? So they needed him to perform. And every basic psychology said that talking shit about someone who trust you was the worst thing to do.

He sat down for a moment. He pretended to listen to his mechanic, just nodding along but in reality, he was trying to down the voices in his head. Valentino Rossi – a god a motorcycle racing – had thought he was good enough to be trained by him. Maybe he was wrong. He had gave him a place in his team. Twice. For 5 years he was in one of his teams. And now he was messing up his last year with them. How he managed to secure that god damn Aprilia contract was still a mystery to him. He didn’t actually deserve it. He would disappoint them too. They wouldn’t renew his contract, maybe even replace him during the season and he wouldn’t find another bike cause no one was as stupid to give him a chance. Not when so many talents were currently competing and already knowing on the door from Moto2 and Moto3. HE wanted to cry at the thought of having to give his dream up that early. After only a few seasons in MotoGP, he’d be forced out. He wanted to cry. He felt tears in his eyes and just as he was about to wipe them away he heard his head mechanic say “I think you should get changed and take a break. We will have a debrief later and talk about how to improve. Alright, Marco?”

He nodded. He wasn’t of any use anyway. He couldn’t even handle a debrief right now. How was he supposed to handle a bike?

He somehow ended up in his motorhome. He didn’t really remember the way there, just that he had hurried and did everything not to be seen. Luckily most people where watching the race so he could easily slip away.

He opened the door and the first thing he felt was the way his heart broke. He felt it deep in his chest. His tears started flowing and he pressed his back to the door. A sob left his lungs. He was crying and he wished he wouldn’t know whose hand it was when someone lifted his chin. But he knew.

He didn’t had to know to recognize how the skin felt on his. He looked up. He didn’t want to. “That was a stupid one” his mentor whispered. He almost cried harder but instead forced a laugh. “At least I’m young enough to actually compete” he shot back.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he had started to cover up being hurt by attacking back. Maybe he had just started to copy his behaviour on track to off track. He really just wanted to break down and cry but right now, with Vale’s hand on his cheek, there was no way out. He could push him back and ran of course. Vale certainly wouldn’t stop him. But why would he? Wasn’t that man in front of him his gay awakening, the one he had jerked off when he was a teenager. Wasn’t he everything he wanted in moments like this?

It’s not like he had lost his looks since Bez was 17. He was still hot. Probably even hotter. And an orgasm was a good way to get ride of his thoughts.

“At least I was actually able to compete” The words felt like a knife was pushed in an already open wound. So Vale truly didn’t believe he was able to compete at the top? He swallowed when he felt his until then closed legs been pushed apart.

He smiled while sitting down almost pressed against his crotch. His grin wasn’t the one that Marco was used to. It wasn’t the kind Vale smile he usually had when the academy was together at the ranch. It was the one that made him feel like he was nothing more than prey for a wild animal. Like there was no purpose for him other to get fucked right there and then, on the floor of his motorhome.

As if he had read his thought, Rossi put his hands on him. His finger tips started to touch the neck of his suit. He was playing with it. “But what you are currently doing… It’s just sad to watch” He felt tears return to his eyes and his mind racing. All the thoughts he had tried to get ride of were suddenly back again. They were stronger. “Pathetic… Fighting for… What was it? P14? P15?” His hand were on his suit. He felt them burning through the white leather. His left hand was holding his hip in place. His right hand was on his zipper. He opened it painfully slow.

Bez let out a whine. He didn’t enjoy this kind of intro. Of course he liked foreplay, but not in sticky cloth, when his body was full of sweat and he felt like he was starting to cry if he didn’t got distracted. And he needed hands on his naked body not on the fucking zipper. “One or two points while Digga is on the podium keeping Marquez behind him. And you fail to stick to those few spare points.” “I’m sorry” he forced himself to say. He looked up again. He stared at him, refusing to break the eye contact first. “I made a mistake, okay?! I’m sorry” he defended himself. His mind didn't got quieter. It got louder with each of his words.

Skilled fingers found their way under his leathers. “I know” he said, there was no love in his voice. No kindness. No comfort, not real one. “And I know you wanna do better” “I… I do” That’s how it regularly went. “It’s just frustrating and I feel so-“

Vale’s fingers felt burning hot on his already warm skin. He pushed the material away from his shoulder and his lips silenced him. Kissing Valentino had long lost the feeling of unfamiliarity and strangeness. Back in 2022, it was an unusual, somehow excited feeling to be noticed like that by someone like him. Now that the hero bliss had worn off a little more – after seeing him naked and getting fucked by him regularly. The need to get ride of his thought was more dominant now. And there was no better way than this… Right? So why push him away? He smiled.

Instead he closed his eyes. He knew it wasn’t what he really needed but it was close enough. So he finally shut his mind up when he felt Vale’s hand in his hair. It glided over a pat of his forehand and buried itself in his curls. He felt his nails tear in his scalp. He moaned in the kiss at the sensation. Vale grabbed a big hand of curls at the back of his head and used it to pull his head back. At the same time his other hand added pressure to his still clothed dick.

Their lips parted with a needy sound. Bez heard an unplaceable sound leave his lips when he obligated Vale’s gesture and let his head fall back. He felt the wall of his motorhome against his head and it reminded him that they were still on the floor. Not that he cared. Not when he felt Vale kissing his throat. Once. Twice. Three times. Then the other side. One. Two… Three. Then he moved to his chest. For a moment he kissed his ribcage. He barely felt it. It was just a short, light kiss on his skin.

“Va-Vale-“ he didn’t even know himself what he was about to ask. “Mmmh?” “Please” he whined in a high voice. He felt needy. An embarrassing red colour painted his cheeks. “Awe” Vale mocked him. His chin hit the abs of the younger one as he looked up. He had put his head on his stomach to smile at him. “Don’t worry” His smile was not as cold as before. Instead there was a fire. Like he was playing a game and knew he was winning. “I got you, Marco. Don’t I? You’ll be a very, very good boy for me and let me take care of you so you can perform again”

He spoke his name so softly that Bez felt a sense of pride rise. He quickly nodded. Yes. Yes, he wanted that. He needed to be taken care of so he could perform again. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the thing between them wasn’t as cold as he thought. Maybe there was passion and this whole foreplay was just how Vale was. Maybe he liked it. Bez could deal with it. No problem.

Vale’s hands had by now left his hair and were wandering over his body. He caressed his skin like it was treasure. “Oh Marco, you’re still so beautiful” he whispered.

He quickly grabbed his hips, like he was afraid he would run away or leave as if this was now an option. Bez felt the heat between his legs grow. Blood was rushing south way faster now that the older man’s hands were close to the remaining leathers. He felt himself getting hard. It was uncomfortable against his clothes and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Not that he really needed to. After all this was exactly why they were there.

“I want you” The retired rider whispered as he pushed the material away from his hips. His naked ass hit the cold floor. For a second if was uncomfortable but Bez made a sound of agreement and quickly kicked everything away from them. Vale could have said anything. With his hands basically on his now exposed cock, he would agree to everything. It felt good to be desired even though it's just in a weird way that he didn't even truly understand. But he didn’t care. He came back, every time and accepted greedily whatever he was willing to give him. He took anything. He wouldn't deny the pleasure his mentor brought him for anything.

He wanted to feel his hands on him, like he did right now. He needed to feel him grabbing his thighs. It was close to being violent. He pushed in the skin and buried his fingers in there for a moment. Marco moaned. He knew his skin was probably turning red, stained with the pressure. Pain and pleasure mixed and his neglected cock stood up for attention. There was a little bit of pre-cum leaking to prove his excitement.

He was no longer thinking. Desire took over and his hands grabbed Valentino. He felt his neck and pulled him closer. He hungryly kissed him. He wanted to feel his lips on his. He wanted to feel his body against his. He wanted to feel his skin on his and pretend just for a moment that this was real. That they were real. That there was hope. That those two had future together even though he wasn't even really sure if he wanted said future not that this was a concern for him at the moment. After all, all he wanted right now was there. He wanted a release. And the one willing to give him the release he needed was his hero Valentino Rossi. He was in front of him willing to fuck him stupid.

He felt his hand wandering down between his legs. Just for a moment he was carefully stroking his thighs. His mind was finally quiet. He could finally breathe. He could just enjoy the moment and that was all he wanted. He kissed his mentor and kissed him again while feeling the vibration leaving the older Italians chest. „How eager" he replied while starting to touch the tip of his cock.

Bez response followed with a needy whine that accidentally escaped his throat. He took it as an encouragement and rubbed the tip of his cock before suddenly leaning down. The rider felt his breath stop for a moment. He started at the dark hair that was now only a breath away. He could feel the breath of the older against the skin of his V-line. It somehow burned against his already hot skin.

There was no more hesitation. He put his hand on his head and tried pushing him towards his leaking dick. The next thing he knew he felt warm lips on the tip of his dick. Before he could even realise what was going on his whole cock was surrounded by heat and wetness. He almost screamed from the pleasure.

His lover sat a fast and unbroken speed. Clearly not his first time. Bez knew that. But now with his hand burried in Vale's hair, all he could do was moan his lovers name. He tried to control his breathing. He couldn't decide if having his eyes wide open or closed tight enough to see stars was the better option. His gronas formed words. "Vale! Va-Va-Fuck!"

He sucked him off and when he felt a familiar heat pool in his lower abdoman he let go of his head. Instead his hands now formed a fist and he pushed it against the ground. „I'm… I'm gonna… I'm gonna come! Fuck! Vale-!"

Then the sudden release hit him. The tension left his shoulders as he came. He didn't had the strength to continue to push himself against the wall so he didn't. He let go and breath. He was breathing heavily. He was trying to control it when he felt Vale's mouth leave his skin. He looked up. His eyes were tired but he could clearly see the smirk in the older man's face.

He had swallowed and was now getting ride of the last drops that were still in the corner of his mouth. „Better?" he asked and kneeled next to Bez. For a moment he hesitated but than quickly nodded. „Yes, thank you Vale." „Always" he whispered and kissed him. This time it was a soft one. Almost careful as if he wanted to apologize for being to rough earlier.

„Okay, the race should almost be over. I'll be heading back now and you should finally take a shower" he announced and stood up. Bez stared at him in disbelief. He had gotten used to the sudden end of their sessions. That didn't mean he liked it. “See you later, okay?”

Bez knew he couldn't expect anything different. It wasn't part of their arrangement. So he faked a smile. “Yeah, see- see you”

Vale didn't even looked back as he closed the door. The silent 'click' confirmed that he was now gone. He had left. Bez stared at the door. He imagined Vale was still standing there.“I just… I need someone and I don't want to be alone right now”

He buried his head against his knees. Emotions he couldn't place overcame him as he was cursing himself again.

That night he went out. Not with the academy or his team. They asked him to join but he politely declined. He wasn't in the mood, at least not for the popular, loud, straight club, they always went for. He now went to a different kind of club. More private. Less known. It was a messy one actually. The kind no one told you about. He preferred those one. Especially cause this one, was known to be a gay club.

So he sat down at the bar. He burried his head in one of the biggest hoddies he owned and looked around. He watched a young woman flirt with a slightly older one. Both laughing and sharing glances. They looked so in love. They looked happy and Bez wanted excatly that. He was on his 3rd drink when a voice behind him suddenly addressed him. For a moment he was annoyed. He had no interest in talking to a fan. He wanted to bury his Frust in alcohol.

“Sorry about your DNF. You really deserve better”

Confused he turned around. He knew this voice a little to well. He was meet with a shy smile. He smiled back. Maybe it was a reflex, the crippling loyalty or the alcohol. Probably a combination of all three. But he smiled back, a kind, real one.

“Sorry about your penalty. P10 after a fight like that was undeserved" he said and watched Marc Marquez smile.

[boyfridged]

Jason dreads the moment when Bruce starts talking. He’s probably trying to figure out the angle, sorting through his internal spreadsheets. They’re going to analyse the past year in as few words as possible, or discuss the treatment, to give Jason the illusion that he has any control over it. Or maybe they will get back to the topic of how Bruce simply cannot do what Jason wants him to; the judge, jury, and executioner lecture that Jason never really needed, because deep down he knows that his cries and requests were selfish. Childish, even. But the silence stretches. It starts feeling more like peace. “I love you,” Bruce says, and that’s not code for anything.

– semantics (read on ao3)

[4thbrighteststar]

nothing comes from nothing

Eddie shifts Buck’s hand in his, practiced, stepping forward smoothly as he stretches his arm to send Buck spinning. Buck goes easily, letting himself be caught by Eddie even at a distance. After a while, he’s so pleased by how well they move in tandem that he forgets to be nervous, forgets why he couldn’t look Eddie in the eye. ___ Buck tries to teach Christopher how to waltz, and everything's normal until Eddie asks to cut in. (aka - the Laendler scene between Maria and the Captain in the Sound of Music, except it's Buck and Eddie.)

pairing: buddie

word count: 3.1k

rating: t (for swearing)

read on ao3

[heavenorsilverstone]

@endowataru tagged me to post the last sentence in my latest wip, ilysm Iris 🙂‍↕️ (I “write” for f1 aka I’m a recovering football rpf writer with three f1 wips - one lestappen one haasbands one galex - and zero published f1 works lmao) but the wip I wrote a little for recently is my haasbands wip

Nico woke up this morning determined to be positive. Determined to have a good media day, deciding resolutely that he would find the fun in it again. But that, like many of his plans recently, has failed. Slipped out of his hands and his control like a ghost, taunting him as it goes. He hears his own voice in his head. You used to be better at this.

I’m stabgenerator on ao3 for f1 and selkathyouth for football 😘