#get ready for ALL THE ART. AT LEAST UNTIL WORK STARTS FUCKING ME OVER.

[nonbinary-arsonists]

HELL YEAH PRI(D(EMO)N)TH

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Lunch

Summary: Javi's rough start to the work week is turned around when he finds a surprise from his daughters in his lunch

Word Count: 3.1K (oops)

Paring: Dad!Javier Peña x Wife!reader (no use of y/n, reader's nickname is Osita)

Warnings: Literally nothing but sweet, sickening fluff, Javi being so in love with his family, Javi being the ultimate girl dad, a lot of glitter (?)

A/N: Our favorite family is back! I am a firm believer that Girl Dad!Javi keeps every single piece of artwork his daughters give to him and has a wall at his office dedicated to all of their drawings and crafts because he refuses to get rid of any of them 😭 I love them so much, they make me sick, your honor 🫡 unbeata bc that's just who I am, apologies in advance for the mistakes

Series Masterlist. Never Too Late Masterlist

4 hours into Monday and Javier Peña was already counting down the hours until Friday. It seemed like this week was going to have no problem giving Javi a swift kick in the ass back to reality after another blissful weekend with you and the girls, a grumpy frown falling upon his face, wishing he could rewind back just a few hours to when the biggest problems he was trying solved revolved around which book his daughters were picking out for bedtime, rather than strategy meetings on how to solve the better half of the southern drug trade still ranging in Mexico. 

Rubbing his hands over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, Javi let out a sigh, grumbling low in his chest before running his hands through the dark curls of his hair, praying that the closed door of his office was enough to give his co-workers at the Laredo Sheriff's Department enough of a clue to let him at least try to enjoy his lunch in silence.  

Shuffling and stacking a few stray papers left out on his desk, Javi cleared a space for the brown paper sack he mindlessly pulled out of his work bag, plopping it in front of him without a second look. He shuffled through the pocket he knew he had an extra fork in somewhere, considering he was at the point of eating his lunch with nothing but his hands before venturing out to the common kitchen where the rest of his co-workers were, ready to disrupt the sacred silence and peace that was his lunch time. 

“Of course I forgot a fucking fork…” Javi grumbled to himself, abandoning his search in his bag after a few minutes, letting out another disappointed huff, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the speckled tiles of the ceiling. Javi was just about to get up, bracing himself for the perilous journey for a plastic fork he was about to embark on, when the corner of the lunch bag perched on his desk caught his eye. 

Was that… glitter?

As his gaze shifted down the rest of his bag, Javi’s impatient and bothered demeanor had quickly shifted, a soft smile growing between his cheeks, picking up the lunch sack that had very clearly been given a makeover by his daughters before disappearing into his work bag this morning. 

What was once a plain brown paper bag had somehow been turned into a hodgepodge of arts and crafts- glitter, pink and purple hearts, several stickers from separate collections of puppies, Star Wars, and unicorns, doodles and drawings from each of the girls, and a stray Batman band-aid that Harper must have added, considering the 17 she had covered herself in last night for fun. 

Quietly laughing to himself at his girl’s creation, Javi spent a few moments thoroughly examining all sides of the bag, his heart melting to read “Daddy’s Lunch- From Lucy, Elliot, Harper and Mommy” scribbled across the front. 

Carefully, Javi opened the top of the crinkly brown paper, revealing a plethora of surprising goodies inside, the first being a tiny stuffed cow and a fruit-by-the-foot that he obviously had no recollection of packing for himself last night. Setting the things down on his desk, Javi shuffled through the next added layer, this one consisting of another fruit-by-the-foot and a half eaten granola bar, which one of the girls clearly had gotten into before his lunch had departed from home.

 The last thing hiding lunch was a piece of paper that had been folded several times to fit inside the bag, Javi gently removing it with the rest of his surprise treasures. As he unfolded the now somewhat crumpled paper, the grin on his face began to grow wider and wider, seeing the colorful crayon creations doodled on the page. Before him, sat a paper with drawings of each of the girls done by themselves, perfectly embodying their tiny personalities. Lucy’s was neatly sketched and colored, and then outlined in a darker color to make the inside colors pop, Elliot’s had crazy scribbled hair and was holding a hockey stick in not one, but both hands, and Harpers was done in every color that the Crayola crayon box had to offer. 

As if their adorable self-portraits weren’t enough to have him in a puddle, in the middle of their artwork was a drawing of Javi standing between them with the words “We love you Daddy!”  etched in big, pink bubble letters above them. 

Javi had been so enamored by the art his daughters had made him, taking in every stroke and scribble on the page, he hadn’t noticed the smaller note that had fallen to his desk, your neat and careful handwriting etched across the paper. 

Jav,

3 little munchkins were very insistent on re-making Daddy’s lunch last night, and even more insistent on decorating your very boring brown bag. They told me that they were adding a few surprises to your lunch, so this is me apologizing in advance for any half eaten snacks or stuffed animals that may have ended up in there. I hope you have a great day, we all miss you lots and can’t wait to see you later. 

Love you lots, 

Osita 

Even though it was nothing but a few words scribbled down on a piece of paper and a drawing similar to one he had seen a thousand times before, it never failed to surprise Javi how something so small really did mean everything to him.  

Years ago, still working for the DEA, in the midst of chaos and corruption in Colombia, one of his former agents had always insisted on carrying his “lucky” drawing from his son in his back pocket on every mission he was sent on. Back then, the idea of carrying a colored, crumpled piece of paper in his jeans for good luck seemed like a somewhat ridiculous notion, but now, as Javi stared up at the bulletin board next to his desk, overflowing with drawings, paintings, and projects from his 3 daughters, he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t hold any gift from his girls so near and dear to his heart that he ever dared to let it go. 

Overlapping his newest artwork over the most recent crafts given to him to hang in his office, Javi hung today’s drawing at the front and center of the board, your note nestled next to it, beaming with pride at the love and and joy at how full his heart felt from a few simple pieces of paper. 

Admiring just a little longer before reaching over to the phone at the corner of his desk, Javi began to punch the familiar pattern of your home phone number on the receiver, patiently tapping his fingers as the line rang, the other hand grabbing his actual lunch food out of the flamboyantly decorated bag. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey baby, it’s me.” 

“Hi. Is everything okay?” You questioned cautiously, somewhat surprised by his mid-day work call. 

“No, everything is-” He paused, smiling back his lunch bag, “everything is great. I just had some time during lunch and wanted to see if the 3 stooges are around so I can say thank you for my lunch.” 

“Oh God, I almost forgot that was last night’s surprise project. How bad was it? I was only there to supervise lunch bag decorating because they were adamant they were more than capable than packing extra snacks for you.” You snickered, Javi practically almost able to see the hysterical look plastering your face through the phone, laughing right along with you at the adorable gifts they had left behind for him. 

“Well, I got…” Javi stopped, reaching back over in his pile of goodies, “two fruit-by-the-foots, a stuffed purple cow, and a half eaten granola bar that has Elliot written all over it.” 

“Is that Daddy? Did he get our lunch?! Did he like it?!” A chorus of little voices squealed in the background. 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself.” You snickered, the muffled and muted sounds of the phone being passed off to the girls rustling through the other end of the line as Javi nestled his phone between his ear and shoulder, beginning to open up his food as he waited for a response from his daughters. 

“Hi Daddy!” The 3 shouted through the phone in unison.

“Hola, pollitas! (Hi, little chickens) Thank you so much for my lunch today!” 

“Did you like the bag, Daddy? It was my idea to make it look pretty because the brown is so boring.” Lucy boasted, in her lovingly know-it-all tone, making sure her dad knew she was without a doubt, the ringleader of the lunchtime antics. 

“I added the extra snacks!” Elliot chimed in, making sure her voice was well pronounced through the phone ensuring that Javi could her her contributions. 

“I helped-ed too!” Harper interrupted, trying to butt in over her sisters. 

“Well, Mommy helped a little bit too, but it was mostly us!” 

“Was it a surprise, Daddy?” 

“Best surprise I’ve had in a very long time. I already put your drawing up on my board so everyone can see your beautiful artwork. I think everyone at work is gonna start thinking I have professional artists that live in my house.” Javi’s cheeks were already sore from the goofy grin that was only getting wider every second he listened to his daughter’s sweet little voices on the phone, the girls erupting in a fit of giggles at his compliment. “Los amos mucho, morritas (I love you so much, kiddos).” 

“Hey Boss, you gotta second, I-” Agent Carter half knocked, opening Javi’s office door, stopping in his tracks as he met Javi’s cheerful grin turned death glare upon his arrival, slowly retracting his steps while Javi let out a scornful sigh, holding his hand out to get Carter to at least let him wrap up before dealing with whatever bullshit was coming his way. 

“Hey pollitas? Daddy has to get back to work, but I’ll see you in a little bit when I get home, okay? I love you so much. Can you pass the phone back to Mom?” 

“Okay, bye Daddy! Mommy! Mommy, Daddy wants to say goodbye!” 

“The gremlins said you wanted to say goodbye?” You laughed over the clatter of the phone being handed haphazardly back to you. 

“Yeah baby, I gotta go back to work, but I just wanted to say I love you and thanks for helping them with lunch, it was really fucking cute. I’ll see you later, okay?” 

“The cutest 3 stinkers that I’ve ever met. I love you too, Jav. Bye, babe.” 

“Love you, bye.” 

As the dial tone went silent, Javi hung up the phone, taking in a deep exhale, still holding his hand out at his co-worker to preemptively prevent whatever what stupid remark was about to come out of his mouth. 

“I wasn’t gonna say anything!” Carter winced, holding up his hands in defense at Javi’s death glare, trying his best to hide the sly smirk spreading between his lips. “…. I just never really struck you for a rainbow glitter type of guy.” 

“Fuck off, Carter. Give me 10 more minutes to try and eat my lunch in fucking peace.” Javi groaned, trying to shoo him back out the door he had barged in from.

“Okay, okay, message received! I will say…I do think the glitter really does capture your bright and sparkly personality though, the unicorn stickers are really a nice-” 

“Carter…” 

“Sorry, sorry, I’m leaving! “ 

As the door clicked shut, Javi let his annoyance slip back to content, letting the colorful sparkle of his lunch back serve as his beacon of hope for the rest of the work day, thankful for the extra piece of home he got to keep with him until he got to see his girls again. 

“Hey, I’m home!” Javi’s familiar voice rang through the hallway, barely 3 steps through the front door before the girls were rushing through the house, barrelling towards their dad to attack him with the biggest bear hugs their little bodies could muster. 

“Daddy!” They screeched, wrapping around every free inch of Javi’s body that they could reach, giggling as he crouched down to greet them, peppering them with ticklish kisses all over their faces. 

“Hola, Pollitas! Oh, I missed you guys! Did you guys have a good day today?” Javi grinned, now letting the bags he was holding in his hands drop to the floor, collecting his daughters in his grasp, wrapping them up in the tightest hug he could manage through their excited squirms and wiggles. 

“Yeah, we went to the park with Mommy and then we came home and played soccer and then ran through the sprinkler!” Lucy beamed, her sisters nodding in happy agreement, excited to tell their dad about today’s shenanigans while he was at work. 

“I scored two goals on Mommy!” Elliot added, her face lighting up with pride at her accomplishment. 

“No way! Nice stuff, Ellie Bellie!” Javi grinned, holding his hand out for a ferocious high-five from Elliot, pretending to shake his hand in pain at her strength, making the girls snicker at their dad’s overdramatics. “Hey, can you tell me where Momma is, I gotta go say hi to her too and then you can tell me all about the rest of your day, okay?” 

“She’s in the kitchen making dinner!” Lucy replied, giggling as Javi pressed a long kiss into the top of her head, nestled between her messy hair. 

“Mommy’s makin’ ‘pisgetti!” Harper cooed, Lucy and Elliot trying their best to keep from laughing at their youngest sister’s inability to pronounce spaghetti. 

“Thanks, lindas (cuties). Why don’t you guys go clean up your stuff and then we can help Mom with the rest of dinner?” 

“Okay!” The three agreed, dashing back through the house and disappearing down the hallways, Javi laughing to himself as he kicked off his shoes and picked up his bags, heading into the kitchen to find you at the stove, happily humming and swaying your hips to the radio playing in the background as you cooked, so wrapped up in what you were doing that you hadn’t realized your husband’s presence. 

Quietly setting down his bags on the counter, Javi rested his hip against the stone ledge, arms crossed over his chest as he watched you work, wondering to himself if he would ever get over how even the simplest things like watching you make dinner made him fall more and more in love with you, the familiar warmth of home and you creeping through his cheeks in a soft smile. 

“Hi, Momma.” He smirked, making you squeal in surprise as he snuck behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a soft kiss into your shoulder, rocking you back and forth in his grasp. “I missed you guys today.” 

“Hi, handsome. We missed you, too. The girls haven’t stopped asking when you were going to be home since you called at lunch time. They were so excited you liked your lunch. Sorry if it was a little obnoxious. I tried to tell ‘em to go easy on the glitter, so hopefully none ended up in your food.” You chuckled, shaking your head at the image of the finished lunch bag that had made its way to work with Javi this morning. You turned around to face Javi, his hands still resting on your hips as you draped your arms over his shoulders, pressing up on your tiptoes to let your lips meet his, his mouth lingering just a little longer than usual as you felt his smile growing amidst his kiss. “What was that for?” You blushed, butterflies swirling in your stomach as his lips gently pulled away from yours, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on your skin in the space where your t-shirt and shorts parted. 

“I love you so much. You and the girls, I just- I’m just so thankful for all of you.” Javi grinned, the soft brown of his eyes sparkling in the kitchen light, looking you up and down as if in awe of the fact that you were the woman he got to hold in his grasp at the end of each day for the rest of his life. 

“I love you too, you goof.” 

Before your lips could meet again, the happy giggles of your girls flooded through the kitchen, their little pitters and patters of their feet tumbling the hallway to greet the both of you again. Peeking over Javi’s shoulder, you cocked your head in confusion at the plastic bag your girls were now rummaging through on the counter, wondering what Javi had been shopping for on his way home. 

“What’s in the bag, Jav?” 

“Well…” He paused, making his way over to the kitchen counter with the girls, picking up the bag and tipping it over, shaking its contents out in front of them, “I figured, since the munchkins did such a good job with today’s lunch bag-” 

“STICKERS!” 

“GLITTER PENS?!”

“PUFFY PAINT!” 

The girls shrieked, picking up the various brightly colored craft items Javi had brought home with him, along with a pack of brown paper bags, making the reason for his pit stop abundantly clear, and making you smile even wider than you already were. 

“...I figured, I still have 4 days of lunches left, and you guys did such a good job with my lunch today, that you could decorate the rest of my lunch bags for the week.” 

“Really?!” The girls squealed, their faces lighting up in excitement. 

“Really, really.” Javi beamed, reaching his arms around the girls to pick them up, the 3 laughing and squirming in pure joy, your heart bursting at the seams watching just how much Javi loved his little girls and the silliest, smallest things he would do just to make them smile. 

“Mommy, can we start right now!? Please, please, pleaseeeeee?” Lucy begged, Elliot and Harper joining in with their silent plea of sweet puppy eyes. 

“Let’s help Mommy with dinner and then we can-” 

“It’s okay, I think spaghetti can wait a little longer.” 

Taglist:

@cool-iguana @rhoorl @whyjuliaaa @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24 @3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo @endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @messinadress @milly-louise @jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog @hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem

[hockybish]

Painting the Walls

l family is everything au l quinn x mom l masterlist l

*mom is currently in college and the Universoty of Minnesota and Quinn is visiting the night before the Canucks play the Wild*

*tiny bit spice*

You had everything laid out ready. A blanket, a pillow and all the paints you would need for the picture. All you needed was your boyfriend to get to done with whatever team thing he was doing and get over there to your dorm.

You waited at least another half an hour before Quinn came running through the door, out of breath, running excuses left and right.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay”

“It Brock’s fault he was being an idiot and” Quinn’s mouth kept running.

“Q it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. now, strip your shirt and lay on your stomach,” you instructed the hockey boy, who listened to everything you said.

You straddled him and began your final art projected. Starting with the background blues and purples layering them on top of each other until you got your desired effect. You next grabbed the yellow and added highlights along with a few stars and a big moon.

Satisfied with your work you take a couple pictures at different angles to send into your professor.

“Remind me again what you’re doing.” Quinn squirmed slightly

“This is my final project for my art class we were supposed to do a picture on something other than canvas. I chose your back.” You finish taking the pictures.

Quinn done with laying on his bellying flipped over. He smirked up at you as you still had your legs on either side of his waist.

“You’re really pretty at the angle Y/N.” Quinn let you know how he was feeling and what he was thinking with. You could feel him get hard beneath you.

“We could. You know.” You raked you eyes over his torso, practically eye fucking him.

“I don’t have anything.”

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you. I highly doubt anything’s gonna happen the first without one.”

“Oh okay.” Quinn moaned as you kissed and licked your way from his shoulder to his.

“Fuck Y/N”

——

A little over a month later you felt yourself getting sick and your roommate handing you a box of tests to take.

You nearly cried when you saw all the pink lines.

“Ellen. Im I’m in trouble.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I would leave (if only I could find a reason)

More Painter Husk au! Featuring Molly! This AU's going to be going some rough places after this so enjoy the soft for now! Huge thanks to @minky-for-short who co created this AU with me <3

cw: mentions of past child abuse, period accurate homophobia

Please consider reblogging and commenting over on Ao3!

---------

Husk could still remember his first day in the city. The day had been close, the sky had been gray, just like today, and as he’d stepped off the train, he could actually remember thinking that it would be a fresh start. 

He’d told himself that, away from home and the flashing lights and beckoning fingers at the tables, the debt he’d built up from answering that call one too many times, he’d have a chance. He’d taken a lungful of air, scented with the river instead of desert sand, and he’d hoped, just for a moment. 

And in that moment he’d been a fucking fool. 

Husk should have known that his demons didn’t need tickets, they didn’t need passports. They’d followed him out of Las Vegas, they’d marched beside him on every tour of duty, to Germany and Italy and Japan, across the whole damn planet in the wake of yet another war to end all wars. Why had he thought the span of the Hudson River would be enough to keep them at bay?

He knew better now. He was still a fucking fool but at least he was an old one, one who’d made a meal of that poisonous hope only to realise he was still empty inside. He wasn’t surprised by the voices clamoring in his head as he strode quickly through the city streets, he knew what they would tell him. 

They whispered about the place down on fourth street where the whiskey was sour as bile but he had enough in his pocket to afford three. They wondered if there was a card game going down in the basement of the Black Olive, pointing out that the bouncers and back room staff would be just drunk enough that he could take them for all of their tips. They told him that the heaviness in his heart would ease with a drink, that the itching in his fingertips would go away and be replaced with a rush of dizzying euphoria if he could just roll a dice. 

Husk knew all that. He’d been hearing that kind of shit his whole life, he’d been born with these voices in his mind. What was new was the fact that they weren’t winning. 

He didn’t even realize it until he was a block away from his favorite art supply place, where he’d told himself he was going when he’d stepped out of the apartment. Shouldn’t really have been a fucking revelation, but he shouldn’t have made it this far. The voices had been plucking at him since he’d left, tugging at his sleeves pushed up against the sudden spring heat, trying to pull him towards his well worn vices. 

And it should have worked. Any other day it would have, Husk would be ankle deep in some kind of debauchery by now, pissing away the rest of the day only to wake up the next morning with a dry mouth and an aching chest and still no fresh brushes. Ready to do the whole song and dance again. 

Husk shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and ducked into the store, his mind easing at the comforting smells of old paint, turpentine and fresh cut canvases. He didn’t need to wonder why he’d managed to stay on track today, he just needed to get his errands done. He needed more draft paper, more pencils, maybe some new oils if any colors took his fancy. He had more commission requests than he’d had in years and if he was going to pretend he was functional, he at least needed the props. 

And you know why you didn’t stop. 

Husk’s hand froze over a set of brand new brushes. He didn’t like this new song the voices were singing, the new refrain they’d picked up in the last couple of months. It was enough to make him try and push them away, even though he knew better. He tried to focus on the candy land in front of him, rows of brushes soft and fine as feathers, pots of every color he could imagine arranged in just the right way so his eyes slid right across the rainbow as he scanned the shelves. And he actually had enough in his pocket to buy whatever he wanted, given that his advances had survived the journey. Getting his life together was paying off, figuratively and literally. 

But no joy kept the voices away completely, as Husk well knew. It didn’t help when running his thumb over the brushes made him think of white blonde hair just as soft carding through his fingers, when his eyes were drawn to a soft, dusky gold perfect for freckles he’d once hunted down and kissed every one of. When every thought was pulled in the same direction, a galaxy spinning inwards on itself, down to the one star in the very center. 

Not a new vice, not a new addiction but it was close. Something so much more dangerous, the same thing he’d tasted on that very first day in New York. A new reason to hope. He had Angel Dust.

And it’s going to end the exact same way.

Husk’s mouth twisted, that thought sliding between his ribs to hit somewhere soft. Because the voices didn’t lie. They were cruel, they played dirty, they did everything they could to ruin him. But they didn’t lie. 

And what did Husk have to prove this new hope wouldn’t whither and die like all the others before it? He had an honest, endearingly gap-toothed smile hidden to everyone else but him, a crude sense of humor that went through Husk’s walls like a wrecking ball, a burning desire he thought had long guttered out of his life. He had a marker painted directly onto the wall of his studio, the total they were aiming for written at the top in Angel’s own hand because Husk had been too short to reach. It seemed like an impossible amount but, day by day, the tally was growing, the painted red line was creeping up towards it. 

Between the commissions flooding in now Miss Morningstar was deliberately gushing about him to her high society friends, between the money hidden under Angel’s mattress at the club that was supposed to be spent on blow and booze, the tips he was skimming from clients, they were climbing towards his freedom. 

But it still felt like the biggest gamble Husk had ever taken. 

Sighing, Husk pressed his thumb into a sample pot of red pigment, drawing a line across the palm of his hand to see if it was bright enough. Red as blood, red as love, red as a heart that had only just remembered how to beat for someone else again. Red enough to save the man he loved.

Because however unsure Husk felt, however much doubt the voices planted in his mind, he knew Angel Dust was sacrificing more. He hadn’t told him everything, some things were too hard to say, putting them into words brought them too close for comfort. But Husk had met Valentino’s kind before, they grew right up out of the sand in Vegas, flourishing where nothing decent would. He knew what would happen if Angel’s pimp found out what they were planning, if Angel proved he was more trouble than the money he made was worth. 

And, maybe even more than that, the faith he was putting in Husk. Valentino had given Angel ample reasons to cut and run but Husk had to stand there and wonder what it was about himself that made Angel brave enough to try. He loved him, he could be sure of that, he’d tried to show it in every way his dusty old heart knew how, but it seemed like a pretty poor stake all the same. If Angel took his freedom at the end of this and fled Manhattan for good, Husk wouldn’t blame him. And he’d still say it had been worth it. 

All he had to do was not screw it up. Just succeed where he’d failed so many times before, with so much more on the line. And with nothing more than the paints and brushes in his hands and the fragile hope fluttering inside him like a bird snapped at from all sides by the snakes lurking there. 

There really was no fool like an old fool. 

By the time Husk was done indulging himself and talking shop with the lady behind the counter, the city crowds had thickened. The heat had dissipated slightly, slipping through the clutching fingers of the skyscrapers so the people jumped at the chance. Children dragged their parents by the hand, going to spend a few hours in the park to burn off their energy before bath and bed. Couples strolled more leisurely, men and women in perfect, matching pairs off to the pictures or a restaurant or the theater, maybe for the first time, maybe for the last time, maybe on the road to having children of their own tugging on their sleeves. Elderly people settled into favored benches to toss crumbs to eagerly waiting pigeons, maybe finding some kinship with the forgotten, ignored birds, or maybe just pleased to find something to still need them. 

Husk shifted the paper wrapped canvas under his arm, trying not to bump into anybody, ducking and weaving through the press. His thoughts zig zagged in a similar way, trying to wander towards other things but every path seemed to lead back to Angel. 

He wondered what he was doing right now, where in the vast expanse of the city the other half of his heart was beating. Maybe he was sleeping, his work schedule left him damn near nocturnal from what Husk had observed. Maybe he was with his friends, drinking wine on the fire escape with Cherri or even Miss Morningstar, whatever it was an escort and the daughter of the richest, most powerful man in the city did together. Or maybe it was already too late, maybe he was trapped in the club, putting powder over bruises so they wouldn’t show under the stage lights, not allowed to even see the sunshine everyone else was enjoying. 

Or maybe he was sitting in the window of the diner just across the street. 

At first Husk wasn’t even sure it was his Angel. He was dressed so plainly, in a simple white shirt and dark jacket that any respectable young man might wear, which should have automatically disqualified it from Angel’s wardrobe. His blonde hair was stuffed into a battered old ivy hat, brim pulled low to shadow his face, free from any kind of cosmetic. Like he was trying to blend in rather than stand out, the complete opposite of his usual flamboyant defiance. A mug of coffee that looked bad even from this distance congealed unnoticed between his cupped hands, his eyes fixed on something else across the street. He looked like any of the hundreds of overgrown, but not overgrown enough, kids haunting New York, looking hollow eyed and downtrodden, the slope of their shoulders telling you how far they were down the slippery slope towards a life they’d never imagined they’d be living. 

But Husk had spent far too long lovingly sketching that face to not recognise it, he’d spent days mixing half a hundred shades of blue to get those eyes right, he could map those freckles the way a sailor who’d spent his life at sea could map the stars. That was Angel, sitting in a shitty diner and trying not to be noticed. 

Of course by the time Husk realized it really was him, he’d been staring too long to get away with it. 

Like a bird feeling the gaze of a cat, those blue eyes shifted to Husk. At first there was only panic, like he’d been caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t. Husk winced until those eyes suddenly softened, relaxing into something fond. One of his hands turned, long fingers beckoned Husk over in an uncharacteristically shy wave. 

Husk didn’t even hesitate, winding through the cars scurrying like ants across the street, ducking into the diner. It looked worse on the inside, though at least it wasn’t so nice he had to worry anyone would stare at a black man taking a seat across from a white man. 

Husk smiled, wishing he could reach across and take his hand, try and shake some of that lost look from his eyes, but no place would let them have that, “There’s no way I can avoid looking like a creepy stalker, huh?”

Angel gave him a small smile, “Well, you can join the club I guess…”

Husk lifted an eyebrow, unable to deny the spike in his curiosity but he knew how things worked with Angel. Gentle steps, kid gloves, hovering on the stoop long enough to prove he really was interested until Angel opened the door.

“Figured there was a reason you were in a dive like this,” he hummed, eyeing the coffee, “A reason other than that shit.”

Angel tipped the mug, laughing grimly, “Oh yeah. Would you believe the cherry pie here is actually incredible? It’s the only thing on the menu that’s edible but, y’know. They got one thing right.”

Husk chuckled, “Well in that case…” 

The place was fairly dead, it didn’t take long to flag down a waitress and order two slices, a la mode for Angel because Husk remembered him saying that eating pie any other way was heresy. The expression on the younger man’s face was worth not being able to reach across and take his hand, a slab of golden crust and berries red and shiny as Christmas tree ornaments was apparently a good enough substitute. 

They were halfway through before Angel eventually shifted and murmured, “I ain’t looking to score if that’s what you were worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” Husk lied smoothly, drowning out the sour taste of guilt with cherry syrup, “This place is a dive but it ain’t rough enough to have drug deals going on under the table. Besides, you said you were clean.”

Angel gave him a soft, grateful smile, like he wasn’t used to his promise being enough. His eyes wandered back across the street, like there was some magnetic pull drawing them there. Husk could tell words were hovering on his lips, crowding nervously like baby birds afraid to take that first step into open air. 

Husk reached across and snagged that mug of muddy looking coffee, dragging it to his side of the dented metal table. He took a drink, right where Angel’s lips had touched it, feeling the warmth of them there. 

It was a poor excuse for a kiss, secretive and indirect, but it was the best he could do in public, a lukewarm substitute for the way he wanted to comfort his lover. But Angel received the message loud and clear, eyes misting slightly and sighing in the unmistakable sound of pressure being released. 

“The candy store across the way,” he murmured, fingers tapping anxiously on the table, “You see it?”

Husk looked, having to squint a little now his eyes weren’t what they used to be. The store looked like a kid’s dream, just looking at it made his teeth ache at the roots. The walls were just shelves crammed with rows and rows of jars, the old fashioned kind, each with a different treasure inside. Bright, crystalline hard candies, pillowy marshmallows, stark black and white humbugs. It was a riot of color, artificial color right out of a bottle, but it was the kind that made your mouth water. After the long gray days of the war, that store was something close to heaven. 

“She always did have a sweet tooth,” Angel murmured, voice soft and sad, “Guess we both have a thing for harmful, addictive substances. Just that her’s ain’t illegal.”

At first Husk was confused but then it hit him. The girl behind the counter, currently smiling kindly down at a pair of wide eyed kids, clearly an older sister and younger brother. By the looks of her delighted expressions, there were a lot more lollipops going into that bag than they actually paid for. If the blonde hair that seemed to have a mind of its own or the freckles or the height or the crooked grin didn’t give it away, that act of kindness would have done it. Maybe Husk’s eyes weren’t what they used to be but he could have been blind in one eye and still seen the family resemblance. 

“I know it sounds crazy because I could just look in the mirror but I can’t believe how grown up she looks,” Angel’s voice was heavy, bowing under the weight of the emotion in it, “In my head, I was always picturing the girl I left behind. But she changed too, I just…I just wasn’t there to see it…”

“Good looks run in the family, huh?” Husk swallowed hard, feeling a physical pain in his chest from how badly he wanted to take Angel’s hand. 

“Oh Molly always looked pretty damn angelic. We were about as identical as a boy and a girl could be. Used to dress up as each other sometimes to see if anyone would notice. Only Nonna ever would.”

Husk watched sadly as the girl- Molly- waved goodbye to her customers with a smile just like Angel’s, “Guess you haven’t spoken to her? Since you left?”

He swallowed hard, like the words were having to get past something in his throat, “God, Husk, she probably doesn’t even know I’m still alive. Last time she saw me, my father was throwing me down the stoop and calling me a faggot for the whole neighborhood to hear.”

They’d been together long enough now that Husk didn’t have to hide his pained expression, hating the gaps in his words where the softer, gentler words for their love should go but couldn’t, just in care they were overheard. Hating that they still had to duck and hide from that kind of poisonous hate.

“But there’s a reason you’re sitting here. A reason you’ve been sitting here enough times to know the only good thing on the menu, I don’t think you’d do that for a sister who wouldn’t care if you were still kicking.” 

Angel’s expression twisted, memories of that day clearly painful to touch, “She got right in his face, he was twice her height, towered over all of us but she met him nose to nose. Told him the only one who oughta be ashamed was him, throwing his own son out like trash. Quoted the damn Bible at him, told him he had too many sins of his own to be casting stones at me.”

Husk’s chest burned fiercely, “Smart kid.”

But Angel only closed his eyes against a rush of remembered pain, “And then he backhanded her right across the face. He’d never hit her, not once, he saved that for me and my brother, but that bastard did it, right in front of everyone. Knocked her to the fucking ground. It was the only time Johnny looked at him like the monster he was.”

The bitter taste on Husk’s tongue had nothing to do with the bad coffee and everything to do with not being able to get his hands around the throat of a man he’d never even met. 

And with knowing exactly what was going through his lover's mind.

“Angel,” he murmured, “You can’t think that was your fault.”

“Husk, she got hurt defending me. Loving me put her in the damn firing line,” a desperate anger bled into his voice, “No fucking wonder she never tried to track me down or write me or anything. She did the right thing and, before you say a word, I ain’t going over there to drag her back into my bullshit. Not when I turned into everything the old man said I would.”

“Angel…” Husk groaned.

“No,” he shook his head tightly, fingers still tapping, keeping time with his racing heart, “Knowing she’s okay is enough. And if I go over there, all I’ll do is make it so she ain’t. Better off she thinks I’m dead, that way she still got a hope of loving me. A dead brother is better than a living whore.”

“Angel.”

He felt it come out harsher than he’d meant to but it did what he wanted, it was a hand thrust out to catch Angel by the collar before he fell any deeper. The younger men fell silent, his hollow eyed stare becoming something desperate as he stared back at Husk, something pleading. Husk didn’t dare ask if he was begging him to pull him up or just let go. 

Not that it mattered. He’d pull him back, every time. 

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have snapped,” Husk shook his head tightly, exhaling deeply, “Listen. You can tell me to mind my own damn business after, if that's what you want, but can you just let me try?”

Angel swallowed hard, “Alright…”

“Look, I know how much you’re running from. No kid should have to go through half the shit you did and if I ever meet your daddy, I won’t waste my time quoting scripture at him, I’ll tell you that for free,” Husk growled before forcing himself to relax, his fingers to unravel from the fists they’d made on the tabletop, “But Molly…I think you got to ask yourself why she’s even still here. By rights, she should have moved halfway across the country, put as much distance as she could between her and your daddy’s rotten business. Hell, you both should. I don’t know why either of you are still here, there’s so many reasons you should have run for the hills.”

Angel fidgeted, his eyes drawn back across the street, as if to make sure Molly was still there. 

“But you’re both still here,” Husk murmured gently, “And my guess is…well, that you’re both still hoping. You want a fresh start but there’s some things you ain’t ready to leave behind and why should you have to?”

Angel’s blue eyes were swimming, his voice sounding like it scraped his throat on the way out, “Hope’s a dangerous thing…but God, what the fuck do I even tell her? About Valentino, about the club, about anything?”

Husk shrugged, wishing he had a better answer but sometimes the truth was all there was, “Tell her you’re in a bad spot but you’re trying. That you’re doing your best. What else is there?”

“And you think that’s going to be enough?” Angel bit his lower lip. 

“I’d put money on it,” Husk smiled crookedly, “Were I a betting man.”

That made Angel laugh, a weak, raspy, sarcastic thing but Husk treasured it more than anything, “Well, I’m sold. After all, when was the last time you made a bad bet?”

“Not since I met you,” Husk promised, with a smile as honest as he’d ever given. 

Angel took a shuddery breath, clearly steeling himself, the same way he did for Valentino’s club. Even without all the makeup and glitter and the knife smile, it was the same bravery. Husk hadn’t known him as a soldier but it was there in his face, a familiarity with shutting off that instinct to turn and run, to just putting one foot in front of the other. 

“Will you stay here? Wait for me?” Angel’s voice shook a little even as he asked for that small reassurance. 

Husk damn near melted, meeting his eyes without hesitation, “I won’t move a muscle. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”

Angel relaxed slightly, nodding and standing up, taking that promise with him out of the diner and across the street. He did glance back a few times, blue eyes wide and uncertain, but he always kept going at a gentle nod from Husk. They probably both breathed a sigh of relief when he actually managed to cross the threshold of the candy store. 

Husk liked to think he’d gotten his tells under control after so many years with a gambling addiction but his leg was bouncing hard enough to rattle the table, accusatory ripples in the surface of the coffee. He ignored it, taking a long sip and finding it wasn’t so bad when the warmth of his lover’s lips still clung to the rim, his eyes clinging to Angel. 

Molly was wiping down some empty jars, her back turned to the door when he walked in, though her mouth moved, probably a promise that she’d be right there. Husk didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, watching as Angel took off his hat and hovered in the doorway. The whole damn world seemed to be holding its breath, even the voices in his head bit their tongues for once. 

Until finally, in a flinching moment made of equal parts relief and horror, Molly turned around. Instantly her face froze, shock crystallizing her features, like a ghost had just walked through her door. They looked so alike, standing across from each other, there may as well have been a mirror between them. Not just in their features, in the exhaustion that hid behind their mouths made for smiling, in their eyes that looked so much older than they should, in the shadows that sleepless nights had carved onto their faces. They were twins in more than just a physical way, they were twins in grief, in trauma, in hurt. 

But despite that, in that frozen moment, Husk didn’t see how they fit together, it seemed like their edges were just too jagged. 

Please, Husk willed fiercely, the same way he’d once willed cards to show a straight flush, the way he’d stepped off a train all those years ago and hoped, please.

But this time someone was listening. The man upstairs or their Nonna or maybe he was begging loud enough for Molly to hear him across the street but someone heard and someone took pity. With a soft sob, she dashed forward, throwing herself into Angel’s arms so hard he nearly fell over. The two of them clung so tightly to each other it was like they were afraid the other might disappear, two pairs of shoulders shaking with tears Husk couldn’t hear. 

Blinking back tears of his own, he pulled his eyes away, getting the sudden sense that this moment was too private for an audience. But he’d promised his Angel so he stayed in the booth, pulled out one of the fresh sketchbooks he’d just bought and set it on the table. He’d bought fresh pencils but old habits die hard and ones from times you were so poor you could manage one meal in three died the hardest. He would use the one he carried in his pocket until it was down to nothing. 

Husk signaled for another coffee- it was actually starting to grow on him now- and let his pencil move across the page. He glanced across to the store a few times as the sunset washed the world in orange, as the candy store became a square of golden light surrounded by shadow that couldn’t touch it. Angel and Molly were sitting on the counter, never talking anything less than a hundred miles an hour, looking like the light was coming from their smiles. They were laughing, they were crying, they were hugging tight, it depended on when Husk looked over but it always made him smile. They could have as long as they damn well wanted.

By the time the sketchbook page showed a study of the two of them and he’d drunk three more coffees in sheer defiance of the hour, Husk felt the prickle of eyes on him. This time when he looked up, Angel and Molly were there to meet his gaze, Angel gesturing to him and saying something that made his twin’s smile grow and soften. She waved excitedly, beckoning him over, Angel giving a reassuring nod behind her so he knew it was okay.

They met him outside the now dark candy store, Molly rushing up in a way that told Husk she was only barely restraining herself from giving him the same bone crushing hug Angel got. 

“Thank you!” the first words out of her mouth were breathless, leaving her in an ecstatic rush, “Thank you so much, Tony’s told me everything about how you’ve helped him get clean and try to get away from that awful man and how you helped him be brave enough to come talk to me, just…thank you. Oh, I’m Molly!”

Husk smiled warmly, taking off his hand and inclining his head, “Husker, ma’am. And there ain’t no thanks needed. It’s my pleasure, I’m just glad your brother lets me.”

Angel smiled at him gratefully, turning to Molly, “You’re sure you have to go?”

Her face creased in disappointment, “Sorry, I’ve got a night shift to get to…but you’re going to come by tomorrow, right?”

Angel nodded, “I got the whole day before work, I’ll be right here.”

She kept smiling but some of the light in her blue eyes dimmed, “Promise?”

The fact that she had to ask clearly stung but there was understanding in his reassuring nod, “I promise, Moll, I’ll be right here as soon as your shift starts. Husk will keep me honest.”

That earned him another thousand kilowatt smile as she reached out and took his large, scarred hands in her own delicate ones, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, Mr Husk.”

“Likewise, ma’am,” he smiled, startled in a good way. 

“Good…oh! I meant to say!” she tilted her head sweetly, “If you ever break my brother’s heart or hurt him, I’ll break your legs. Okay?”

There was a moment’s pause before, simultaneously, Husk burst out laughing and Angel gave a scandalized squawk of disbelief. 

“I appreciate you saying that, ma’am,” Husk grinned, “And believe me, I ain’t gonna give you reason to. Angel’s not going anywhere…and neither am I.” 

“Glad to hear it,” she shouldered her bag, “And call me Molly. See you tomorrow!”

She gave Angel a last kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the nighttime crowds, waving until the corner took her out of sight. It was a long moment before Angel could turn away from the spot where she disappeared but when he did, his eyes were shining. 

“Husk…” he shook his head, unable to find the words, “Husk, I can’t thank you enough..”

“You can start by coming home with me,” he cut across him gently, “Get off this damn street so I can hold you the way I’ve been wanting to all fucking day.”

Angel opened his mouth at first, like he was going to protest that it wasn’t enough, that Husk should ask for more than just himself. But after a moment, he closed it again and just smiled. 

“Yeah. That I can do, baby.”

And that alone was worth more than anything. 

They walked through the streets together, as close as they were allowed, letting their fingers brush and tangle whenever they were out of the puddles of streetlight. And it didn’t feel like a compromise, it didn’t feel like a watered down version of everything exploding inside their chests right now. It just felt like a promise for later, a moment in a future they were both really starting to believe in. 

Husk found himself remembering his first day in the city again, a younger man still old before his time, daring to hope that the paintbrushes and pencils in his pocket would be enough to make people notice him. That he’d leave his demons behind and become something great. 

Husk took a deep lungful of night air, still sharp with the smell of the river and softened by Angel’s perfume. It wasn’t the life he’d imagined, it was tangled and thorny and fucking hard. The voices were still lurking, muzzled for now but he knew they’d come back in the quiet moments, when Angel’s fingers weren’t entwined with his own. 

And maybe they were right, just like they had been every other time before. Maybe this was another bad hand, another roll of life’s fixed dice. 

But Husk supposed he was still a fucking fool.

[storytowrite]

Love Untold (OT8 x F! Reader)

Chapter 6

Paring: Chan x reader

Genre: idk how to classify it, maybe an angst?

Warnings: almost drowning, bullying, swearing, CPR

Word Count: 3095

Masterlist |Love Untold Masterlist

Due to the work of your parents, you are forcet to constantly move. However, this time moving houses let to interesting and unusual events. You met 8 handsome boys at school and somehow you managed to move in with them. How will your fate go?

.......................................................................................................................

For two days straight you had managed to beg Sebastian to convince your parents that you were sick and felt very bad, so you stayed at home. But messages from Minho continued to flood you. Even though you blocked his number, he kept sending messages from newer and newer numbers. His threats got worse and worse, and the photos became more and more personal.

You had 5 days left until your supposed move with him, which you had no intention of agreeing to. Even though you weren't 100% sure you wouldn't. You were terrified of the amount of the information Minho knew about.

On the third day, when you were lying peacefully in bed scrolling through Instagram, your father entered your room with great force, followed by a restless Sebastian.

"You don't look sick, so what are you doing in bed, you fucking lazy bitch?!" Your father started sharply, with a pissed off look on his face.

Frightened, you automatically curled up under the covers, pleading eyes on your face. You tried to tell Sebastian, who was standing by the door, to save you. Or at least calmed your father down a bit.

“Miss Y/N seems to be feeling much better. All thanks to the great efforts of the service, Sir. Miss Y/n's classes start later today that is probably why she's still in bed." The butler understood your silent pleas and, approaching you, tried to calm your father.

Your father looked at you in disgust, but said nothing more. He turned on his heel and left the room.

You let out a relieved breath that you took in greedily when you saw your father near you.

“Thank you Sebastian. As always, you save me." You smiled genuinely at the man as you got out of bed.

"At your service, Miss. But you are treading on very thin ice. I know Miss really doesn't want to go to school, but you can't risk it again, and I'm afraid you'll have to go to class today. Of course, a phone call will suffice, I'll be right back for Miss." The man announced as he packed your backpack.

"I know Sebastian, I know. I'll get up in a minute and come down to the living room for breakfast. You don't have to wait for me." You walked over to your wardrobe and picked out an outfit for today's class.

The man just bowed and left the room. After a while you were ready, but reluctantly made your way downstairs to the kitchen. The delicious smell of fried eggs hit your nostrils.

Breakfast, as usual, was plentiful with your favorite foods, fresh fruit and vegetables of the best quality. Everything looked amazing so you didn't want to leave the table.

You ate a light meal, some grapes and two pieces of apple.

"Miss, I don't want to hurry, but we have to go now so as not to be late." He said politely approaching you. Even though you've known Sebastian all your life, he still never ceases to surprise you with how organized and orderly he was.

You quickly finished everything you had on your plate and went to school.

Everything was going too smoothly for you. Which didn’t change the fact that you were on pins and needles all the time. Each louder noise made your heart race faster.

Once art class was over, you looked at your schedule to figure out what your next class was. You felt the blood rush to your throat as you saw the big word P.E. Just thinking about this guy made you sick, but you remembered that Changbin would be there. You immediately felt better and with your head held high, you went to the locker room

As soon as you walked in, no one was there, but you thought you had plenty of time, after all, there was a longer break. You sat down on a bench and started looking for sports clothes, but you couldn't find any. You started to panic a bit when you noticed a black sack at the bottom of your bag.

You didn't remember packing it, so you figured Sebastian saved your ass as usual. You opened the bag to take out the outfit, but felt an unusual material under your fingers. You quickly pulled your hand out of your bag. You had a bathing suit in your hand.

Your eyes widened and tears welled up immediately. You hated swimming, you couldn't swim. Even as you got closer to deeper water, you started to panic.

All because when you were little and your parents were still quite interested in you, you went to the swimming pool with them. However, they were already not the best parents and left you unattended in the paddling pool. 70 centimeters of water is nothing, but one of the boys present there thought it would be funny to see if you could breathe underwater. He flipped you over and held your head under the water for a few seconds before Sebastian pulled you out. The boy, of course, ran away, and you were traumatized by the water and never learned how to swim.

However, you didn't want to offend the PE teacher again and you went to the swimming pool, which was fortunately right next to the school. With a faint hope, you hoped that you would be able to hide somehow, or that Changbin would be with you all the time.

All the girls were already in the locker room, including your bullies, who wanted to come to you as soon as they saw you, but as soon as you entered you turned into the changing room and closed the door.

You quickly changed into your bathing suit and covered yourself with a warm towel that was handed out at the entrance to the locker room. Your whole body was shaking, not from the cold but from fear. The closer you got to class, the worse you felt.

As soon as you heard the whistle, you quickly opened the door and ran to the pool. The unpleasant smell of chlorine hit your nostrils as you walked through the door.

You lined up in front of the teacher, you were the first person and you could clearly see the big grimace on the man's face when he saw you. Within seconds, all the girls were standing next to you in a line. You, however, waited impatiently for Changbin to appear, but the teacher started reading the list, and no boy was in the swimming pool. You were very surprised, but you guessed that probably guys and girls had classes separately so that there would be no sexual overtones.

When the teacher finished reading the list and told you to start warming up by slowly swimming a few times, your body froze. Fear paralyzed your body, only when the girls began to disperse from the rally, did you move too.

You went to the farthest part of the pool, supposedly to put down the towel, but really you wanted to hide. You quietly and carefully hid behind a rack of sports equipment, not daring to make a sound.

Although your hiding place was quite well hidden, you had a very good view of everything that was going on in the pool. All the girls were already swimming, and the PE teacher shouted to them that they should try harder.

Suddenly, the door to the pool opened and a group of 6 guys walked in. Judging by the clothes, it was some kind of swimming section representing the school. The boys weren't too interested in the swimming girls. They just waved to the PE teacher and started warming up in the corner.

The warm-up was coming to an end and more and more girls were coming ashore, awaiting new instructions. Fortunately, the teacher still didn't realize you weren't there.

When everyone was on the shore, you noticed one person who came up and whispers something to the teacher. After that, everyone went to the jumping pad to practice jumping into the water.

"Y/N!" You heard the teacher's piercing scream. His voice echoed off the walls of the hall, probably louder than normal. Your whole body went rigid and you held your breath, hoping it would help you hide. You didn't move an inch hoping he'd think you went to the bathroom or something.

"Here she is." You heard a familiar voice right next to you. You looked up and none other than your bully was standing over you. There was a sneer of victory on her lips.

You slowly got up when you noticed that the teacher was walking towards you.

“This is for Minho.” You heard a quiet whisper, audible only to you, from the lips of a girl who moved away from you, making room for the trainer.

“Are you a princess?!” The man started sharply. “Special treatment deserved?!” He continued without lowering his voice at all.

Just like a beaten dog, you cowered and just nodded your head in response. You wanted to say something, but you couldn't form a sentence. You were too scared. You just didn't know which of them more - swimming or the teacher.

You felt that everyone's eyes were fixed on you. It was always you, always the center of attention, and yet you tried to avoid it.

“Jump into the water and do 10 pools! Immediately! I'm sick of you Y/n. This is the second time I've had a class with you, and you've failed the second time! Think how the other girls must feel when they're swimming and getting tired and you're fucking sitting in the corner!" He grabbed your wrist, still yelling at you.

“I… I can't do this.” You managed to stammer out, trying to break free, or at least loosen the man's grip a bit.

“I don't want to hear excuses again! If everyone swims, you will too.” Announcing this, he began to pull you towards the pool.

You kept trying to resist him, begging others for help. But no one came to you. As you approached the edge of the pool and felt the water on your feet, you experienced such an adrenaline rush of fear that in one efficient move you broke free from the man's painful grip.

“I'm not fucking swimming! I can't swim and I won't go in the water! You can shout at me all you want, but I will not bend! My foot will never be closer to the water than I am now!" You yelled right in the teacher's face. From a shy, clumsy mouse, you became a feisty lioness.

The whole swimming pool was silent, only the sound of the overflowing water and the ticking of the clock could be heard. After that spectacular outburst of anger, your breathing was unstable, very fast but shallow. You looked around the pool, everyone was looking at you with great surprise. Some had their mouths open, others had wide eyes, and others were frozen.

After a while, the whole hall was filled with loud conversations. You looked at the teacher who turned red with anger, you knew you were about to get hit hard but you were proud of yourself for standing up for yourself.

“Ooooo, now you're fucked Y/n!” The teacher began menacingly, with a unique and unusual calmness. “Talking back to the teacher…? Not nice…Oh, very not nice…” You heard the words he said flew through his clenched teeth. "I will make your life in this school over, you can be ready for that!" He smiled devilishly. "Now go swimming!" He screamed, so loud that you automatically covered your ears and flinched.

"NO!" You shouted back straightening up, showing the confidence you were trying to confuse others. Suddenly, you felt a strong tug on your hair, causing you to lose your balance.

You took a step back to keep from falling, but your leg met the leg of one of your bullies. You fell headfirst into the 5 meters deep water.

Underwater you started to panic terribly, you didn't know where was up and where was down. You somehow turned around so you weren't head down, but you couldn't fully open your eyes.

All you could see were bubbles that surrounded you on all sides. You were terrified, your air was starting to run out, and you tried to swim to the surface at all costs. You waved your arms and legs, but instead of floating up, you were sinking.

With every inch the water was getting darker, and the light was less and less. You were starting to faint.

As soon as you hit the surface of the water with impetus, chaos broke out on the surface. Everyone in the pool stood by the edge and began to look at the vague outline of your figure. Conversations did not stop for a moment, everyone was wondering if you would be able to swim out.

“Stop lying Y/n and start swimming. Nobody believes you can't swim. How can you not swim at this age? Even a 3-year-old can swim. Swim right now.” The teacher laughed mockingly, and with him the bullies.

The only person who was in any way dismayed was one of the boys from the swimming section. He watched the whole situation from a distance, but did not want to react. But when he saw you didn't come to the surface for a long time. Without thinking, he jumped into the water.

It didn't take long for him to swim to you, the boy looked like he was born to live underwater. He was fast and agile. No one was surprised that he was the captain of the swimming section.

By the time he reached you, your limp body was at 4 meters. The last thing you remembered was someone's hand grabbing your waist.

The boy quickly pulled you to the shore, where it was only when you lay unconscious on the floor that people actually took over. Even the teacher fell silent.

The athlete placed his clasped hands on your chest and began CPR. After 5 strong compressions, you spat out the water from your throat. He helped you get up to a sitting position. All blue, you were shaking uncontrollably.

You were in shock, you didn't know what to do with yourself. You were running amok. You heard people talking to you, but you didn't understand what.

“Now do you fucking believe she can't swim?! She had to almost die for all of you to realize how serious this whole situation was?! Nobody! Fucking nobody even moved to help this girl in any way!” The boy's outburst, there was nothing but immense anger in his voice. "As for you, I'm leaving the team. I don't want to be associated with an asshole like that. I wish you good luck in your future competitions.” The young boy turned to the teacher, throwing at him the wet sweatshirt he had just taken off.

He immediately came over to you to make sure you were okay. Still unable to utter any words, you grabbed his neck and hugged him tightly. The boy apparently understood your silent request and, picking you up in his arms, took you out of the pool.

He must have felt how much you were trembling because he pulled you closer to him. His body was almost hot. You snuggled into his naked chest and closed your eyes, trying to calm down a bit.

Once you got to the locker room, he sat you down on a bench and kneeled in front of you.

“Change into dry clothes. I'll be in the locker room next door. When you're changed, I'll wait for you outside, I'll take you to the nurse to take care of you." He smiled warmly, rubbing your thigh gently.

As soon as he left the locker room, you wanted to cry, but tears didn't come out of your eyes. You took 3 deep breaths like Han taught you to calm down. When your heart was no longer pounding like it was about to jump out of the cage, you went to change your clothes.

As the boy said, so he did. He was waiting for you outside the locker room. He was wearing black shorts and a loose shirt. Droplets of water flowed from his hair and settled on his skin.

Even though you had almost died a moment ago, you couldn't help but marvel at the person who just stood in front of you.

"Do you feel better?" He asked in a concerned voice, walking over to you and offering his arm for you to lean on.

"Yes, I'm a little better now. Thank you for saving me." You thanked as sincerely as you could, catching the boy's hand, "If I may ask, what's your name?" You asked timidly as you walked towards him.

"I'm Christopher but everyone calls me Chan." He replied, looking at you.

Your eyes met by chance, and you felt like you could see stars in his eyes. The feeling of warmth took over your body again. You were hypnotized by him.

“I'm Y/n, but you probably know that. The whole swimming pool knows my name." You giggled, awkwardly scratching the top of your head.

“Yes, it was impossible not to hear it. I had to stop training because of you...I'm kidding, of course." He smiled broadly.

You made it to the parking lot where you stopped. The boy was surprised but said nothing. You took out your phone and called Sebastian. You had the impression that the butler was waiting for your call, because after 5 minutes he had already arrived at the parking lot. Without question, he opened the car door for you and invited you inside.

Chan was slightly surprised by all this fancy treatment. Very elegant car, own chauffeur on call, but said nothing. Although you could see in his face that he was fighting with himself not to say anything.

“Thank you again Chan. It was great meeting you.” You smiled at him as you got into the car.

“You too Y/n. Hope to meet you under better circumstances next time. Can I invite you for a coffee?" The boy asked playfully.

"With pleasure." You replied and made yourself comfortable in the car.

Sebastian closed the door and you drove home. The last thing you saw was Chan's gorgeous smile. Only when you lost sight of the boy, your body gave up and you cried.

<;- PART 5 | PART 7 ->

TAGLIST

@nobody3210

[divinexchaos22]

Fanfiction Through The Eyes Of Muzan Kibutsuji

Author's note: I wrote this out of boredom and simple curiosity. The concept is simple; in a modern au, how would the King of Demons react to the fandom ships online? Honestly, this is pure, self-indulgent crack. I hope you enjoy it. Ten points to whoever spots the other fandom Easter eggs in here.

It all started the way most wars and conquests began: revenge.

As much as humans likened themselves to virtuous beings of compassion and sincerity, the truth behind their sinful, deceptive nature was all too apparent beneath Muzan Kibutsuji’s apathetic gaze. There were many a times when the King of Demons often pondered about the complex, sinister nature of the human condition as he witnessed the many atrocities of the Land of the Rising Sun and its descendants. From the blood-soaked battles of the Warring States Period to the political strife that led to the Menji Period, the raven-haired male had observed humanity tear itself apart and rebuild itself countless times. Humanity’s thirst for power and control was only elevated by their darker streaks of emotion: anger, lust, envy and greed, resulting in pain, suffering and oppression that only sustained the vicious cycle of destruction and rebirth.

This was partially why he despised humans and desired immortality, disregarding mortals as a lower subspecies not worthy of his attention or respect. However, he hadn’t fully comprehended precisely why he abhorred humanity with such a vengeance.

That is, until he stumbled across that.

Muzan’s lips curled in a snarl of disgust, his revulsion etching deep lines upon his features as he scowled at the very thought of what he decided was humanity’s ultimate and most heinous of crimes. How human beings could even ponder such vile, depraved thoughts was beyond him and he was the ruler of a legion of cannibalistic immortal creatures of the night. However, when the relatively younger of his Upper Moons, Daki and Gyutaro, shed light on the collective thoughts and views found on the internet on the Demonslayer world and pointed out the ‘fanart’ and ‘fanfiction’ created by anonymous humans, he was aghast. Why?

Because humans dared to fucking ‘ship’ him with his Upper Moons, Kagaya Ubuyashiki and even that brat Tanjiro Kamado.

Since when he had gone from being the feared and aloof King of Demons to being a sexual deviant pimp who molested his Upper Moons, possessed carnal feelings of desire towards his most hated enemy and even dabbled in paedophilia on the side, Muzan did not know and did not care. All that he did care about was that he was furious: superbly so. He desired retribution and it would be bloody.

Unfortunately, there was a spanner in the works of his cruel acts of vengeance.

“Muzan-sama, I get that you’re pissed but you can’t go hunting down every crazy fangirl on the internet,” Daki had dryly remarked, the silver-haired beauty having mostly mollified her intense crush upon her Master after moving into the realm of Infinity Castle permanently, although the remnants remained within the permanent heat lingering in her cheeks. That heat, however, quickly abated when her pale eyes glanced at her phone, leaving her wincing when her Pinterest feed revealed rather suggestive art of Douma and Akaza. “Oh God, why? I just saw Douma x Akaza rape fetish art. I need bleach.”

“Wait, WHAT?!” Akaza was suitably mortified and repulsed at this disturbing phenomenon, the fiery-haired demon’s skin blanching as he snatched away Daki's phone as if to verify the authenticity of the image itself. Judging from the manner in which his gilded eyes blanked over and his jaw clenched as he bared his teeth like a rabid wolf, the silver-haired woman’s statement was undeniably true. He looked ready to break the device. “Are you fucking kidding me?! What kind of sicko thinks this?! I’m going to puke.”

“Be glad. At least you haven’t witnessed art of yourself in romantic relations with your brother.” Kokushibo’s tone was flat and emotionless, his six eyes still locked in the thousand-yard-stare it had adopted from the moment morbid curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had asked Gyutaro whom he was ‘shipped’ with. In his defence, the stoic swordsman held up rather well in the beginning, not at all reacting to the lurid pairings of him and Douma, him and Akaza etc. Hell, even the art of him and Muzan didn’t faze Kokushibo. No, it was the plethora of sensual artwork depicting Kokushibo with his brother, Yoriichi, that activated his deep-rooted PTSD and left him paralysed in place.

Gyutaro had spent the last fifteen minutes awkwardly patting his shoulder in sympathy, desperately attempting to assuage whatever traumatic wound had been afflicted on his soul. Fuck, Master Muzan would kill him if he managed to break his strongest Kizuki.

Douma, being Douma, on the other hand, was utterly enjoying every minute of this.

“Ooh, let me see!” The platinum-haired demon crooned, plucking the phone from Akaza’s numb fingers as he merrily scrolled through Pinterest without a care in the world. His opal eyes positively danced with delight as he laughed and offered running commentary on whatever he happened to see. “Akaza, you look so cute with a little collar and bell around your neck. We should get you one. Oh, here’s me and Master Muzan –ooh, Master, I didn’t know you were such a dom. Here’s Akaza and that Flame Hashira –I guess nothing says ‘I want to fuck you’ like a hole in the sternum…”

“Good for you, you're more depraved than Dazai,” Gyutaro confessed blithely, mentally apologizing to the suicidal maniac from an entirely separate fandom.

“Oi, Biwa Woman. If I give you the chance, promise you’ll kill me quick?” Akaza flatly queried, his tone of utmost dire gravity when his attention focused on the sullen and detached Nakime.

"Very well." The Biwa woman never hesitated, her expression as cold as stone as she reverently stroked the strings of her instrument and took Akaza's request in stride as if he had asked about the weather rather than imminent death.

“When will the sun come up so I can die?” Kokushibo asked no one in particular, his gaze still locked on the endless void of crippling pain and suffering.

“…Remind me precisely why I shouldn’t punish these insufferable ‘fangirls’ again?” Muzan enunciated through gritted teeth, the paper-thin threads of his temper drawing tighter by the moment as he grew increasingly closer to snapping. Forget the Blue Spider Lilly, he’d send his demons to devour each and every one of these abhorrent humans who dared to besmirch his name and reputation. The world would be a better place without them.

“Because it would be impossible to track down every single fangirl behind these ships and even if you did, it wouldn’t stop any of it,” Gyutaro enlightened him justly, the acid-green-haired pausing in his half-assed means of reassuring Kokushibo to arch a critical brow at Muzan. He could practically taste the sardonic venom oozing off of his unseemly form as Gyutaro scowled darkly and grimaced. “Besides, everyone in Demonslayer has to deal with these crazy ships. I get shipped with my own sister.”

“Hold your tongue,” Muzan growled menacingly, his tone low and dangerous, his tolerance and patience for this ridiculous situation depleting at astronomical rates.

��Speaking of tongue, Akaza, you sure do like sticking yours out a lot, don’t you?” Douma drawled smugly, his expression utterly devious as he showed Akaza the particular art he was viewing. It featured a rather lewd sketch of Akaza’s face covered in–

“I SWEAR TO MUZAN, I WILL END YOU DOUMA!”

“Look, if you really want to get revenge, why not try writing some fanfiction of your own, Master?” Daki suggested caustically, watching on indifferently as Akaza proceeded to lunge at a gleefully laughing Douma, earnestly attempting to kick the latter's head off. Having successfully regained her phone in the process, her glass-green gaze refocused on the screen and narrowed at whatever inappropriate artwork Douma had been scrutinizing. “Jeez, I’m going to have to scrub my eyeballs to get rid of that image. Anyway, like I was saying, if fans want to make you the pimp daddy of Infinity Castle–”

“I never want to hear those words out of your mouth again.” Muzan didn’t miss a beat.

Daki continued without hesitation, “—then why not make revenge fanfiction? If you want to make Kagaya Ubuyashiki the sultan of his own harem.”

“Or make Yoriichi an immortal sex addict with a brother fetish,” Gyutaro suggested darkly, his expression not at all a jest as he was obviously still repulsed by the implied incest between him and his sister and seeking an outlet for his frustration. When Kokushibo shivered violently at the mention of his brother's name, Gyutaro huffed and proceeded absently increase the volume his shoulder pats, his tone as dry as sawdust. “It’s okay. Your brother is dead and he died in the funniest way possible. You'll be fine.”

“It’s all entirely up to you,” Daki finished with a half-smile, completely ignoring the fact that her brother just chalked the number One Upper Moon’s trauma up to funny karma. Instead, she logged onto some fantasy game she enjoyed playing. Her face lit up immediately. “Hey, I got a summoning ticket! Let’s try a yolo roll.”

“Pray to Muzan that you don't fucking get a CE," Gyutaro muttered bitterly, his rugged features pinched with inexpressible chagrin as he gave up on consoling Upper Moon One entirely. At this point, Kokushibo’s head was flat on the table as he grumbled indistinguishably to himself.

Now, Muzan was no fool. He was well aware that this entire concept was expressed as a means of a joke, so to speak. It was entirely facetious simply because the very concept of a Demon King lowering himself to write petty fanfiction as vengeance was improbable. Nevertheless…

“Fanfiction, hmm?” Muzan mused to himself, not at all paying heed to the fact that Akaza was presently attempting to murder Douma in the background (“Take that, you bastard!” “Ooh, hit me baby one more time!” “STOP ENJOYING THIS ALREADY!”) and Kokushibo was in the midst of an existential crisis. This was how the first seeds of discord were sown into Muzan Kibutsuji’s mind, unravelling into sinister plot of vengeance.

This marked the beginning of the popular fanfiction phenomena that was: Fifty Shades of the Demonslayer Corps…

In the Demonslayer Corps, there were many obstacles you had to face and overcome. It was part and parcel of what shaped each one of them into the fierce fighters they were, hardening and strengthening their bonds and souls like the folded steel of a katana.

When they trained: they trained themselves to death. Therefore, after dealing with Rengoku-san putting him through ‘warm-up’ endurance exercises from Hell for the past two hours, needless to say, Tanjiro was not in the best of moods.

Then Zenitsu had to make it worst.

“Tanjiro! It got updated again! I wonder what this chapter is about.” Zenitsu was all but bubbling with excitement, the blonde boy practically frying Tanjiro’s braincells with the sheer number of sparkles he exuded as he waited for the chapter to load on his laptop. Tanjiro understood that some people enjoyed reading fanfiction and he had to admit that there were some works that were really intriguing and well written. He found the fiction describing his and Nezuko’s role reversal being particularly moving.

However, the good always comes with the bad and when it came to the specific fiction Zenitsu was hooked on, it fell straight into the latter.

Sighing aloud, the russet-haired rookie demonslayer winced as he approached Zenitsu, absently massaging the back of his neck as he grimaced at his friend. “Honestly, Zenitsu, I don’t understand how you read this stuff.”

“Well, excuse you. Fifty Shades of Demonslayer Corps is a work of art meant for mature audiences… Besides, I love how Dark Lord made Uzui gay for Rengoku-san. It’s hilarious,” Zenitsu snickered beneath his breath, reaping far too much enjoyment from the suffering of his fellow corps members. Then again, Zenitsu did laugh so hard that he fell off his chair when Dark Lord (the author of the aforementioned popular fanfiction) posted a chapter featuring an Inosuke, Sanemi and Tomioka threesome. Tanjiro had to prevent Shinezagawa and Inosuke from smashing the laptop and poor Tomioka-san was depressed for an entire week.

After several similar incidents –namely, the crossdressing Master, Shinobu the naughty nurse and Mitsuri the dominatrix –that resulted in many near-death experiences, Tanjiro had taken a decided stance against this fanfiction. However, didn’t deter Zenitsu from reading it.

“Look, I get that you find this funny. But stories like these can be very insensitive to the people they’re written about,” Tanjiro explained as he began reading over his exuberant companion’s shoulder. “It’s completely twisted and makes everyone in the Demonslayer Corps out to be sadistic deviants who– Wait, is that smut of Nezuko and I?! DID THEY MAKE ME OUT TO HAVE A SISTER FETISH?!”

He was appalled. No, he was sickened to the very fibre of his being. How could anyone think of something so, so demented?! Nezuko was his sister. She was practically a child and people actually liked this… Oh God, no, he was going to be sick.

“EHHHH?! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING. HOW DO I REPORT THIS?!”

Tanjiro desperately began scrolling through to find the report tab, determined to make this author pay somehow. Unfortunately, in his rush to seek retribution, he didn’t notice the way Zenitsu had fallen deadly quiet. At least, not until the air began to pulse and crackle with electricity.

Uh oh.

“Uhh, Zenitsu?” Tanjiro began.

“Tanjiro…have you been doing these things to my precious Nezuko?” Zenitsu’s voice was deadly calm, the deadly calm before the most vicious of storms.

“W-what?! Zenitsu, of course not! Nezuko is my sister! I would never –”

“Thunder Breathing: First Form.”

“ZENITSU, WAIT!”

“Muzan-sama, don’t you think this has gone far enough?” Kokushibo asked, half-exasperated, half-resigned to his words not being heeded as he observed his Master post the latest chapter of his popular fanfiction. If anything, he had to admit that he was impressed that Muzan managed to create such a wildly successful story as revenge for the traumatic fiction they had encountered previously. However, the Kamado sibling incest hit a bit too close to home for him (after his own traumatic experience with sibling incest fanfiction).

Muzan sipped his tea with an expression of utter satisfaction. He could cause chaos for the Demonslayers without even stepping a foot out of his office. It was a win-win for him.

“I regret nothing.”

[trashcritter]

Writer Interview Tag!

Ngl kind of chuckled to myself when @lolliputian tagged me in this, because I hardly consider myself a writer. I’ve written two full stories, only published one of them on ao3, that doesn’t feel like it counts. BUT. The questions were intriguing and I liked filling them out and thinking about this stuff. I’m tagging @boobcratchit and @el-inle and @poetryvampire and also anyone else who wants to steal this.

When did you start writing?

I mean as a kid I thought of myself as something of a creative writer through middle school, but something changed in high school where I suddenly decided I couldn’t do it anymore (probably just being an anxious perfectionistic teenager, honestly), and I transitioned to solely academic writing. I went to law school and became strictly a legal writer—and a damn good one. But I left my last writing-heavy job in 2020 and basically didn’t write anything until a couple of months ago, where for some reason I finally was able to rip the bandaid off.

Are there any specific themes or genres that you enjoy reading other than what you write?

Sci fi, horror, and I’m also a sucker for brain candy romance novels.

Is there a writer that you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Lol almost nobody is reading anything I’m writing yet, so no one is making any comparisons. I’m really just in a fact finding and developing phase of my writing as a creative pursuit—everything I’m reading I’m trying to think of what I like about it and how those things are being accomplished. So I guess I’m trying to emulate everyone right now as I work to find my own preferences.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I’ve been doing a lot of writing on my phone of all places. For whatever reason, it’s the cheat code to bypass the “writing = SERIOUS BUSINESS” panic moment in my brain that has kept me from transitioning from legal writing to writing as a creative pursuit. Occasionally I’ll hop on my desktop computer, and that is where I do most editing.

What is your most effective way to muster up a muse?

I don’t know yet! I’m mostly a visual artist, and I know that in that realm the best thing I can do for an idea is get it down on paper or in clay ASAP. I’ve been doing the same thing with my writing. Have an idea? A few lines? Throw it down in a new note. I find the ones I keep coming back to, whether it’s a project or a story, are the ones that are ready to have something made of them.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

I’ve been really interested in grief and loss as of late. My first piece that I shared with the world earlier this summer is on its surface a really sweet happy little story, but it’s driving point for me was one of grief, and I’m not sure it reads as super bittersweet (it wasn’t intended to), but I know that it’s a very bittersweet story at least for me personally. I keep coming back to a piece lately that is more obviously about immediate loss as well as the consequences of old loss that has gone ungrieved.

Something that is less of a theme and more stylistic is I’m very interested in the flow and musicality of my words. All of my best physical art has a certain movement and musicality to it, and I feel like I’m constantly trying to bring that into my writing as well.

What is your reason for writing?

When I wrote as a large part of my career, I loved the power behind my words. I am a really good legal writer. I’m persuasive as fuck and I am excellent at evoking the emotion and the viewpoint I want my reader to have. I loved that feeling and found that I missed it once I stopped. So I write to recapture the feeling of command and control over language, for one. But also I write because it gives a voice to the words that I would say naturally if I could, but don’t really seem like they belong in every day speech. And I’m finding that I enjoy putting my blorbos in situations and seeing what they do. It’s imaginative in a way that is very different from visual art. Finally, it’s giving me a place to process things in a new way. And I really love being able to share those thoughts and feelings with others; we both discover we aren’t so alone when we connect over writing.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment that you find particularly motivating?

When people call out individual snippets of writing that they particularly thought were beautiful, that brings me such joy. But otherwise just getting encouraging notes has been great. I’m so new to this art form, I know I’m still very much a developing writer, and that things are rough around the edges. But being able to be welcomed by others and have fun with them is really wonderful.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I have no idea. Somebody called my writing very introspective, and I really felt proud of that comment. I think it *is* quite introspective, and I like that. I like taking the inner world and giving it voice.

What do you think is your greatest strength as a writer?

I have no idea what I’m doing. No really—there’s a freedom to being a beginner that you can’t get back. I don’t think my writing is always very effective yet, but I do think it’s honest and unconstrained. In time I’ll learn to build guardrails and give it more shape, but the key I think is maintaining that honesty. And that’s hard to do once you know what you’ve been doing “wrong” the whole time. I’m in no hurry to learn lol.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

Oh this is all purely self indulgent bullshit.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I’m pretty self conscious of it right now because I can tell it’s not where I want it to be. And of course it isn’t—I’ve been practicing this skill for a few months, tops? I think it’s better than average for that timeline, but it’s by no means great. I’m trying to be okay with not being great though—it’s good practice for me (or so my therapist says ;) ). I think I’ve got some good ideas, and occasionally lightning strikes and I can create a really solid few sentences. But I can’t yet do it consistently. I just don’t know enough yet. But I’m having *fun* and nobody is paying me for it, and it’s nice to just be able to let something be.

[andromedaexists]

WUPDATE: Incorrect Eyes

𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 𝟷𝟽𝚝𝚑 || 𝚁𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎

WELCOME BACK TO INCORRECT EYES SHENANIGANS!!

Over this past weekend some magic happened. I told y'all that I would be returning to Incorrect Eyes in an attempt to get it ready for my editor by the end of the month. Well, it's done! Within the span of two (2) says, I finished drafting and re-wrote all 10k words of Incorrect Eyes!

"Wait, I thought this was a novella, Andi? Isn't a novella at least 17.5k?"

Yeah, it is. That means that Incorrect Eyes is not a novella, but a novelette. This was something that I was hung up on for a long time, because I felt that the story was perfect in it's short form but I wanted to expand it. Well, I expanded it as far as I was comfortable doing and I landed at 10k.

Even still, I will be publishing this as a standalone! It will be roughly the same length as In The Hands of an Angry G-d by Claude Hamesh and I will be publishing just like they did!

More information will come as I have it! For now, I am waiting to receive the cover art from my lovely artist. I have also sent the revised draft to my amazing editor for whenever he has time to start working on it. I will be reaching out to an interior illustrator sometime this week about doing chapter illustrations and maybe also custom chapter headers. We'll see!

For now, let me leave you with the last sneak peek snippies for Incorrect Eyes before publication:

CW: Catholicism and the guilt and shame associated with it

But as I pass the church again, I stop. The church is beautiful; stark in contrast to the buildings around it. It puts them to shame, just as I remember my pastor back home doing. Shame. The one thing the church accurately teaches. Well, that and guilt. Two sides of the same coin, both telling me that I fucked up. What did I do? Doesn’t matter, I’m going to Hell either way. There’s a glint of something in the stained glass windows—almost like eyes tilted down on me in condescension—that asks me to come inside. Asks me to enter the confessional, to pray for my soul despite the years of sin I’ve accumulated since I’ve left the church. Despite the fact that I’ve turned my back on God. Despite everything.

And one more for good measure: (CW: injury, pain, blood, mentions of hallucinations)

The doors slam open as I hurtle my body weight through them. The impact slows me for only a moment before I’m stumbling through the threshold and falling down the steps in front of the building. I land hard on my knees and wrists, sliding across the concrete until I finally come to a stop. Streaks of red decorate the rough concrete, they’re all I’m able to focus on as I try to reign in my ragged breathing. My heart is pounding, my blood rushes in my ears. The swarm of eyes that had been following disperses into the corners of my vision once again, leaving me alone as I writhe in pain on the cold hard sidewalk. I hate this. I fucking hate all of this. I’m being used for entertainment, thrown around like a toy for something greater to watch. It makes me feel small, useless. Makes me want to crumple in on myself until there is nothing left. Water droplet stain the concrete below me as I start to cry. My head bows until my forehead kisses the ground and I let it all out. I try not to scream, I really do. Instead, I hear the pathetic whimpers that fall from my mouth as I let the pain run through my body.

TAGLIST

@winterandwords @crypticcodexcreations @inkspellangel @smol-feralgremlin @joswriting @love-whatit-loves @annetillney

Please fill out this form to be added or ask to be removed!

[little-engineer-who-cant]

When the past knocks on her door, Silena has to come clean

Part 4 of Sirens Scream Names Forgotten by Tomorrow, Laid to Rest in Infinity

(Chapter 1 under cut)

Chapter 1: That's the Nature of Secrets, Dark and Deep, Waiting to be Found

Summary: Silena opens her door.

“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”

- Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky) 

There’s a knock on her door, one that lights the rune next to it, one that whispers if you know how to listen and Silena knows. There’s a demigod at the door. Not unexpected, not really, there’s always a part of her that’s ready. 

So she opens it, bracing herself and-

No, no, no, please, why do the gods hate me so much that it’s you?

“Silena?” Clarisse whispers, blood dripping from her mouth and left arm, onto the ripped and faded carpet in a steady stream. Silena should shut the door right fucking now. Bolt it, grab a knife, if she was smart , she would run like hell. Get out of dodge before this barely coherent house of cards comes crashing on top of her. Death by a thousand cuts.”Are you… real?” I can’t turn you away, even if it burns everything down.  

Burn everything down? It was ashes the second Clarisse came to Gotham, even if neither of them knew it then. But she’s still bleeding all over the hallway, so instead of burning, Silena shuts down.

Compartmentalizing. That’s what her textbooks call it anyways.

“Come in.” She goes through the motions. Nectar first, a gulp, then two, down the other woman’s throat to stabilize her. Heal some of the smaller injuries and reduce her susceptibility to the larger ones. Fresh clothes, bandages, stitching supplies, splinting tools, everything she needs pulled out of her perfectly packed and carefully hidden medical cabinet in the wall, slipped behind a large painting that had cost her an arm and a leg at an art fair. Focus.

“What are you doing here?” Clarisse demands, keeping very still and breathing as steadily as she can while Silena peels away the bloody and torn jacket, revealing a deep and jagged cut on her upper left bicep. 

“Living.” That’s the safest answer, the closest to the truth that doesn’t also mean hiding from everyone like you.

“Living?” The raspiness of that breathing betrays the reality of just how injured the daughter of Ares really is. The bleeding arm has become Silena’s least pressing issue. The swelling and the concerning amount of blood staining her teeth indicate some possible facial fractures. There’s no obvious sign of an entry wound anywhere but the arm, but punctured organs were a high possibility depending on which rib was broken and where. If there’s a punctured or perforated lung, Silena may not be able to help at all.

“Lay down, I need to check your ribs.” She can’t let a conversation spiral, she’s not ready, she’s never been less ready. I thought I’d have some warning. A child’s fantasy, one she’d clung to like she’d have time to don her metaphorical armor before going to war with those who she used to be friends with, those she’s fought against before. Only now, it wouldn’t be the guerilla tactics of her infiltration, it would be guns blazing across no man’s land, into the trenches they’d dug out of self-righteousness and denial.

She’s never been good in a straight fight.

“Not until I get some answers.” 

“First I need to check for broken ribs.”

“I’ll live. Now start talking, Silena, or I swear to every god I will-” No, no, no, no, not now, please, you can’t do this to me now-

“Stop talking!” she screams, clapping her hands over her ears and there’s no controlling the heat in the words that pour from her throat, and into the air around them. It’s inevitable, the way Clarisse freezes in place, face slackening and eyes going hazy in an all too sickeningly familiar facade of compliance. Just like she had stopped in place and stood without protest while Silena stole her armor for a suicide run. Just like she’d had no choice-

Instantly, she claps both hands over her mouth, scrambling away, away, away, get away, you lost control, you can’t lose control- stumbling over an end table and sending her favorite mug crashing to the ground to shatter. No, no, no-

“Silena,” Clarisse shakes off the charm , like a dog emerging from water, refocusing her eyes and extending her hand. Trying to hide a winch and hitch of breath that Silena tracks like a bloodhound, broken ribs-

“No,” she chokes, trying not to breathe, trying to shove every sound back into her own throat, strangle it all at the source-

“Silena!” And she can’t do this, I can’t lie to her again, I can’t see her like that again, I can’t, I can’t-

She risks it because the other option is Clarisse getting too close, close enough to stop you, dropping one hand to her neck and applying pressure. If she passes out, she can’t talk, she can’t hurt anyone, she can’t control anyone-

Clarisse vaults over the couch, heedless of the blood and injury and pain, ripping Silena’s hands away from her own body and yanking her close, arms fastened behind her own back. 

“No,” she whimpers, struggling against a grip like iron, you’ve never been able to fight, you’ve always been a spy, “Clarisse-”

“I looked for you,” and that immobilizes her better than any hands, that broken whisper, the brutal despair in her best friend’s eyes. “You vanished.”

“I didn’t want to be found,” it’s an admission and self-condemnation all in one. Penance, that word pulses between them.

“Percy-”

“Fuck Percy!” Silena explodes, violent in a way she’s never let herself be before but this is my life and you’ve walked back in like I owe you- “Fuck Percy and fuck the empty words you all spouted. I know the truth, Clarisse! I know you all were lying! I could feel it, all of it, all of you. Do you know what hate tastes like? How it feels to swallow around distrust? I couldn’t taste food, Clarisse! I woke up starving and instead of bread, all I could taste was how much everyone in that medical center wanted me dead!” Her breath is too fast, her heart beating too hard but she can’t stop- “How could I stay?”

“How could you leave?” Clarisse demands, tightening her hold. There’ll be bruises in the morning, she can feel it. “How could you not try?”

“Try what? To earn my penance on everyone else's terms? To lie and express my regret?” That gets the grip to slacken, that lets her worm free.

“You-” and oh, Clarisse is shattered by this revelation but it’s true, “you don’t regret it?”

“I-” Charlie. “I regret the Princess Andromeda. I…” Silena swallows around that old friend named grief. “If I could change the past, I would change that.”

“But nothing else?”

“No.” And that’s the worst part. Because Silena has had a long time to reckon with her decisions. But most of them… Most of them are ones she can live with. Most of them aren’t making her lose sleep at night.

That one does.

“How…” Clarisse steps back, shock and horror plain on her face. “How can you not? You… You betrayed us!”

“I did what I thought was right.” And even if I was on the wrong side, I was right. That’s the one conclusion she’s been able to draw. Luke used the worst methods, but what other avenue would have worked? How many millenia have other demigods been trying and failing? It was always going to come to violence to get what we deserved. “The gods would have never listened to reason, Clarisse. It was their own hubris that wrote that prophecy. And like all the other prophecies, we are the ones who went to war for it.”

“I-” whatever she had been about to say was cut off by an oof of pain, the daughter of Ares staggering forward and onto one knee. “Fuck ,” she breathes. 

“What happened to you?” Silena hesitates for a beat, you have helped worse people than her, why are you hesitating, then creeps forward enough to get a shoulder under the taller woman.

“Crazy costumed fucker-” Clarisse gasps and cuts herself off. Adrenaline’s gone, shock could be incoming. Whatever high she had to suppress the pain, it’s all gone now. Silena quickly puts one hand over Clarisse’s heart, hammering away strong and steady. A little fast, but not worryingly so from what she can tell. Then she moves her fingers to Clarisse’s neck, relief coursing through her at the rhythmic pound of a good pulse. Need to monitor that.

“There’s a lot of those.” Silena uses her position as a support to start taking inventory of the woman’s battered torso. Her shirt isn’t too bloody, a good sign but then her fingers hit a bump far too close to hip bones for anyone’s comfort. Definitely at least one broken rib. She can feel where the bone is separated. Fuck, heightened chance of perforated organs, need to watch that too-

“The one in a batsuit. Had a kid with him.” Silena’s hands freeze.

“Why did he attack you?” she whispers, ice shooting down her spine, there are no meta-humans in Gotham. And of all the people to find her here, it’s one of the ones who can be spotted as more from a mile away.

“Fuck if I know.” I can’t address this now, not with the tile under their feet getting wetter and wetter with blood slipping off Clarisse’s arm. It’s already going to be a bitch and a half to clean up, no need to add to it.

Shock position first. Then flush and stitch the arm to stop the bleeding. Then assess the bruising and fractures. If she had a punctured organ, there’d be more signs after she jumped over the damn couch. She needs to stop the bleeding, keep Clarisse’s heart rate steady and not deprive it of any more blood.

“Lay down, I need to stitch your arm.” It’s not the first time someone has bled on her couch, it won’t be the last. It’s why she got the very uncomfortable vinyl covers that Jason makes fun of her for. Easy to wash, easy to conceal. “This is going to hurt.” 

“I know,” Clarisse accepts the rubber wafer Silena hands her with a grimace and obediently tries to help elevate her feet on the tall, firm cushion Silena puts at the end of the couch. “Just get it over with.” And she shoves the black brick into her mouth and Silena turns to get a saline flush.

—

She braces on the rickety side table, a rag clutched in one hand, head bent between her biceps, and she breathes. Clarisse is here, in Gotham, and has been beaten half to death by Batman. Batman. Of all the people who have crossed her doorstep, none of them have managed to run afoul of the various guardians of Gotham until now. 

It had to be you, she stares at the closed eyes of her one-time best friend, the little scowl of pain between her brows, the discomforted curl of her lips, it had to be you. 

She’s too tired to be angry. This life, it was always on a time limit, wasn’t it? A borrowed clock ticking down the seconds until she had to start again. Soon, that’s been the mantra of her life since the end, but it’s the truth. Soon. She’ll have to run, go somewhere else too dangerous to look, start her network over. It was always going to happen, this was never a permanent solution. What is your plan? What was ever your plan? She has enough money to drop and go, she can get papers easily, charm herself a new job-

“What the fuck is this?” Her heart stops at Jason’s rough snarl.

Soon has suddenly become never.

She crashes, falling to her knees and staring sightlessly at the slowly coagulating pool of blood on the tile that all belongs inside of the woman passed out on her sofa with a dangerous amount of nectar shoved down her throat. End of the line.  

This was always something she vaguely feared, but never really believed would happen. Unimaginative. Now, she’s reaping what she’s sowed. What is your plan? a little, mocking voice in her head asks snidely.

A rag. That’s her plan. There’s blood on the tile, from where Clarisse had dripped all over during their scuffle. It needs to be cleaned. She has a rag. A plan. A lifeline. 

What else can she do? Run? She’ll never outrun a bullet. And the blood needs to be cleaned up anyways. It’s the least she can do, despite the awful state of this building. Her landlord was always kind enough to not ask questions. Eye for an eye and this whole city is playing blind.

So she unclenches her hand, folding the cloth neatly like that will change the fact that it’s wiping up the blood, not looking up at him, not answering. Just breathing, tasting his shock like a lightning bolt on her tongue, wrinkling her nose as it tangled with the ongoing thrum of Clarisse’s muted pain like cracker jacks and caramel kettle corn, too sweet to be pleasant. She wipes and waits. It’s said that a bullet to the head is quick and she’s not stopping him, practically handing him the back of her head on a silver platter, he’d make it quick.

There’s a rustle and a clink and she waits. The blinding pain never comes. His hand does instead, covering hers. She stares at the back of it, at scarred knuckles and the little tendrils of ink that creep down from his wrist. 

Wordlessly, he takes the rag from her and starts wiping at the bloody tile, brow furrowed with thunderous thoughts, eyes dark and emotions tasting more sour than an unripe lemon, but he’s here and she’s alive. Even if this calm before a hurricane doesn’t last, Silena loves him for it. 

She gets a second rag.

[x-authorship-x]

2022 Creators Self-Love Extravaganza!

Rules:

It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works (fics, art, edits, etc.) you’ve created this year and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2022. If you don’t have five published works, that’s fine! Include ideas/drafts/whatever you like that you’ve worked on/thought about, and talk a little about them instead! Remember, this is all about self-love and positive enthusiasm, so fuck the rules if you need to. Have fun, and tag as many fellow creators as you like so they can share the love!

This post is inspired by @bubblesthemonsterartist - thanks for bringing it across my dash! ✨

1) THE 'A' IN ANBU STANDS FOR (SURPRISE) ADOPTION

I love feel-good found-family fluff fics and this one served a side of comedy to boot. Writing this was really therapeutic at a stressful time in my life and I was feeling really guilty for not keeping up with my longstanding Shisui Series (HOPE AU, including completed work 'No Tomorrow' (NoT) and ongoing sequel 'Until Dawn Breaks' (UDB)). Writing Shisui is always my favourite thing to do, he's such a comfort character to me even if I'm making him hurtle through life and death situations or wacky AUs. This fic kind of encapsulated that, the joy I find in him as a character, and making sure he's loved and supported too. The fic started when I asked myself all the possible points in time for Shisui to transform what happened in canon; one of them was 'Itachi is under crazy pressure... How can Shisui protect him?' and 'legal guardian the shit out of his baby cousins' was the immediate answer.

Summary: Shisui didn't know why Raidou was giving him disappointed looks. It wasn't like Shisui had much of a track record for letting things go, for going with the Status-Quo and ignoring what was happening around him. Or that this was the first, er, child acquisition - for any of them! - either.

Honestly, at this rate, they were going to be renamed Squad Toddler instead of Two.

It was Kakashi who grabbed this one, anyway!

2) Until Dawn Breaks

This is the sequel to my favourite shisui fic I've ever written. I planned the whole story out, multiple arcs, before I had even written a word for the fic itself. I spent days getting together a brand new timeline for the Narutoverse, I figured out a whole cast, their abilities and motivations and relationships, and it felt like the whole thing was hovering above the page, waiting to be written. Writing No Tomorrow (NoT) was literally the best thing I've ever done and I'm so proud of that fic, even if I would edit it differently looking back on it now. For Until Dawn Breaks (UDB), I was really conflicted on the plotline because of that phrase, 'no plan survives contact with the enemy'. I'm at a cross roads with the fic, part of me wishes I'd skipped this arc entirely, but I don't want to abandon anything so I'm forced to soldier through. I have to make a lot of big plot decisions and that takes a lot of time, which I don't have, and knowledge, which has faded over the past year or so. I used to only update when I had at least three more chapters finished ahead of time and now I publish as soon as it's ready, and I'm sad to have lost that routine. Writing is hard and it's supposed to be fun. I hope my readers understand that breaks are inevitable and they still come read updates whenever they arrive. The fact I updated this fic this year is a huge thing for me and I'm really proud that I could keep going through this rough patch with the fic and IRL.

Summary: Shisui had succeeded, destroying the man who was responsible for his death, in every way possible. Who had caused so much suffering... more than anyone could have foreseen.

(He gasped for air, throat parched and lips chapped and-)

But now came the hardest part; learning to live again.

(The ground felt as distant as the dim twinkle of stars scattered across the night sky.)

All was still.

(The air, the only thing surrounding him, felt stretched in his lungs, whipped his clothes and hair taunt from his skin, and streamed tears from his eyes.)

And then it wasn't.

3) The Red Istari

I submitted my thesis at midnight and planned this fic before I went to sleep. The first chapter was completed and posted within a day of that. This fic was a watershed moment for me, I had made a promise that I wouldn't write any fanfic whilst working on my thesis drafts until it had been completed and I stuck to that. I did some brainstorming, I have a lot of WIP ideas saved up, but I didn't write and I didn't allow my focus to shift. This fic was like a dam exploding and I feel like I'm still recovering for the enforced sabbatical. I'd attempted LotR/Naruto crossovers before but it always felt like there wasn't much of an audience for it and, whilst I like to think I write for myself, I do weigh up reader engagement too because I find it discouraging to post and get nothing nice back for my hard work. This time I didn't care, tbh. I watched the extended edition on loop in the final days of my thesis work and it felt like i had to write this fic or explode. I think it worked out nicely haha

Summary: The sky was aglow, deepest crimson washing over the land and undimmed by the bruise-purple clouds that clutched at the edges of the horizon.

The sands shifted beneath him, deep and perfect as only a desert that has consumed everything within it can be.

A staff of inscribed steel stood proud where it was stabbed into the sand, radiating heat against the side of his neck.

Somehow, he knew in his bones that there was nothing out there but him, the staff, and the golden desert.

He was alive, bare, and unwounded despite the blood he could feel stuck to his flesh.

This was not death.

This was… something new.

4) REVELRY

I once wrote a Bnha self insert and the whole experience of trying to make sense of the fandom and the canon verse was so bewildering that I never wrote for my hero academia again. Until now. I've read a lot of Bnha (seriously, my total ao3 bookmarks are in the 6000s now) and I have a lot of characters I adore but i never felt the urge to write for them like i did for this Tokoyami fic. Quirk science confuses me, I'm not one of those accounts who can theorise legitimately on the topic, but quirk Shenanigans and fuckery is something I can weigh in on a little more confidently. I'm ending 2022 by trying out a fandom i thought I'd never post about again. It's a nice bit of self character development, yeah?

Summary: “The shadow is the greatest teacher for how to come to the light.”

Others don't understand that a 'quirk' is not always a tool and that, sometimes, a family is two birds in the darkness of the night.

Fumikage is going to be a hero.

And so is Dark Shadow.

AKA

What if Tokoyami was the top hero student in his class?

5) WIPS

This last celebration is for my WIPs! There are a stupid amount of them, most will never see the light of day, but i love them all ❤️ they're wacky, heart breaking, ridiculous, fluffy, healing and badass! I'll spotlight a few of my favs from this year, since I pick out a snappy title, dramatic summary and aesthetic line divider before almost anything else haha

DRAGON (KAGE SERIES WIP)

“The hunger of a dragon is slow to wake, but hard to sate." ― Ursula K. Le Guin

Mikoto had been born into a Clan that, whilst not so foolish as to disregard its girls, preferred for them to stay at home, providing future heirs and fighters, than risking themselves in the field. Peace had only esasperated the expectations that a pretty girl made a prettier wife.

Mikoto, thankfully, was the daughter of Uzushio Ambassador Uchiha Kagami and Shiho the Silvertongue.

Her inner spark was tended, never stifled. 

The Will of Fire would burn brightly once more.

AKA

Mikoto had been born in a plum grove, nearly a month premature, exactly half way between Konoha and Uzushio. Her mother predicted that she would have an indomitable will. Her father declared that she was born between two worlds.

They were both right.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

HUNTER (KAGE SERIES WIP)

The Sarutobi Clan had long been in the service of the Daimyo. The Uchiha and Senju were Noble Shinobi. The Nara were Wild Healers, coaxed out of obscurity by their connection to the Yamanaka and Akimichi.

The Hatake had been Samurai, set apart by their own moral code and Clan culture.

They'd sworn themsleves to Konoha, allies with the Senju for centuries. They were Kin to the Nidaime, who was born of Senju Butsuma's second wife, and an integral part of the village founding. Their loyalty and skill had put them in the first line of defense and had proven their Clan's downfall.

Sakumo was the Head of a Clan of two. His wife, ambushed on a solo courier mission. His son and heir, strongarmed onto the battlefield far too young for all of his genius. The Hatake were in danger and Sakumo was their only hope.

The White Fang had played the loyal watchdog for too long. Konoha had forgotten the bite of white chakra and the savagery of a desperate father.

Konoha needed to remember why the rest of the known world rightly feared wolves.

╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠╣◍╠

THORN

"We, who wield power, adorn ourselves with flowers to hide the sting of our thorns." - L. Bardugo

They saw her ebony curls, eyes like cranberries, and the strength of her Genjutsu.

'Uchiha,' they whispered, fearful, wrong.

'Pretender', the Clan-born dismissed, sneering, ignorant.

'Clan', the trees seemed to murmur, a song precious few could hear these days, and swayed towards her presence. A leaf caressed her cheek, the soil humming underfoot, and branches curved to cradle her descent.

Kurenai had grown up in a civilian family and, whenever anyone looked at her, that was all they saw. The Yuuhi family were small, wide-spread, but had done well for themselves. Kurenai was their only child, the lone Shinobi in generations, and the secrets in her blood seemed to pound just beneath her skin. 

She wove roses into reality and warped the mind in her grasp until nothing was believable and the flourishing greenery was waved away as a trick of the light.

'Yuuhi,' they called her.

'Senju', the forest breathed.

And Kurenai smiled.

AKA

Kurenai wasn't supposed to reach Jounin until she was 25, and even that might have garnered too much attention. However, when she notices familiar chakra - like her, like her, like her - lingering around her friend, Kakashi, Kurenai stumbles across a conspiracy that spans decades.

Truth will out. And Blood runs true.

AKA

Kurenai has her Grandfather's eyes and her Great Uncle's chakra.

ෆ(⁠)✿ᘛ⋋⁠✿ෆ(⁠)✿ᘛ⋋⁠✿⁠ෆ(⁠)✿ᘛ⋋⁠✿ෆ(⁠)✿ᘛ⋋⁠✿⁠ ෆ(⁠)✿ᘛ⋋⁠✿

I'll tag: @looks-like-starlight @katlou303 @thekatthatbarks @ellorypurebloodculture @raendown anyone else who wants to play!

[conceptsformyowner]

Stored in the closet

Public Toy Journal #23

This week, the fate of my chastity was decided, and I spent several hours cramped inside my Owner’s closet.

🌄 Daily

Tuesday 🦵😫

On Tuesday, my Owner got me on top of them and used my body. They put their fingers in their toy’s mouth, made it lick them, told it how worthless it was, what a slut it was. After using it twice, my Owner put me next to them and forced their leg up my crotch and made me hump them while they orgasmed for a third time, making me kiss them all over and tell them I’m worthless.

Fuck

They kept me humping a bit longer, it was exhausting, frustrating, I wanted to come so bad. They made me say how much I wanted to come, over and over. They told me my orgasms belong to them. And that I’m not going to come right now.

After eventually mercifully allowing me to stop humping, we cuddled and took some rest.

Later that day, it was finally time. It was time to throw the die.

In case you’re unaware, this is the end of Locktober. After accumulating points via behaving well and helping them use me for orgasms, I’ve made my chances pretty good for this dice throw. Basically, we throw a d20 and (because of how many points I had) depending on the outcome:

My chastity ends now if it falls below 17

My chastity ends a month from now if it falls above 17

My chastity ends two months from now if it falls exactly on 17.

Here’s what happened:

I got 7!

We’ll now start applying the chastity points system we’d been planning for the last couple of days.

Am I looking forward to the orgasm session? Yes. Will I regret looking forward to the orgasm session? I think also yes.

I want to learn to hate orgasms. And this is the way to do it.

Wednesday 🛐🕓🕔🕕🕖🕗

On Wednesday, my Owner had to leave the house for a few hours.

Before they left, they told me to do a number of chores, then spend an hour working on my art, then write on my journal, and finally go to store myself in my room.

Naked and chained as always, I set up the videocall on my computer facing me, so that they could join in to check up on me whenever they liked, and then I got to work.

Once done, it was time to go get in my room.

I emptied the small closet space where I would spend the evening at least until my Owner arrived back home and released me. I grabbed my toy-let (a small bottle) and squeezed in. I placed the wooden panel on the side from where I entered, leaving me trapped in a small cubic meter (or a bit less) with only a small window to the outside above the wooden panel. Through the window, I reached over to the closet door, and finally closed it shut.

It didn’t seem that small. Like, yes, I could barely move. I couldn’t stretch my legs or torso, and my arms could barely pass by the sides of my body if I wanted to move them between my front and my back. But it didn’t feel completely trapped and hopelessly cramped…yet.

That’s what I came to realize eventually that day, at first it feels like hey look I have so much room in front of me! There’s a lot of empty space! But as the minutes and hours go by, I find that the amount of empty space doesn’t matter as much as the specific dimensions. Yes, sure, there’s enough space there to fit probably my whole bed (a large blanket and a couple small pillows) along with me, and I know that’s something my Owner is planning on trying, but all that extra space doesn’t help me because my position is still limited by the dimensions of the box. So the volume of my storage isn’t as important as the proportions, because the proportions are what determines what positions I can be in and how bearable and sustainable they are.

I was allowed to have my phone in there this time, since I was alone in the apartment and my Owner still wanted a way to talk to me and for me to be able to respond.

My responses, however, were limited to my toy-phrases. This means I could say yes, no, thank you, you’re welcome, ready, and other such simple phrases but always followed by “, Sir”. Exception was if they told me they love me I could say it back, and if they asked a questions I could also answer, always ending each sentence with “, Sir”.

I’d been made to put myself in storage at 16:16hs. Unable to do anything on my phone other than look at my chat with my Owner, it wasn’t until 18:16hs that I got a message. Two hours.

I lov u How r u? Enjoying your room?

[”How r u?”] ⮪ uncomfortable bored in pain hot and slightly suffocating, Sir [”Enjoying your room?"] ⮪ yes, Sir [”I lov u”] ⮪ I love you, Sir

[”uncomfortable bo…”] ⮪ Good Pretty captive toy

aaaaa yes, yes I am. I love being their captive, their toy. Just stored away and forgotten about. Its emotions or thoughts dont matter. It only exists to suffer and be used, and then to be stored away casually, without a care.

And yes, yes I was uncomfortable, bored, in pain, hot, and slightly suffocating.

I'd already been in there for two hours, which is the most time I had ever spent in there before thay day. I had luckily learned quite a bit from that experience, though, since the positions were much more bearable at that moment than they had been last time I had been in there for that long. I'd learned to relax my body and the difference it made was massively more significant than I would've thought, making it possible to be stored in there for much, much longer. Still, I was incredibly uncomfortable.

I was in pain, not really from the position, but from the prolongued contact with the hard wood or painted plaster surfaces that were now the boundaries of my reality. Also yes from the position, mainly on my legs and from the exhaustion on my whole body.

It was hot and stuffy, the air having grown quite thin and the temperature bearably uncomfortably hot.

The landmark of the view I had from in there was the small slit of light that emanated from the opening at the side of the not-hermetically-closed closet door. It shot one strong lonely beam of light into my small nook, giving me a limited view of the sky outside the bedroom window. Blue skies and birds outside my prison.

It was nice to have my phone to know how much time had gone by. It wasn’t an activity, nor would i call it stimulating but it at least provided me with some knowledge. I could sort of congratulate myself on reaching different checkpoints. One hour, two hours…three hours…

I saw the beam of light slowly turn a warmer color as it became dimmer and dimmer, leaving my phone’s screen as the only light. But even that wasn’t turned on most of the time, I only had use for it if my Owner messaged me.

However, I did find a sort-of loophole in my talking rule.

Alright I’m heading over to pickup something at @musingsformyowner before going back home.

🎉🎉🎉

Hsahsha I feel like I’m chatting with my aunt

😫🥵💨🌇🌆🏙️🌃 🔎🧛‍♂️❓🥺

I lov u I’ll be home soon My pretty toy I love that u r there waiting for me Imma give u treat when i get home as aftercare

🙀😻😻😻 I love you, Sir 🦁👋🐱

U want me to tell the kitty you said hi?

Yes, Sir

Ok

Thank youuu, Sir

[ 20 minutes later ]

Kitty got really happy you said hi

🥺🥺 💞💞

I’m coming back home now Are u ok?

Yessss, Sir 😩😫🥵😣====😍🥰😻😺

Hahsahhah lov u

Yes, who would’ve thought. The capitalistic artificial corporate-virtue-signaling “language” of emojis. That’s my new way to communicate via text with my Owner when stored or in toy-Mode.

I entertained myself exploring the emojis a bit, seeing how I could tell my Owner different things. I wrote this but didn’t get to send it:

🕐🕑🕒🕓🕕🕖🕗🕘🕙🕚 😳😍🙂🥲🙃😣😩😶🫥🥰🥰🥰

In any case, I had nothing to do but wait now, again.

I’m on the bus Start playing your audio loops and stop using your phone.

I quickly complied and started playing the degrading audioloops I transcribed in previous journals.

I then spent the next hour or so alone with my thoughts, as I did most of the time I was there. I’d have many ideas about things in there. I wanted to take pictures, panoramic pictures where you could just see my whole world from my perspective. A small box, my legs, the toy-let bottle. That’s it.

I had also spent time thinking about how long I could be kept there. I thought about being fed through the window, ugh, hot. I thought about being made to pee in the toy-let bottle, in full knowledge that the human bathroom was only 3 meters away, but it was not for me.

I had discovered I could lift the wooden plank blocking my exit. I could lift it half-way up, so that it closed the upper ‘window’ but also created an opening at the bottom. This helped a lot with the air flow, since the air could now enter through the bottom and leave through the top once it had heated up. I was surprised at how well this worked. It wasn’t easy, I had to intently pressure against it and not move much from there if I didn’t want it to slide back down.

I tried lifting it all the way up, so that now the window was now just at the bottom and omfg. Suddenly the space seemed a lot more enclosed. Seeing the walls meet the roof at all sides, and having the opening pretty much out-of-sight near my but made it feel very very enclosed. Damn.

While I was trying that I also thought about other waste disposal options of course, along with access to toy-parts that outside parties might want to play with.

All of that had been before the texting, 3 hours is a really long time.

Now that my Owner was coming home, I had been left to forcefully listen to my Owner degrading me on a loop, the sky outside now almost black, making any stimuli other than their voice disappear with the light.

I heard the apartment door open. I started getting really excited and horny and suddenly slowly active, even though I was exhausted and was probably wearing a very given-up expression on my face, which is my Owner’s favorite expression to have on my face.

A few seconds later, I heard water flowing in the kitchen. They seemed to be washing something.

Silence.

A window closing.

Silence. Only the degrading phrases looping loudly everywhere around me.

Another window closing. Probably to keep the bugs out now that it

🔊 ...you're only good for being tortured, used, restrained, and abandoned... 🔊

The room light was suddenly on, blasting my space with sudden strong orange light coming in through the gap at the side of the closet door.

I heard them enter the room. I heard them close the bedroom window.

🔊 ...you don't matter, the only thing that matters is what I want and what I say... 🔊

I then heard the shower. I stayed there while they showered, until it eventually stopped.

🔊 ...I use you whenever I want, in whichever way I want, for as long as I want... 🔊

They seemed to have entered the room again, sit down on the bed, and then finally open the closet door.

ALL THE LIGHT

A gush of fresh air hit me, along with the warm image of my Owner sitting there, freshly showered and looking slightly above me.

They reached above the wooden shelf that was my ceiling and took a shirt. They put it on and then finally, they looked at me and smiled. They greeted me happily, checked in with how I was, had me turn off the audio, then helped me get out and back to the world after 4 hours of storage.

They made me stretch for a few minutes, rearrange the closet with the things I had to take out to enter it, take a (actually amazingly nice) cold shower, grab a donut from the fridge, and then lie down with them in bed.

I felt amazing. They cuddled me and talked to me, we talked. Everything was great. I was still a bit subby and horny and I’m a slut so of course the first thing I thought was oh they could totally tie me up spreadeagle now on bed, to make sure I stretch, and leave me there.

Slut

I stretched a lot, enjoying the nice surface of the human-grade bed sinking beneath me, very unlike anything inside my little toy room.

I was happy. My body felt perfectly fine, only tired, but actually completely fine.

I am so happy.

⏰ Now

It’s two days late for this journal. The weekend was quite eventful but I need to get this published already, so I’ll leave that for the next one, as agreed with my Owner.

I love being their toy.

See you on Sunday.

[occult-roommates]

Awkward reunion

After his mom called him to tell him she knows he dropped out of college, Dawud assumed for some reason Audrey had snitched on him, since they talked about it the night before. But no, actually, he accidentally caused his own downfall. Shortly after hanging up with Audrey, he mindlessly posted on Facebook a selfie of him with Daniele clearly in front of the San Myshuno art museum, thinking to himself he’s gonna private it so only Audrey can see it...He forgot to do that. Maybe he should just stop going to the art museum with Daniele, nothing good ever came of it.

Now, how did his mom figured out it means he has dropped out. Well, let’s not forget that after dropping out, he lived with Audrey for about a year, and around once a mom, her mom, Jacqueline, came to visit her. She promised to keep the secret and not tell Farida before he’s ready, but at that point it’s been more than 18 months, and Farida finally knew he’s no longer in Oasis Spring. And so, Jacqueline told her the truth about her son’s whereabouts.

Now, it had been way more than a month, it was in fact almost July. Dawud tried to avoid his mom, which was hard as May was both Ramadan and her birthday month. So, when he finally got his two weeks off work, he decided to finally see his mom again, trying to make up for what was at that point almost two years of acting like he was dead. The first day after coming back home was incredibly awkward though, very little talking, quite obvious Farida was still pissed at him.

The next one appeared to be better at first. Farida was gardening happily, while Dawud laid on a lounge chair in his bathing suit, unable to believe it was not even noon and it was already scalding hot outside.

Dawud: I could not be a woman, like how do you even handle being dressed like that when it’s over a 100 degrees outside? Farida: I wouldn’t have told you how to dress if you were a girl. I can’t even get you to wear a shirt.  Dawud: I mean, I think if I were a girl I’d have more of an incensitive to wear a shirt cause not doing it is uh...illegal. But I don’t think I’d be able to wear a bra. Like, I tried Audrey’s one as a joke once and it was so uncomfortable I felt like I was wearing a straitjacket. Farida: What?

Ah, he said too much again. Well, at least he didn’t also add he used to just not wear underwear growing up, up until that day in middle school when he got his dick stuck in his fly and he had to go see the school nurse to free it. She doesn’t need to know that. I’ts also marginally more acceptable when you have roommates to walk around in your underwear than cock out.

Farida: I don’t even understand why you are like that. I thought you’d outgrew that like the fact you used to constantly rock back and forth or shake your hands agressively, especially around Audrey, and you two would make incoherent noises. It was cute when you were toddlers, not so much when you were 12. Dawud: I didn’t outgrew it, I was bullied out of it. I told you, you just never believed me.  Farida: And you still walk on your tiptoes when I told you it is bad for your back in the long term, and you can barely speak Arabic in spite of all my attempts to teach you. Dawud: Ok I get it I’m a fucking failure! Farida: And don’t used such words in front of me!

Getting mad, Dawud went inside and locked himself in his bedroom, as if he was a teenager again. It sucks, it really does. He tried so hard to make his mom proud, and it seems like it’s never enough...To be fair, he did messed up badly by lying to still be in school for more than a year, but still.

And then, as he was starting to regret being stucked here for two weeks, ruining his vacation, he received a very special text message from a very special someone...

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[ilovetheseattlemariners]

Lost the poetry contest

That was yesterday. I've been meaning to write to you for awhile. I feel like I smell like shit right now and I've been paranoid. I've been stressed. Last night I was lying in bed and I was ready to scream uncontrollably. I felt as though I was on the verge of dying.

Yesterday I found out that I had a bunch of poetry due for my intro CRWR class. That was a fun surprise for everyone. I'm just going to try half-assing some things and then end up turning in something that I really have no pride in just for the sake of getting a mark. Such a thing is one of the most depressing things in the world, and is intrinsic to trying to interpolate arts into academia. I've had the most terrible writer's block for so long, and yesterday when I found out that I'd lost the poetry contest any sort of possible motivation or passion or drive for my field instantly left me. I did finish James Agee's letters to Father Flye yesterday, though, and was kind of motivated a bit. And thought again of Ashbery's story, too. Some of the half-assed shit I wrote yesterday sound pretty good right now, even. Though I don't know. I've been trying this Franz Wright/Tang Dynasty style of sparseness in my writing, and it doesn't really feel like me? I honestly feel as though I've lost my voice. I feel too like I need to compromise myself for any sort of success. Nobody else really writes like me, and that should be a good thing but I end up hating it. I hate how people don't know how to respond when I read a poem. I hate not knowing whether or not my poetry is good. I hate not know what to do about it at all

That's poetry, at least. I feel like my prose is great, but that's because its prose. I read Jesus' Son in like two days, and it was some of the finest prose I've ever read. I need get on revising a piece of short fiction for my fiction class. Johnson's work should help me with that.

Improv on monday was pretty uneventful, too. I hit the shed last night and sounded great, which is of course how that works: you sound great on your own but suddenly you have to face a crowd and your playing has no body or soul. I mean, I was just in the practice room today and played until I fell out of love with myself. I don't think I love the cellist any longer either. It's just dry and sparse. I'm tired of having to start everything. And I mean that's just how she is but I know I can't live with that. But I always think of her. It's bad. I have a lot of thoughts about her being there next jazz jam and me really blowing everyone's socks off. Because last Mon nobody really said much about my playing. I mean nobody was really there. Its midterms szn — hence the aforementioned stress having me feel as though I'm perpetually falling to my death. But nobody telling me that I'm the greatest bassist they've ever heard, which I never really cared to hear back then because its all exaggerated lies but I guess lately I've been needing to have my dick jerked off. I've been needing to get lucky too. The girl said she was tentatively inviting me to her friend's house for a friend get-together over a movie, but I doubt that's going to happen now because I'm not putting in any effort and she doesn't have the inclination to give me anything. Its upsetting. I'm mad and I'm unloved. I mean I guess I could work my ass off trying to get her to perceive me but who fucking cares anymore. Just me. I care deeply.

Ran into my childhood friend again for the first time in god knows how long. She's ignoring me, I know she is. I tried hitting up her line the day after that awkward blocking thing happened and she didn't reply, and when I saw her yesterday I brought that up and she acted like she didn't see that. Alright. She's studying with my gym bro rn, too, someone else who is also ignoring me and I don't know why. I think everyone hates me. I have no real deep friendships and I have nothing going for me. I have a gig tomorrow where I'll be playing music that I don't care for at all and I'll probably get home late and have to clock into my fucking 9-5 and who cares at all who gives a shit. I better get away from you now to touch up this short story and then somehow get together the time to fucking write some poems. I bailed on my niece's jazz gig today like a jackass. Of course I wouldn't get a piece of nothing at all.

I should just call off work, right? I should just call all of this off and just fucking fuck off of it in all honesty. God damn I'm so fucking over it all.

[laerien]

Redownloaded this app out of pure impulse. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

In truth, I'm navigating through a hell of a shame complex, and I've come up with every excuse over the past fifteen years to not let myself heal. I'm willing to bet this isn't a rare occurrence for other children who felt most alive submerging themselves in fictional universes to make up for the lack of pivotal human connection based in reality. I added to the criticism of mega fans and "tumblr girls" because I thought it would clear my name in the eyes of people I wanted to impress (which, in reality, at my lowest, was basically anyone). I bathed in the criticism until it became part of my subconscious, so when I would inevitably open an Incognito Google tab to binge breathtaking fanfiction or incredible fan art like the depraved child/teenager/adult I was (which was so much of my own twisted doing), I stalled out.

The cycle of letting these preconceived notions inform (taint) my view of things I genuinely enjoyed continues, but I'm actively trying to heal now. I'm recently going through a long term breakup that encompassed my entire adulthood years, and I've been nothing short of forced to get to know myself again. The person I'm relearning really wants to share her love for fandoms without filtering her enthusiasm for the sake of who she think may accept her.

So I've spent the past several months leaning into that, but I'll admit I've got a long way to go. I've caught up on so many animated Star Wars shows, for example, that I've put off because of my venomous preconceived notions (and an ex who claimed to be a fan but, like many things in our failed relationship, didn't match actions to words). I've started commenting on AO3 works that are fucking incredible without the fear that someone in reality will find out my psued and call me out (though, I admit, I still use Incognito mode because I'm not quite ready to defend myself in the imaginary court room that makes complete sense in my head). I started drawing fan art that I'm pretty damn proud of (but still working my way to sharing it). And I restarted writing - mostly character studies and explorations of grief and love and life, but a nice nod to my unpublished Pearl Harbor fanfiction story (that I hand wrote a page a day for for 123 days straight when I was 14, then typed it all out, edited it, then made six alternate endings for, then changed names and made an original prequel story - something I clearly never revealed to anyone but look at me go!). I've also read a whole book in 4 days, something I haven't done since I started despising book reading due to the pressure of the academic system a decade ago. I could go on and on about it - and I probably will in another post - but Star Wars: Dark Disciple's depiction of the dark side is not unlike this shame complex I'm carrying on about. And, boy, do I love my eyes being opened like that.

So while I can't promise I'll stay long this time, this is something 14 year old me craved but could never admit. Like I said, I've got a lot to work on (I logged in and saw an unread message from 2017 from someone I went to college with and immediately blocked them in fear of them - who I haven't spoken to in years and has been nothing but kind and supportive of my fandoms - calling me out, I guess?). But I want to celebrate how wonderful these fictional worlds are with people, so I've got to get over this fear that I'd be found out and taken away from it forever.

I've got so many incredible people on the internet to thank, and I plan to. I've found comfort at my lowest points over the past decade and a half because others had the courage I had lacked: to share their feelings. Sounds silly put that simply, but what's wrong with that?

[star-anise]

Ok, I'll bite. What *is* the difference between Bridgerton and Jane Austen in relationship to their skirts?

Oh! Not in their costuming, just in their general *waves hands* everything. It's a comment I see a lot about Bridgerton: "Well, it's not much like Austen, is it?"

That's because there are 200 years of literary history between the two, and they have not been empty!

This ended up being 1.5k words, but when I put stuff under a readmore, people don't actually read it and then just yell at me because of a misread of the 1/10th of the post they did read. Press j to skip or get ready to do a lot of scrolling (It takes four generous flicks to get past on my iPhone).

First I'll say my perspective on this is hugely shaped by Sherwood Smith, who has done a lot of research on silver fork novels and the way the Regency has been remembered in the romance genre.

The Regency and Napoleonic eras stretch from basically the 1790s to 1820, and after that, it was hard to ignore the amount of social change happening in Britain and Europe. The real watershed moment is the 1819 Peterloo Massacre, where 60,000 working-class people protesting for political change were attacked by a militia. The issues of poverty, class, industrialization, and social change are inescapable, and we end up with things like the 1832 Reform Act and 1834 Poor Law.

This is why later novelists, like Charles Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell, are so concerned with the experiences of the urban poor. Gaskell's North and South has been accurately described as "Pride and Prejudice for socialists."

So almost as soon as it ended, people started to look back and mythologize the Regency as a halcyon era, back when rich people could just live their rich lives and fret about "only" having three hundred pounds a year to live on. Back when London society was the domain of hereditary landowners, when you weren't constantly meeting with jumped-up industrialists and colonials.

Jane Austen is kind of perfect for this because she comes at the very end of the long eighteenth century, and her novels show hints of the tremors that are about to completely reshape England, but still comfortably sit in the old world. ("The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant. Their children had more modern minds and manners.")

Sherwood Smith covers the writers who birthed the Silver Fork genre in detail, but there's one name that stands out in its history more than any other: Georgette Heyer.

Georgette Heyer basically single-handedly established the Regency Romance as we know it today. Between 1935 and 1972, she published 26 novels set in a meticulously researched version of London of the late 18th and early 19th century. She took Silver Fork settings and characters and turned them into a highly recognizable set of tropes, conventions, and types. (As Sherwood points out, her fictional Regency England isn't actually very similar to the period as it really happened; it's like Arthurian Camelot, a mythical confection with a dash of truth for zest.)

Regency Romance is an escapist genre in which a happy, prosperous married life is an attainable prize that will solve everything for you. Georgette Heyer's novels are bright, sparkling, delightful romps through a beautiful and exotic world. Her female characters have spirit and vivacity, and are allowed to have flaws and make mistakes without being puritanically punished for them. Her romances have real unique sparks to them. She's able to write a formula over and over without it becoming dull.

And.... well. The essay that introduced me to Heyer still, in my opinion, says it best:

Here's the thing about Georgette Heyer: she hates you. Or, okay, she doesn't hate you, exactly. It's just that unless you are white, English, and upper class (and hale, and hearty, and straight, and and and), she thinks you are a lesser being. [...W]ith Heyer, I knew where I stood: somewhere way below the bottom rung of humanity. Along with everyone else in the world except Prince William and four of his friends from Eton, which really took away the sting. But my point is: if you are not that white British upper-class person of good stock and hearty bluffness and a large country estate, the only question for you is which book will contain a grimly bigoted caricature of you featuring every single stereotyped trait ever associated with your particular group. (You have to decide for yourself if really wonderful female characters and great writing are worth the rest of it.)

So Heyer created the genre, but she exacerbated the flaw that was always at the heart of fiction about the Regency, was that its appeal was not having to deal with the inherent rot of the British aristocracy. I think part of why it's such a popular genre in North America specifically is that we often don't know much British history, so we can focus more on the perfume and less on the dank odor it's hiding.

And like, escapism is not a bad thing. Romance writers as a community have sat down and said: We are an escapist genre. The Romance Writers of America, one of the biggest author associations out there, back when they were good, have foundationally said: "Two basic elements comprise every romance novel: a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending." A strong part of the community argue that publishing in the genre is a "contract" between author and reader: If it's marketed as a romance book, there's a Happily Ever After. If there's no Happily Ever After, it's not romance.

It's important for people to be able to take a break from the stresses of their lives and do things that are enjoyable. But the big question the romance genre in particular has to deal with is, who should be allowed to escape? Is it really "escapist" if only white, straight, upper class, able-bodied thin cis people get to escape into it? In historical romance, this is especially an issue for POC and LGBTQ+ people. It's taken a lot of work, in a genre dominated by the Georgette Heyers of the world, to try to hew out the space for optimistic romances for people of colour or LGBTQ+ people. These are minority groups that deal with a literally damaging amount of stress in real lives; they are in especial need of sources of comfort, refuge, community, and encouragement. For brief introductions to the issue, I can give you Talia Hibbert on race, and KJ Charles on LGBTQ+ issues.

Up until the 1990s, the romance genre evolved slowly. It did evolve; Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan's Beyond Heaving Bosoms charts the demise of the "bodice-ripper" genre as it became more acceptable for women to have and enjoy sex. The historical romance genre became more accommodating to non-aristocratic heroines, or ones that weren't thin or conventionally pretty. The first Bridgerton book, The Duke and I, was published in 2000, and has that kind of vibe: Its characters are all white but not all of them are aristocrats, its heroines are frequently not conventionally beautiful and occasionally plump, and its cultivation to modern sensibility is reflected in its titles, which reference popular media of today.

This is just my impression, but I think that while traditional mainstream publishing was beginning to diversify in the 1990s, the Internet was what really made diverse romance take off. Readers, reviewers, and authors could talk more freely on the internet, which allowed books to become unlikely successes even if their publishers didn't promote them very much. Then e-publishing meant that authors could market directly to their readers without the filter of a publishing house, and things exploded. Indie ebooks proved that there was a huge untapped market.

One of my favourite books, Zen Cho's Sorcerer to the Crown, is an example of what historical romance is like today; it's a direct callback and reclamation of Georgette Heyer, with a dash of "Fuck you and all your prejudices" on top of it. It fearlessly weaves magic into a classic Heyer plot, maintaining the essential structure while putting power into the hands of people of colour and non-Western cultures, enjoying the delights of London society while pointing out and dodging around the rot. It doesn't erase the ugliness, but imagines a Britain that is made better because its poor, its immigrants, its people of colour, and the foreign countries it interacts with have more power to make their voices heard and to enforce their wills. Another book I've loved that does the same thing is Courtney Milan's The Duke Who Didn't.

So then... Bridgerton the TV show is trying to take a book series with a very middle-of-the-road approach to diversity, differing from Heyer but not really critiquing her, and giving it a facelift to bring it up to date.

So to be honest, although it's set in the same time period as Austen, it's not in the least her literary successor. It's infinitely more "about" the past 30 years of conversation and art in the romance genre than it is about books written 200 years ago.

[miekasa]

Mie, I’m begging for some Jean college au bf hcs - im literally so down bad for this man and the way you write men is just 🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻

Absolutely, not a problem 😌 I saved this ask as a draft a while ago when you sent it, sorry for just now getting to it. Anyway, I love Jean with my whole heart, best boy, best boyfriend <33

King of forehead kisses, and not even just because of his height in comparison to yours; he just likes it. He likes the feeling of pressing his lips against your skin, and making you feel safe.

Brings you tea or coffee however you like it every day without fail. If he can get it to you in the morning before work/school then he’ll do that, if not he’ll meet you some time in the middle of the day to drop it off. Your own personal courier just for drinks.

He… has a thing for long(er) nails. He loves the feeling of them against his skin, even if you’re not scratching to apply pressure—just you holding his hand them grazing his skin is enough for him.

That being said, he will pay for you to get your nails done. Actually, he’ll pay for… almost anything you want, but the nails benefit him as much as they do you so feel free to ball out.

He never blowdries his hair because he doesn’t... know how to do the back of it. You did it for him once and he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since, but he’s also too embarrassed to ask you to do/style it again.

On the subject of hair, he does do his best to style it and take care of it, but he’s a sucker whenever you play with it. Sometimes he feigns like you’re messing up all his hard work, but he’ll literally crane his head into your touch. He loves it. 

The first time he lays on top of you and you run your hands through his hair... top 10 most euphoric moments of his life. He tries to fight off the sleep threatening to take over him, but it’s futile. Give it 15 minutes at most before he’s knocked out like a baby. 

Dogs love him. Anytime you’re in a park or just taking a walk and there’s a dog around, it’ll come up to him and he looks adorable leaning down to pet it. He loves dogs, too! So he’s always happy to stop and pet them. He’d be a 10/10 dog dad. 

Has your name saved in his phone with two hearts at the end. Do not point it out.

Loves taking pictures together and if you guys are on a date, he’ll ask someone to get a picture for him. He just likes having them to look back on (and to send to his mom, later).

He doesn’t mind painting classes or videos or tutorials, but he hates paint by numbers kits. He claims that they have no sense of color theory and that it takes the originality and fun out of painting. Not to mention the quality of the paints isn’t great to begin with; all of which he takes very seriously.

It’s pretty cute actually, to see him get worked up over the paint kits. He claims that painting and drawing isn’t even something he takes “that seriously,” it’s just a hobby for him (one he’s insanely good at); but in moments like these, you can tell that he’s way more into art and art theory and history than he lets on. 

Huge movie guy, from animated movies to martial arts movies, Jean is usually willingly to give anything a watch at least once. When he’s high, he can go on about his favorite directors and art styles and movie details for hours if you don’t stop him. It’s super cute. Just don’t bring up Moana, because he’ll start crying. 

Arm around the shoulder kind of boyfriend for sure. It’s a casual way of keeping you near him and letting everyone know that you guys are together. Plus it allows for him to easily pull you into him for a quick forehead kiss when needed.

Listen. If you hug his arm, he’s on cloud nine. He tries to be nonchalant about it but he’s about three seconds away from his eyes rolling back in his head it feels that good to him. Bonus if you lean your head on his bicep a little—then he’s a goner.

He takes his bagels very seriously and believes that both you and him deserve nothing but the best quality bagels. He’ll grumble if a bakery gives you guys a less than favorable one and make a note that taking the long route to get to his favorite place is much more worth it.

Always makes you walk on the side furthest from the cars. If he notices you’re not, he’ll just shuffle behind you until he’s shouldering the street and you’re on the inside. 

He grew up on a kind of modern ranch situation; not exactly all the way in the countryside, but not isolate from the city, either. Because of this, he knows how to ride horses, take care of smaller farm animals, tend to plants, and yes he knows how to use a lasso. You wouldn’t know any of that though, because he never ever talks about it. The only way you find out is when he takes you to visit his mom’s house for the first time, and she asks him for a hand around the place. 

(He’s got a cowboy hat, too, but refuses to put it on. He got it when he was, like, nine, okay, leave him alone). 

When he thinks you look tired, he’ll wrap his arms around your shoulders to hug you. It’s usually followed up with a kiss to your head, and a promise that you guys will go home soon and get food on the way. 

He’s a really good cook. He just understands and flavors and pairings really well, so he doesn’t need a recipe to make something that tastes good; he just kind of knows what to add to get the balance he’s looking for. 

Naturally, he’ll cook for you. Especially if he finds out that you haven’t eaten all day/in a long time. He doesn’t care if it’s 11pm and it might seem excessive to make steak and potatoes with a side salad at this hour, he’s gonna do it to make sure you eat, and you are going to sit there and watch. 

He also bakes pretty well, though he isn’t as experimental with his baking as he is with his cooking. He usually sticks to what he knows, and it’s not cupcakes and brownies and cakes; he’s better at croissants, and cheesecakes, and canelés. 

Dating Jean means getting along with his friends. If you guys didn’t know each other before you started dating, be prepared to be ambushed by Connie and Sasha (after Jean stops hiding you away and gives them the green light lmfao). Neither of them waste time with the small talk and formalities; straight into mini golfing and beer pong. They make you feel welcome right away.

Sasha always teases that you’re too good for Jean, and that she might just steal you away for herself some day. Sasha is also Jean’s main confidant, so she really knows just how much he loves you, and yeah, she teases him for being lovesick, but really she’s happy for Jean. And proud of him for facing his feelings like this. 

Connie adores you, and you know he trusts you when he starts going to you for advice/help. Could be anything from schoolwork, to what color he should get his new shoes in. He’s also the one who, surprisingly, you have the sentimental talks with about your relationship with Jean. It’s easy to overlook, but Connie loves Jean, and he’s come to love you too; he just wants you both to be happy, so he’s there to listen when you need it. 

Jean waits outside of your classroom after you’ve had a test or presentation, usually with a drink or a snack, or the promise of taking you out as a treat. Always tells you he’s proud of you, and is there to comfort you if you think you didn’t do too well. 

He does not shut up about whatever major you’re in. It could be the same as his; it could be the complete opposite as his. He thinks it’s so sick that you’re doing it, you make it look cooler, you make it look better, and he’s certain you’re the smartest person in your program. 

He’s pretty serious about his studies, too, so he’s always down to study with you in the library whenever you’re both free. More often than not, he shows up after you, usually with food or extra chargers. He greets you with a kiss on the forehead, and asks you how you are while massaging your shoulders gently. If it’s been a while since you took a break, that’s the first item on the list, after that, he gets to work and stays with you until you’re ready to go, even if he doesn’t have as much work to do. 

He always sits across from you. This goes for when you’re in the library, or out to eat at a restaurant; Jean loves sitting across from you. He gets to see your face the best that way, and he adores looking into your eyes when you talk. 

He’s not... not a morning person. He’s not up at 6am ready to grind, but he wakes up before noon; let’s say 10am is his happy medium. That being said, if you wake up before him, regardless of the time, there’s a 9/10 chance he’ll lay on your back and tell you to hush so you guys can sleep for 10 more minutes. 

If you’re (close) friends with Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, Jean is... happy you’ve got people to rely on, but, “Of all people on the planet, you put your trust in Jaeger?” He acts so bitter (because he is), but deep down inside, he’s glad you have Eren to rely on if you need to. 

(Also, you have to humble him and remind him that he and Eren aren’t all that different. If you like him, why wouldn’t you get along with Eren, bye). 

Turns out though, that it’s not Eren who threatens to beat him up if he breaks your heart. It’s not even Mikasa, although, her threat goes without saying; it’s Armin he’s terrified of.

The last time Armin hated someone, it was this guy in your program, who happened to share a few mutual classes with him, too. Jean never knew the full story, just that he’s pretty sure that kid dropped out the following semester. 

If you have a job on campus, Jean usually doesn’t show up while you’re working (knowing how embarrassed he would be if you did that to him), unless you work the night shift and it’s dead. Connie, however, does show up; usually in some kind of crisis (“Please help me, I don’t know what the fuck APA formatting is and this is due tonight, please, please, please!!”). Your coworkers actually thought Connie was your boyfriend for a minute. That’s when Jean starts showing up more lmfao.

He makes it a point to go on a scheduled, night out, kind of date at least twice a month. He knows life gets busy with school and work and midterms, but he always makes sure you both set side a time to take a well-deserved break and be with each other. 

He’s the romantic type, so these dates are pretty swoon worthy, too. Drive-in movies, nice dinners, classy art exhibits, Jean plans it all. On that note, he really likes planning dates; he just doesn’t like talking about them with his friends beforehand. 

All in all, very romantic, very precious boyfriend. He’s always thinking about you, what you need, and how he can help you out. You’re one of his main priorities, and he just wants to treat you right.