#i want to make a coherent post on this but also I'm like half asleep lol

[hedgehog-moss]

Pls give recommendations for Odd books 🙏

Here we go, a list of literary oddity :) This post contains majestic spheres, alien taxonomies, cruel subway polytheism, a fourth-dimensional cat, disturbing earthworms, infinite space football, existential mussel terror, a Parisian absurdist time loop, and a picture of a telegraph-pole-man-cheetah. I'm not exactly recommending these books, in the sense that I won't take any complaints if you find them more odd than good, and some of them transcend the concepts of good and bad anyway.

• The Other City, Michal Ajvaz. It's all like this:

• Contes du demi-sommeil, Marcel Béalu ('Half-asleep tales') —is the book that prompted my post about stories that have no ambition or justification beyond being odd. I'm sad that it hasn't been translated :( One of the tales is about a strange opaline sphere that rolls on the road. It doesn't accelerate when the road becomes a steep slope but continues rolling majestically. At one point it floats away towards the sky. Someone wonders if it was the moon. Someone else says authoritatively "It was an angel's egg." Everyone is reassured by this explanation. The whole thing feels exactly like remembering a dream you had. There is also a man who reads too much and whose body atrophies so only his head is left and his wife puts it in an egg cup for better stability.

• Leonora Carrington— The Skeleton's Holiday, or maybe the Hearing Trumpet. I've read them so long ago but I think the latter is the one with the old ladies and nuns? There's also a guy who was murdered in his bath by a still-life painter because he said there was a carrot in one of his paintings, but it might not have been a carrot? It's hard to remember details from this book without feeling like I might be making them up. Bonus Leonora Carrington painting which kind of feels like a short story:

• The Codex Seraphinianus, of course. I wish there were more bizarre encyclopaedias out there.

Also I love this review:

• Sleep Has His House, Anna Kavan —I really liked the way this book used language; making life feel like a fever dream even more than in Samanta Schweblin's Fever Dream (which I really liked too.)

The eye is checking a record of silence, space; a nightmare, every horror of this world in its frigid and blank neutrality. The actual scope of its orbit depends on the individual concept of desolation, but approximate symbols are suggested in long roving perspectives of ocean, black swelled, in slow undulation, each whaleback swell plated in armour-hard brilliance with the moonlight clanking along it . . .

• The second half of Michael Ende's Neverending Story, where things get stranger! I remember the hand-shaped castle with eyes and the city of amnesiac former emperors and the miserable ugly worms who cry all the time out of shame then create beautiful architecture with their tears...

• The Gray House, Mariam Petrosyan. This is the one I had in mind when I talked about a 'museum of the strange, but one you wouldn't want to be trapped in after closing time'. Another book that made me feel uncomfortable in a similar (good) way was Edward Carey's Observatory Mansions, the protagonist of which is a man who curates an odd private museum and can't stand the sight of his own hands.

• Oh, speaking of uncomfortable, and hands—He Digs A Hole, by Danger Slater. To me this book was in the more-odd-than-good category but I liked its refusal to have a coherent philosophical meaning. It's about a man who can't sleep so he goes to his garden shed and saws off his hands and replaces them with gardening tools. Then he starts digging a hole. And then it gets weird. (Read at your own discretion if you have a worm phobia; there's some body horror featuring sexually aggressive earthworms. And then it gets disturbing.)

• 17776 — Someone sent me an ask a few years back to recommend this online multimedia narrative to me and I really enjoyed it! Here's the summary, borrowed from the wiki page: Set in the distant future in which all humans have become immortal and infertile, the series follows three sapient space probes that watch humanity play an evolved form of American football in which games can be played for millennia over distances of thousands of miles. The work explores themes of consciousness, hope, despair, and why humans play sports.

• Saint-Glinglin, Raymond Queneau —the author admitted that this book presents some "internal discontinuities." I didn't like it much but I respect the talent it takes to write a novel where everything feels like a random digression, including the key suspenseful scene that matters to the plot. The one digression I loved had to do with the way the narrator is existentially horrified by various sea creatures. It's like he dreads them so much he can't help but think about them when he should be telling a story.

The oyster... This gob of phlegm, this brutal way of refusing the outside world, this absolute isolation, and this disease: the pearl... If I conceptualise them even a little, my terror starts anew. The mussel is even more significant than the oyster and even more immediately admissible in the domain of terror. Let us indeed consider that this little sticky mass whose collective stupidity haunts our piers, consider that it is alive in the same way as a cow. Because there are no degrees in life. There is no more or less. The whole of life is present in every animal. To think that the mussel, that the mussel has, not a conscience, but a certain way of transcending itself: here I am once again plunged into abysses of anxiety and insecurity.

Near the beginning he philosophises about what would happen if a man and a lobster were the only two survivors of the apocalypse. The lobster would break the man's toe and the man would say, "We are the only beings that remain on this devastated Earth, lobster! The only living beings in the universe, struggling alone against the universal disaster, don't you want to be allies?" But the lobster would disdainfully walk away towards the ocean, and "the sight of the inflexible and imperturbable lobster pierces the sky of humanity with its unintelligible claws." (I can't overstate how little this has to do with the rest of the book.)

• Autumn in Beijing, Boris Vian —needless to say the story does not take place in autumn nor in Beijing.* To the extent that it can be said to be "about" something, it's about people trying to build a train station in a desert with tracks that lead nowhere. (I just went on goodreads to check the title, and it's actually called Autumn in Peking in English. I also discovered that it was featured in a list of Books I Regret Reading. I liked this book, but I understand.)

(* French writers love doing this—like when Alphonse Allais said about his 1893 book The Squadron's Umbrella "I chose this title because there aren't any umbrellas of any sort in this volume, and the important notion of the squadron, as a unit of the armed forces, is never brought up at all; in these conditions, hesitating would have been pure madness.")

• The Library at Mount Char, Scott Hawkins—I fear this one makes a little too much sense for this list, but you can't say it isn't weird; and I loved it and recommend it any chance I get.

• The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer, Carol Hill —this book was so wacky and made me laugh. I've not yet managed to successfully recommend it to someone; its brand of odd didn't resonate with the people I know who've read it but that's okay. You could say it's about a woman astronaut whose weird cat disappears into the fourth dimension (or the quantum realm?) and she goes to space to save him—but that makes the book sound more straightforward and less messy than it is. Her cat leaves her a note before he disappears:

• The Bald Soprano, Ionesco —fun fact, there's a tiny theatre in the Latin Quarter in Paris where this absurdist play has been staged every night for nearly 70 years, with the exact same set design and costumes and everything, like the actors are stuck in a time loop. They celebrated the 20,000th performance this year! There's an actress who has been playing her character for 40 years and said joining this theatre was like joining a religion. I've been going to see this play as a New Year tradition with my best friend since we were 14, so I love it madly, though I wouldn't say it's good, necessarily—the author said it was about "absolutely nothing, but a superior nothing."

• Statuary Gardens; or Les Mers perdues (apparently not translated) by Jacques Abeille. This man is obsessed with weird statues. Unfortunately I find his writing style rather dull—I feel like he takes strange ideas and makes them feel mundane in a bad way...! But his books still have a nice, quiet, oneiric atmosphere, and images that stayed with me, like a solitary gardener trying to grow stone statues in the depleted soil of a walled garden. Here are some illustrations from the second one:

I'll look into some of the books recommended on my previous post! (and I agree with the people who brought up Cortázar, Borges, and Junji Ito. <3) Some potentially-odd books I have on my to-read list: Clive Barker's Abarat, Goran Petrović's An Atlas Traced by the Sky, Salvador Plascencia's The People of Paper, Jean Ray's Malpertuis; Jan Weiss's The House of a Thousand Floors; Brice Tarvel's Pierre-Fendre.

[lvndrdaaze]

What are your thoughts about NSFW alphabet for Wriothesley? 🥹👉👈

I have so many thoughts about him, but hardly any are coherent (ᴗ_ ᴗ。) I'll do my best though asjakdks

I'm gonna make a post explaining my rules for requests, but just to let everyone know, I'll write NSFW or SFW alphabet headcanons for any Genshin men and some BSD characters, but I'll only accept requests for 3-4 letters at a time bc I get overwhelmed trying to write more than that at a time (,,>﹏<,,) I just chose a few letters for this, let me know if there's any specific ones you want me to write for Wriothesley <3

(gn!reader, NSFW so no minors!)

Wriothesley NSFW Alphabet - J, N, X

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Anytime he gets bored, Wriothesley thinks about jerking off. However, he doesn't often have time to actually go through with it, between receiving regular reports from guards and dealing with difficult prisoners, so he only gets as far as palming himself until his cock is half-hard and just beginning to stir in his pants before he's interrupted. This means that when Wriothesley does get the chance to go all the way, usually late at night when the Fortress is asleep, he's already been teasing himself for so long that it doesn't take long until he's twitching and moaning into his fist, clenched in front of his mouth to muffle the sounds. He prefers to keep this activity away from his desk at the very least, as not only is thay not a very sexy location in his mind, but he also wouldn't want to risk destroying any important documents when he cums. So instead, he half reclines on the sofa in his office, his head tipped back and his chest heaving as he strokes himself quickly with one hand and cups his balls in the other. When he cums, he does so freely, splattering his own stomach with his seed with a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Wriothesley is adamantly against hurting you. Up to a certain point, pain can be fun, but he doesn't ever want to risk crossing that line and causing you severe pain. He'll happily spank your ass and thighs until they're red with blistering heat, and he'll wrap a hand around your throat and squeeze slightly to show his dominance, but he refuses to go any further. He won't fully choke you or slap your face, partly because he doesn't trust himself not to cause you actual injury, and partly because those things aren't sexual to him. They're real and visceral, and he hates the idea of introducing you to them like that.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Wriothesley is big, and he knows it. It's around 8 inches, and so thick you can hardly wrap your hand around it comfortably. The skin is a little darker than the rest of him, and the tip is darker still and bulbous. There's no curve to his dick, and his pubic hair is dark and wirey, speckled with grey like his hair.

Feel free to request more NSFW/SFW alphabet headcanons! More info in my pinned post ^-^

[amypihcs]

Watson's charms strike again!

HELLOHELLO! Okay, i usually make crazy long posts, but this will be even longer than usual. Dunno if I'll include any gifs even if all of us would deserve gifs of Ted's handsome and smiley face.

SO LET'S GET STARTED!

Oh, such a nice scenery! They were tired from the journey, certainly, and morning brings new light and optimism. So good.

Unfortunately, not everything is just so good.

If both heard the same thing, neither were asleep. And in fact Watson is very much sure of what he heard.

I love that Watson is so alert and stays on his guard even if he's tired. It's so in character for a doctor AND a former soldier AND Sherlock Holmes' husband.

And in fact I guess that his bullshit detectors were blaring already when he saw Barrymore grew paler. Uhm. Detective Watson is on the case now.

Thanks for the bisexuality. And we need to remember his bias, THEIR bias, Watson's and Sir Henry's, toward the possibility that Barrymore might be the culprit.

In any case, his reasoning is sound and one handsome doctor hops out of Baskerville Hall and goes to the Grimpen post office!

Look at this cutie! And as he walks he thinks! How could it be that it was Barrymore in London if he was at the hall.

Oh well, simply common sense, logic and courtesy went down and nulled the telegram trick. Easy.

Holmes would have words for that, but the boy is innocent, how could he know? I don't blame him. He seems a nice lad.

And Watson is missing his husband SO. Hey! Who's there?

AAAH! the famous Stapleton, the naturalist! Watson flexes a bit his powers of observation and they end up going for a walk up to Merripit House. And we discover that Stapleton has OPINIONS.

On Sir Charles' death. Uhm... And he's also rather curious!

HEY! Why are you asking of Holmes? bah! Fans! Watson is answering well with 'i can neither confirm nor deny...' But yes. Rude!

Oh well. Once this FANBOY has been calmed down, let's resume the walk. You like this place, you say?

Watson would like to have a bit of sport, to get some adrenaline with a nice, fast ride but yeah.

BETTER NOT. Bogs are not to be trifled with.

W: OH WELL, THEN I MIGHT TRY! S: BLOODY HELL NO, NEVER, YOU'D CROACK BADLY. - Oh! A butterfly!

And then he be zooming.

Why so many people are so anxious to meet m- A-Woman. A-beautiful-Woman.

Watson.exe has stopped working.

-Say something charming- -NOT LIKE THAT JOHN!-

Well, Miss Stapleton knows what she wants at least. But she's not explaining a thing...

WO! Watson managed TWO coherent sentences!

And Beryl Stapleton has something to hide. And so does her brother... Interesting.

Sir... Henry? no? And no, there's been a misunderstanding. Watson is NOT Sir Henry, but now you've made the biggest gossip girl of the country curious.

Ah, some small talk now, right?

So nice that you want to call at the Hall, but no, I'm sorry, Mr Stapleton, I'm taken.

How can you just invite the admittedly charming man you have met not half an hour ago upstairs to see your collection of BUTTERFLIES, Stapleton?

Oh well, Watson takes his leave and he is missing his Holmes so much.

AND WHAT IS ALL THIS RUNNING AROUND HERE!??

Miss Stapleton is DEFINITELY hiding something and Watson has recovered enough neurons to try to charm her into revealing her secret.

Well, he fails the ability check.

She is persistent if nothing else.

SO! We met a strange couple fo siblings. Watson charmed and was charmed. And we learn that people are hiding things around the moor. Interesting.

We'll see now what comes down in the next chapter!

[rk1k-moved]

Hey, can I ask about your process when you create gifs? Like what programs and settings do you use to keep them so sharp and colorful while also compact enough to fit in a tumblr post? When I tried making gifs they were all mostly blurry and discoloured and I'm not sure what did I do wrong

heya!! of course you can! :D

disclaimer: i'm half asleep so i apologize if there's any confusion with my explanation.

i use just photoshop 2023 with the video frames to layers method. to keep the size manageable, i like to have at max sixty frames with 0.04-0.05 frame delay, but it's honestly personal preference with how fast or slow you want to make your gifs.

with coloring, i find that focusing on the more dominate colors in the color table help make the gif look smoother and reduces the amount of odd colored pixels that tend to be more prominent when too many are present. with my last set, red and yellow took up most of the color table. so i made to sure to focus on boosting those colors.

my base coloring usually rounds to eight layers and looks like this:

i use curves and levels to remove whatever tint is present while brightening it up a bit more, followed by two selective color layers: one for black and white set to absolute, and the other set to relative to make the reds and yellows pop. i fiddle with the other colors to reduce them a bit by adding in either white or black depending on how dark the gif already is, and of course color balance to even it out a bit.

my favorite part is adding the vibrance, usually cranked to 75% to 80%. since the colors are typically over saturated afterward i use hue/saturation to reduce it, but luckily with this set i only had to reduce them by -10 each vs the amanda set which i had to reduce every color by a lot.

the exposure is my own personal preference, by adding anywhere from +0.002 to +0.005 on offset to give it a sort of matte look.

when it comes to sharpening, it depends on what i'm giffing. with dbh i find that two smart sharpen filters (500% with a 0.3 radius, 10% with a 10% radius), gaussian blur (0.7, 25% opacity), and noise (1%, 50% opacity) look the best nearly every time.

when i finally get read to export, i use these settings:

i hope that i explained this at least somewhat coherently. if you have any other questions or need me to explain something better, please don't hesitate to ask! i'd be more than happy to help!!

[iguana-braces]

Y'all, I've been thinking about this fic all day and I finally ironed out a bit that was giving me so much trouble so--

Finally, here's a snippet of Chapter 3 of Tales from the Danger Zone!!!!

It felt like he had just fallen asleep when some kind of horn blared through the room. Just as Pete lurched awake, the room was flooded with blinding fluorescent light and he had to fight back the youthful urge to pull the covers over his head. 

"On your feet, cadets!" barked a voice from the doorway. Still partially blinded, Pete felt his way to the floor from the top bunk and stood at the end of the bed next to Nick, who looked like he was still asleep standing up. The clock at the end of the room read 0300 hours. 

Jesus, it's still the middle of the night. 

Strangely enough, slouching against a pillar in the middle of the room with a clipboard and a stern expression was– "Chuck? I thought you were one of us." 

The former veterinarian merely shrugged. "Never said I was." 

"You didn't say much of anything coherent last night."

Another man was at the other end of the room, also carrying a clipboard, who Pete vaguely recognized as having also been at the bar with them mere hours ago. Once all the men were on their feet, he scribbled something on his clipboard before he began speaking. "Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Ranger Williams, callsign Sundown. And this is my co-pilot, Ranger Piper, callsign Chipper." 

"Oh, great," Nick muttered beside him. "They have callsigns." 

So Kazansky and Kerner weren't the only Jaeger pilots in California. How many more were there? And how’d they get to be there? 

"For the next eight weeks, we will be your squadron leaders, your mentors, your brothers, your confidants. But anything we say is law. We say jump, you say how high.” Sundown circled the room, sizing up each of the cadets like a seasoned drill sergeant. Despite his resentment towards the ranger for being woken up so suddenly, Pete liked him already. “Hope you enjoyed your last taste of freedom last night, because you won't be leaving this base for a while. If you make it past the first training cut, you get a whole week off. Besides that, you get one free weekend per month. When that weekend occurs is up to you, but you have to get permission in advance."

"What about extenuating circumstances?" Nick asked, raising his hand. 

"Like what?" Sundown replied, backtracking to stand in front of the querying cadet. 

"Well, my wife's having our baby in a few months. I won't know when exactly until it, you know, starts happening. I’d like to be there if I can." 

Sundown glanced towards his copilot, who merely shrugged his response. Continuing his promenade around the room, Ranger Williams decided, "Exceptions can be made, but you better have solid evidence of those extenuating circumstances. I don't want to hear that all of a sudden, twelve of you have wives giving birth at the same exact time."

"Of course. I'll bring back the umbilical cord, sir." 

Pete, and a few others, couldn't stop a few snorts and chuckles from escaping. 

"Yeah, alright, jokers. Take it away, Chip." 

Ranger Piper straightened up, but remained rooted where he was as he addressed the room. "A kaiju attack can happen at any time, as evidenced in Cabo and Manila. These creatures do not adhere to business hours. As a Jaeger pilot, you need to be ready for action at a moment's notice. There will be more drills like this in the future and you will be graded on just how quickly you can become functional. Seeing as you’ve all managed to stay awake for the past few minutes, you’ve passed your first drill. Congratulations."

Clapping his hands together loudly, startling half the room, Sundown concluded, "That's all we have, folks. Y'all sleep tight now."

Lord knows when the actual chapter will be posted cuz I'm about to move and then I'm going to back to school 🙃, but I need all 3 members of the audience for this to know that I'm still here!!!!! Still thinking about this AU!!! Constantly!!!!

Tags for those audience members 😅 - @redfurrycat @milficeman @superioraxolotl @salemfrogtrials @film-in-my-soul @sadpetalsstuff @all-time-fanatic @worldsoldestpizzaslice @katieshook02 @oababy @goobieboobie @fantasias-creativebubble @straightforwardly @queenbbarnes @stilledimperfections @slutforfics @xofangirlthingsxo @cool-ultra-nerd @blue-aconite @joaquinwhorres

(let me know if you want to be tagged or want to be removed from the tags!! ❤️)

[mamaangiwine]

Hi, it's me again, i have another dream i thought you'd find cool! If you don't want to interpret it because you've done one for me before it's totally fine! Its just so wild i wanted to share.

I was God, or a God, and i came down to Earth. When i looked at Earth and it's people i didn't see a blue planet, i saw a giant room shaped like a cube filled with randomly placed, basically shaped, columns and platforms which people stood on. People looked like people, but they also looked like simplified shapes. It felt like i was looking at code when i looked at the world and people. I placed myself in an upper middle platform in the bottom left of the cube with some people, and when i did i became more human. I held onto a piller and looked over the edge and said something like "wow thats a scary drop" to which someone behind me responded "yup, I'd hate to be pushed of that ledge" i turned towards him and said "now that you said something im worried!" And we laughed, like a big laugh, and i physically felt my real body giggling and smiling in my sleep. Thats when i realized i was in some weird half asleep half awake stage. I could move and feel my real body but i was dreaming. At somepoint i ate some food that tasted SO good i swore it was real. Then i realized i had powers. Powers like whatever i wanted to happen, happened. Snaping away something in the blink of an eye, moving something with my mind, ect. So i decided to help everyone i could. With my powers i protected and saved people from evil forces. One guy had some evil thing in him and tried running right at me but i froze him in time and exercised the thing inside him. With every interaction i make, i made a joke and made myself laugh in the dream and irl. I was GENUINELY funny but don't remember what i said. Eventually these Spanish speaking people spoke to me and i actually understood them! They said something like "death is coming" i said "don't worry, buenos noches". Then a much bigger evil force started taking over Cube Earth, so i did my best to evacuate people. Thats all i remember of that phase. Next i was looking at tapestries, but they represented human souls, and changed everytime i looked at them even though it was the same soul. Looking at the tapestries gave me such understanding and clairty of that person, i knew them like i knew themselves. I think i was guiding them to the afterlife and said things like "i understand, i know you did your best, its okay" and i woke up all the way.

It may be fair to mention, right before falling asleep i was contemplating the afterlife, and my insomnia meds didn't work for a while so I've been up all night and waking up early so im pretty sleep deprived which might be the cause of the vivid dreams I've had lately. The night before was also a strange dream. One thing they both had in common was they were very vivid and actually very coherent and not just a bunch of random stuff.

Anyways, do whatever you want with this info, hope you have a great day!

Heya,

So, yes. This is very, very cool. The theme of "change" is very present here.

I get this too sometimes, especially if I'm having fitful sleep, lol. Anywho- oof. There are definitely some symbols that I think I would not be able to fit into the space of a single tumblr post.

Like, you know, the whole "God" thing. Too much, dude. Too much, lol.

Anywho, I think it's interesting that you said Earth didn't look like 'Earth' but rather a cube/room. Cubes have four corners. Four, in western occultism, is considered a perfect number because it is the number two repeated. It is a solid number of solid foundation. It also represents knowledge and so it makes sense to me that you would have this sensation of looking at things as though they were data. Four is also the number of the elements, and I find it interesting that you found yourself in the lower left corner because, at least in my rituals, that is the corner in which the element of 'earth' resides.

This makes me wonder if you currently feel as though you are growing more knowledgeable in terms of spirituality, or perhaps you're getting better at navigating your own life- the mechanations of your own "world". That right now you have a good foundation, or if you're on the cusp of that kind of experience.

With that in mind, I feel like the "I'd hate to be pushed off that ledge" then acts as a congratulations, and a gentle warning. This, paired with the element of "earth", makes me feel as though you are/have been approaching this knowledge, and stage of your life, in a very grounded manner. Aware of the "fall" if you are to get ahead of yourself, and careful not to stretch yourself too thin (as seen when we compare the exorcism of one man, in comparison to saving the world from destruction- in the first you are capable of the whole of the task at hand, while in the second you focus on doing what you can).

Regardless, however. There will be a change ("death is coming") and this moment will have to pass into the next, as seen in the ultimate destruction of the world itself. As symbolized by the evacuation, you must take what you can in this "world" and go forward into the next "world". To the next moment. Remain grounded. Remember that, no matter how careful you are, eventually you must fall, and that all things end.

Moving onto the soul aspect of all of this- a tapestry is cloth woven to tell a complex story, but yeah, even that can't capture the complexities of the human soul. It's too stagnant. It would have to change. I particularly like that you are so affirming to these souls that you are directing into the afterlife. For me, it feels like you are capable of taking on that change with an air of understanding and humor, as seen initially with you laughing about falling in the beginning. Knowing that things can't stay the same, that energies must be redirected without negating the beauty of what has already transpired. That the tapestry must shift.

Thanks for sharing this, friend. I know it's been a minute and I really appreciate that you thought of sharing this with me.

[strangelyunfinshed]

You don’t suck at all! If anything, I was shocked you were able to respond to my ask. I was half asleep when I sent it and I remember struggling a lot to write anything coherent.

I’m always curious about an author’s writing process. And I’m so excited to read about Sail Steve’s story. As I understand it, it’s kind of a continuation of Torn Steve’s journey after the relationship is over?

Also, I don’t often read Eddie fics, but I am fully prepared to see him fight for what he wants in Torn! What you’ve written so far is already amazing, and I’m so excited for what’s to come!!

I'm so very flattered and honored that you chose to read Torn. I think everyone knows I'm a Steve girl but I really do love writing for Eddie. There are so many versions of him in this fandom and that is one of the things that makes it really interesting and adds a lot of fun to our corner of the internet. I wanted to explore him being older and wiser. Someone who moved past the scars of his past with mentoring and therapy. But of course, still have him be Eddie.

I am a little crazy and have this whole character profile written on his core tenants and how he views reader, so I can keep him in line with my vision.

Yes, Sail is going to be a continuation of Torn but it's going to be about Steve. What happens next for him. There is a little foreshadowing in Song 2. At least that's how I tried to set it up. And some of the post-Torn scenes for Eddie and Reader are really taking shape in my head. Almost makes me want to skip to the end.

I've really enjoyed your asks, Anon. Please come back as often as you'd like. I'll be patiently and excitedly waiting to hear your reaction to chapter 5. (if I can get the damn thing finished) XOXO

[osmiabee]

.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Making The Best of Bad Situations

Wilfords Demands One Shot

Summary- 3.7k Curtis Everett x You. Pregnancy has you unable to rest, no matter what you or Curtis try. It's becoming an ongoing issue, but Curtis had gotten some tips from the midwife in charge of the front-end nursery.

Warnings- we got some feels between these two, yikes! We also have pregnancy mentions (obviously), fingering, oral, some plain sex cause ya girl here was indulging in some soft Curtis smut feels lately.

A/N- This is the first major thing I have posted in a good long while. So be gentle... please. And I know the moodboard is simple... but I really like it?

Wilfords Demands Masterlist

The bed is comfy, warm, and safe. As safe as you can ever feel on Snowpiercer living in the front end as Curtis’s charge. In fact you could feel his solid form just behind you, his soft breathing sounds just behind your ear. If you were to look over your shoulder, you were sure he would be just inches away. This was how he always slept, you found, he naturally would seek you out in his sleep, a thigh pressed over yours, an arm wrapped around your midsection to have his fingers splayed under your breasts, his face tucked near your head. There was a time you loathed his closeness, how he was so hotly pressed against you while you tried to inch for some space between the two of you.

Now you leaned back heavily into him, letting yourself loosen in his hold. Sometime along you started to feel safe in his hold, content. You didn't have to be curled as small as possible to keep yourself safe, he enclosed you perfectly. It was best not to ponder to much on why this happened, that would mean looking at yourself. How you had grown to accept this situation the two of you were forced into. Instead you let your discomfort surface, being pregnant wasn't all glowing radiance stories made it out to be.

You pressed back slightly to readjust your hips and rubbed against Curtis’s side. You were right, he was close. In his sleep his arm shifted around your swollen belly, spreading his fingers against the width of your baby bump, that's how much bigger this man was then you. It didn't help though, your lower back and hips were killing you and no matter how many times you shifted, you couldn't get comfortable. Pregnancy was taking a toll on you.

A sigh escaped you as you shifted, upper back pressing into the pillows so you could look up, your lower half still twisted to the side. Your caboose baby was growing steadily and it was wearing on your body. You once more went to your side, balling up the pillow under your head to try and alleviate the pressure. It didn't help.

A sleepy groan emitted behind you and a shift made the bed dip so you fell back into Curtis’s bare chest, his arm tightening slightly around the bump. “Y/N, you wont stop wriggling around. Normally I like that, but not when we are trying to sleep.” his voice was gruff from misuse, making it deeper than usual. You bit your lip, hoping he wasn't too aggravated about it.

“I’m sorry Curtis. Go back to sleep.” you look over your shoulder to see him still looking like he was asleep, his eyelids twitching as he becomes more aware of his surroundings. You shifted once more to try and get comfortable, pulling the blanket up around you.

Curtis let his eyes slide open, staring at the back of your head, and he could tell just by being near you that you couldn't relax at all. This was happening every night the past week, making you both tired. He had gone to a midwife on the train in the nursery, asking for tips to help you. Extra pillows, mild foods, a shower before bed, back rubs, and stretching had all been tried and you still fretted and tossed most of the night.

He pulled himself in closer till he was wrapped around you, rubbing the swell of your belly. “I'm not going to sleep till I know you can.”

You gave a shuddering sigh in response, slightly loosening that rigid feeling the more Curtis ran his palm along your belly and over your hips, along your side. He felt you start to sink into his chest while relaxing momentarily. “You are going to be tired.”

“Don't worry about me, you're the one growing our child.”

“He is a persistent little caboose.”

Curtis gave a soft chuckle while resting his chin on your shoulder, “I still can't believe you call our kid a caboose.”

“It's cute…” You hummed while wiggling your hips to press back into Curtis, making him breathe shallowly through his nose feeling your ass press into him. “... what else am I supposed to call him?”

“Mmhh caboose is just fine Y/N.” Curtis responded softly, keeping his hand moving down over your thigh, hoping to relax you. “Can we try another shower?” He offered and you shook your head lightly.

“You know the rules, one a day and you already give up most of your hot water use for me Curtis.” you point out and he grunts in acknowledgment. He couldn't go get you anything from the kitchens, they lock them down at night to keep from supplies being stolen. So far his rubs seemed to make you feel a little more relaxed, but what you really needed was sleep. You were always so tired during the day.

“You know… there is one other thing we can try.” His fingers dipped between your legs to stroke lightly at your inner thighs, and he hid a smile feeling you tighten your legs together with a slight hitch of your breath. “The release could help you relax.” His knuckles brushed just barely against your slit and you tensed in a different way, slight shivers racing up your spine in anticipation. Full warm lips started to press against your neck, flowing down your bare shoulder peeking under the blankets. “If you want me to stop, say so Y/N.”

Did you want him to stop? The brushes of his fingers were causing your body to fall into a familiar place, one that he brought you to every time you allowed yourself to enjoy the physical part of your relationship. The tense uncomfort was starting to soften with the anticipation. Plus he was giving you a choice. Now that you were pregnant, the dynamics between you two have changed.

It wasn’t a hundred percent better, but Curtis tried being gentler, less forceful with you. You could say no again.

Sinking back into his hold a bit more, his broad chest scrapped against your shoulder blades and a hairy thigh pressed between yours to part them. His fingers still teased between your folds, almost lazily trailing from your entrance to coat his fingertips in your arousal to drag back to your clit, circles pressing and pulling the nerves till it sparked your arousal, making you whimper slightly. “Keep going Curtis, don’t stop.”

You could feel the curve of his smile against your shoulder once you said that, his hips rutting barely against you, rubbing his hard cock against your ass. “You are so wet for me baby.” He pressed against your entrance, letting himself fill you to a knuckle to flutter around him. “Going to make you feel so good.”

Curtis continued to stroke his thumb over your hood, dragging it back to tease your aroused nub, the heated spirals making you clamp down around his finger, trying to keep him there while he stroked your warmth, moving faster, with more purpose. Up near your neck, Curtis kept flushing kisses and whispers as you started squirming, your muscles starting to spasm the closer he brought you just with his hand cupping your mound. “You know I’m not going to stop baby till I get what I want.”

Said by any other, that small declaration would have scared you. But with Curtis, you knew it would only be pleasurable for you. Your hand instinctively reached down to grab his wrist while his movements went faster, having you chase after that sensation now with your own ruts against his palm, mewling his name in the neediest way that he flushed kisses over your shoulder, side of your neck till he was pressing his mouth to your ear. “Say it again Sweetheart, let me hear it.”

“Curtis, please.” Your head fell back more as you rambled, leaving him room to nip and kiss where your pulse was hammering, your senses losing track of being coherent as you rode out your climax.

Curtis loved bringing you here, that mindless time when you really just acted out of pure need. Those soft needy cries of yours, your eyes would go out of focus and flutter up as you sunk into bliss. It was satisfying to see you simply feel that good. He knew he could stop there, you would probably sink into sleep now if he let you come down fully.

But this was too good, he enjoyed you too much to let this be the end of it. Pulling his hand away so he could grasp your hips and turn you to your back, you went with his movements so willingly, stretching almost lazily like a cat when he eased you to your back. One of your hands shot over your head, balling into a stretch behind your head while the other lazily stroked his chest while he shifted to hover over you.

“Any better?” He rumbled out while stroking your hip and down between your thighs, massaging the quiver that still shook you, small aftershocks.

“Much better.” You purred out, blinking up at him with that still hazy look in your eyes. He took the chance to press a kiss to your lips, exhaling softly when you returned it to him. Curtis left the sweetness of your mouth to trail down your body, easing backwards while he paid attention along your collarbone. A palm drifted up to your breasts, kneading it gently till you were encouraged to arch into his touch. He knew how sensitive carrying Jace had made you, keeping his fingertips gentle as he circled your pebbled nipples. It was just right cause he heard you inhale sharply when he twirled just right, little light mewls when he replaced his rough fingers with the warmth of his mouth, making you clutch at his shoulder. “Be careful…” You whimper out as your nails scratch up his neck and along his scalp in a slow lazy manner. “Sensitive.”

“What feels better?” He kissed around your breast before taking you back into his mouth while palming the other with light rolling of your nipples. It drew a gasp and curling of your fingers in your scalp. His gaze lifted to watch you tilt your head back, whining his name.

“Curtis, I-”

He lifted his mouth away to let the bristles of his chin brush over the tender flesh. “Come on baby, simple question.” You squirmed under him, a mix of wanting more, and having to push him away so you could catch your breath for just a second.

“Both? I think I should be allowed to pick both.”

“You are so needy, I love this side of you.” Curtis gave a soft laugh while he started to flow further down your body, still palming a breast but now he flushed kisses over your round belly. Affectionate in his actions, this was a part of you he treasured. He never got to enjoy this before. Getting to know his partner, seeing the way you changed because of creating a life together. It wasn't ideal, seeing how they were nothing more than prisoners, but there was a part of Curtis that was infinitely amazed at it all. It wasn't just a baby on the train, this was his baby, with his girl, dare say his feelings were so much more than anything he remembers experiencing before.

You caught your breath while he covered your bump with the sweetest kisses ever. Sure not to leave an inch of you without an affectionate touch from him while he massaged your aching hips, lifting them slightly to stuff a pillow underneath you. He pushed back up to loom over you, searching your expression for any sign of discomfort. “This good?” He rubbed your side reassuringly, making you relax further into his touch.

You lifted your gaze to him above you, reaching up to brush a hand through the bristles on his cheek. “Better actually.” You grinned up at him while wrapping a leg loosely around his back. “Killed the spasms in my back Jace was causing.”

Curtis pulled back, speaking directly to your belly. “You gotta be good to your mama.”

You hummed in agreement, letting your hand push gently through the bristles of his hair while he continued kissing down your body. “Good luck, he's probably as stubborn as his Daddy.” You smirked at him while he lightly bit the top of your mound, large hands cupping the back of your thighs and pressing them back.

“Nah, he's gonna be like his Mama, strong and resilient.” He winked at you and sat back a bit, admiring how he had you. Just how he wanted you, relaxed and aroused. There was a light sheen over your chest, your hands had fallen to rest on your stomach and you gazed up at him with half-lidded eyes that said you trusted him to touch you. So different from months ago when he had to pin you down because back then it was going to happen, one way or another.

Now, you both gave so freely, willingly. Something Curtis never really experienced before, wanting the connection he had been able to build with you.

“Fuck I just gotta taste you.” He muttered as he lowered himself to your folds, his hands massaged the inside of your spread thighs while kissing on your folds, nudging his nose against your clit to excite you. Your thighs strained further apart for his massive shoulders.

Every time you felt Curtis take you like this, you would spiral so quickly. He simply knew what he was doing, your toes would curl into his shoulder blades while his tongue tasted you, took you apart stroke by stroke with the flattening of his tongue tracing you with his chin, bristling against your sensitive flesh. The tip of his nose bumped and pressed against your clit, making you wriggle enough so Curtis circled his arms around your thighs, hands flushing against your hips to hold you onto the pillow.

“Curtis- fuck- please.” You babbled, reaching for him and clutching his head. The little spirals curled in your belly and up your spine. It just came out as a run of words that Curtis thoroughly enjoyed your mindless babble and quivering thighs crashing and clutching the sides of his head. But your tune soon changed, feeling you tug as much as you could on his head. “Get up here, need you.”

A dart of his tongue through your drenched cunt and a lift of his head glanced up at you, this pleading begging version of you needing him. Who was he going to deny that when his cock was ready to bury in your sweetness and let himself get lost in you. Kneeling between your thighs, he wrapped his hand around his cock, trailing along your folds. “That bad huh?” His blue eyes twinkled at you, and you gave a quick nod in affirmation.

“You promised to make me go to sleep Curtis.” You wrapped an leg around him and pulled him closer to you. Sinking into you slowly, Curtis gave a firm roll of his hips, and that sweet little gasp you had was matched with his own groan at the way you clutched around him, warmth surrounding him to draw him in deeper. Your hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms to grasp his biceps.

“You all good Sweetheart?” He asked, slowly moving himself to pull out and press back into you. You dug your nails into the tensed muscles, panting in response the faster he moved. All you had the mind to do was nod, just let him take you wherever. You lifted your legs, knees grasping at his sides while he fell forward, hand braced against the wall and pulling your hips closer to him. Curtis hunched over you, careful of your belly, but chasing your sweet mewls of his name till he pulled you into a kiss. Urgent, messy, you wrapped your arms around his neck to hold him close to you.

All through the steady thrusts of his hips, gyrating to be sure you felt all of him, he worshipped your body. Down your neck, burying his face into your shoulder while you arched under him, your whole sensitized body burning pleasurably with any contact. Curtis reached behind him, pulling a thigh up higher to hike around him, allowing him to go deeper.

The angle hit just right, the one that left you crying underneath him as you just held on. He was relentless, feeling your slick warmth around him, your pussy clenching over and over rapidly. “Curtis…” You managed to whine out, mimicking his earlier action; burying your face into his shoulder. Moaning as you bit into the muscle when you finally came, over and over your body shook, refusing to give him up. This orgasm wrapped you warmly, a pleasured wave flooding your system till your mind went hazy.

“I got you Baby.” He grunted, the tension in his body flaring at tense tendons and hardened muscles, all keeping himself in check. You fell back into the pillows and watched as he started to peak, his jaw tense and eyes squeezing shut. Your hands shot up and cupped his face while he let go, pumping himself into you while your body milked him for what he had to offer.

The tension seeped from his face as he grunted, his jaw going slack, a waiver of his arms holding himself up threatened to pitch and crash forward on you, but he held himself above you with determination. Your hands slid to the back of his head and eased him into you, pressing your lips to his in a post haze kiss, your other leg curling around him and clutching to him to keep Curtis from pulling away from you.

Curtis returned it, just as hungrily as you claimed it, but it softened, you two slowly parted and his forehead leaned against yours while catching his breath. Your tight grip surrounding him started to loosen, allowing you to sink back into the bed. Curtis took the quiet moment to ease from you, moving to lay beside you.

You grabbed the pillow used to elevate your hips and pushed it aside to turn into Curtis, one hand just rested against his chest that was still expanding while he came down from his high. You almost kept your next words to yourself, but the moment was there, and you didn't know if it would be again. “Has anyone ever told you that you were beautiful?”

You could see the confused look that crossed his features, pinching them slightly as he tried to process what you were saying. “I can't say that I have.” His head tilted towards you, inches away. This close you could see the way the blues in his eyes shattered, light and dark shades of the blue spectrum circled around his pupils. Like with anything, upon a closer look, they were not as simple as they first appeared to be.

“You are… when you just let go.” You curled your fingers against his chest, letting your touch be a soothing scratch. “It's just you. It's like…” You furrowed your brow, trying to explain it. “Everything else you have been made to become slides away. The tension, the responsibilities, what you have to be here. You are just you, and you are… well you really are in the lack of a better word beautiful.”

You imagined the heat that must be creeping up his neck to burn the tops of his ears, in the dark of the room, you didn't care you couldn't see. It also hid your smile at this moment, it was rare that you got to shock Curtis in such a good way.

Finally, he grunted beside you, yanking the blankets over both of you. “You must be sleep deprived Y/N, cause I am nothing special.” He muttered as he possessively pulled you into his hold.

“Mmmh, I don’t know about that Curtis. You don’t give yourself enough credit for having survived this long without any control.” You say softly, settling your back into his chest while he curled around you once more, thighs tucked behind yours and hand against your stomach. “You know I don’t hate you for any of this right?” You ask while you're turned away from him. Somehow it was easier talking about these harder things in the safety of the dark. Although you couldn't see him, you could feel him. The way his fingers flexed against your stomach, or the catch of his breath faltering where it had been steady against the back of your neck. “You didn’t have a choice, just as I didn’t. It was going to happen.” You let your hand slide on his, squeezing gently. “I know you didn’t want any of this and did your best to make it tolerable.”

Although he didn’t say anything, you knew he was listening. “I know I’m lucky that it was you and not someone else. That’s all I wanted to say.” Nothing but silence came from Curtis, and you let yourself succumb to sleep finally.

Curtis though, he laid there letting your words circle in his thoughts. Unsure of how to feel of your observation of him, that he was in any way special or that you were actually lucky to be in his charge. For all the years he was used, the guilt of it had built into his chest till he could see little of anything worthwhile inside of himself. Some point along, he killed the feelings of caring about those he was forced with. At first, it had been sheer fear driving him, then it changed. Became habit.

Then you came along and the longer you stayed, the easier being with you was. Now he looked forward to waking up with you, coming back after his workouts to see you curled in the chair reading, evenings of teaching you to play chess, talking or the other small things you two did to kill time.

Was it selfish of him to continue wanting you in this manner? Daresay that you were happy and content with him enough to want to stay? He sincerely felt he didn't deserve it. Not after all that he had done before.

Giving a sigh, at the confliction it built in him, he tucked your head under his chin and willed himself to just sleep as well.

[legendaryoikawa]

while we’re young / suna rintarou

a valentines day collab hosted by @prettysetterbaby​

synopsis: your self proclaimed unromantic boyfriend is eating you hard on his bed full of roses and jhene aiko blasting on his busted speakers.

this was made the last minute and i forgot to post this yesterday because i was asleep the whole valentines day lmao. also thank u to @godjo for helping me with my trashy writing skills HAHA ur the mvp bitch

minors dni (i dont want to go to jail istg 🦧)

"where are you bringing me this valentines?" you asked while struggling to carry out the huge heart plastic containers he gave filled with melted chocolates that looked ransacked.

"to my room," he replied shortly.

his back hunched as he glided down the school's marble hallway as if it's his own walkway.

"i'm sorry, what?” you exasperated.

you somewhat expected a fine dinner cuisine with him in a bow but his lack of preparedness as evidenced by the melted chocolates he managed to steal from the school's stalls and withered flowers that you immediately threw away)

you shouldn't be expecting so much. what you should so, is mediocrity.

he dragged his words as if he was talking to a toddler who's throwing a tantrum,

"i said... in my room.. do you not understand baby girl?" (

“excuse me suna? but in your bedroom... valentines?” you scoffed. disbelief painted on your face

“do you want me to spell it out for you, doll?”

suna gave you a benovelent smile imbued with smoldering intensity that makes your guts churn with both lust and chaos.

you rolled your eyes. sarcasm evident on your tongue as you said, "you are so romantic."

his lips drawled out stinging satire, “oh love, trust me. i am romantic even without trying.”

you roll your eyes, “aight, bet.”

he glanced behind his shoulder. his slitted eyes staring down on your orbs, deep and feline.

"but my dick is,” his words were dangling in the air leaving you there with an open mouth.

the students around you gave the same astonished look as yours but he gave no fuck at all.

smirking he turns around once again as he made sure his tone is higher than his usual.

“cum on brat.”

and that brat that is you chased him all the way down to his honda covic.

suna rintarou is not romantic. but he definitely made you cum in all possible position in his room. that valentines day.

NSFW AHEAD

you couldn’t contain yourself, especially when all he does was to tease you all the way down the corridor.

albeit harmless was his banters, but it definitely left you with oozing discharge and a sticky thigh— and sexual frustration if you could draw it out clearly.

“you know what?” you gritted in frustration when his fingers played with your clothed sex.

you found that gesture hot especially when his other arm was busy with yours and his other maneuvering the wheel with such suaveness

he looked at you smugly, “what?”

you moaned and laid your head on the headrest, eyes rolling back, “fuck you.”

“i will,” he said lackadaisically. his fingers elegantly made its way onto your damp clothed clit.

you widened up your legs in response and lifting up your hips to maximize the friction— you were growing too impatient and it send delight to suna rintarou.

“look at the brat who’s whimpering for my fingers?” he teased, playfully lifting his fingers only to jab it down to your clit again

“screw you and your dick suna,” you glared while trying to catch your breath from the supposed climax but he decides to pull his hands away to drive with two hands on the stirring wheel

“edging makes the dream work, brat.”

he parked his car haphazardly on his driveway. like a fucked parking and he didn’t even tried to fix it up

“you’re trying to get ticketed aren’t you?” you exhaled and looked at him with in hazy

he makes a contemplating face—one brow up, eyes boring into yours, lips pinned together then switched up into something like a snicker

“you’ll be paying for it.”

“excuse me?”

“happy valentines brat.”

you gasped in disbelief as he climbed out of his car and leaving you there alone, not even bothering to open up the door for you

he really is taking up feminism to a while new level and chivalry isn’t part of his vocabulary

you dragged yourself and closed his door with a bang.

only if you weren’t so needy and you would definitely leave suna’s ass without second doubt.

but priorities first and your pussy is throbbing at the moment and it makes you downright annoyed

glaring, you entered his apartment.

nothing usual— his psp laid there untouched with unorganized wires all around the console, an ashtray with few marlboro butts about one a nd a half inches, his sofa was not made, the pearl bracelet you gave him sat on the center table along with his other trinkets

you squinted when you felt the thin walls vibrate, he played a song with heavy bass and calm beat and soothing vocals

ah, you remembered how you mentioned jhene aiko to him one time.

you didn’t felt his looming presence from behind and his voice startled the soul out of you

“im not good at talking so go in the room,” he marches away and you weren’t able to see it through but he was completely shirtless.

you had to squint (due to his poor overhead lights) to see his trapezius bulging out whenever he flex his shoulders.

“fuck it come here, I don’t have all day,” he dragged you away and you were shocked to see the scene unfolding fast

it wasnt the ideal setting but the fact that he attempted to present you a bed of roses with candlelights standing in line on the headboard (you suppose were from his cupboard) instantly sent intense feeling bubbling in your chest cavity

he hates all of these but he pulled it off just as you liked

you turned to him, wrapping your arms on his neck

“i never thought you’d be this romance maniac?”

he raised a brow, “ive had enough of your bullshit,” he pushed your body on his bed, roses flying over your frame as he climbed over you, “let get down to the serious business.”

he started sloppily,

his hands were gropping you in all directions lazily, not that you mind much especially when a hotheaded cocky bastard is leading you on and keeps calling you a brat

his tongue teased your lower lip while his hand groped the curvature of your breasts

you let out a quiet whimper while trying to grind onto him as he was taking too much of his sweet time into tormeting you

he sighs after being content with your lips

he crawls down and lifted your skirt

oh.

“consider this as a consolation from the wrecked chocolates a while ago, atsumu was dumb for sitting on ‘em”

you couldn’t form any coherent words especially when he’s down there breathing onto your pulsing sex

he grins upon the sight of your face—mixture of frustration and needy

he burried his face onto yours, licking the same damp spot he was playing with in the car a while back

you threw your head back, burrying your face into his pillows upon the sensation you felt from his tongue

you tugged on the underware and it just made you nothing but slicker with desire

“why the rush brat?”

you replied with a shaky voice, “I thought you don’t have all day?”

“when did i start being so serious with my words?” he pulled the fabric down. “you should’ve known now that when it comes to your cunt, im always free.”

his mouth returned to your pussy but this time with raging intensity it made you moan out loud

his tongue swirled onto your clit, his nose brushing against your slick folds

he lifted one leg onto his shoulders and continued on with his business

his tongue licked circles, pushed into yours while his hands worked their way from behind, massaging your ass and thighs tenderly

he ate you out slowly with intensity it made you crazy

your vision became blurry as the growing sensation deep down your pit started to plummet

the shock from his tongue made you dizzy but nevertheless he continued on, smirking occasionally upon the sight of you gripping his sheets and squirming

“that was crazy,” you began as you recollected yourself from your high

suna pulled a gold foil from his back pockets

“yeah, and we were just getting started.”

happy late valentines yall!!

[sunflowerim]

I LOVE YOU 3000!

-PART 40

Weekend 7

Harry reached sharply at 8 and was warmly greeted by Lux who couldn't stop smiling. Theo was playing with Cliff and upon seeing Harry, both of them ran to him at once.

"Will Cliff be joining us?" Harry asked, scratching Clifford behind the ears.

"No," replied Theo sadly, "he is not allowed, so we're dropping him at the dog sitters place."

"Aww Cliffy we'll miss you,'' Harry patted Clifford before looking around for Louis.

Louis emerged right then from the room wearing an unbuttoned sap green shirt over a plain white tee, sunglasses hooked in the t-shirt, chocolate brown fringe falling over his eyes. He looked beautiful.

Louis caught him staring but was awestruck himself to do anything about it. Harry stood in front of him wearing a pink shirt with white polka dots, buttons half undone (as always) and sunglasses atop his head, tangled in his curls.

They stared at each other without even moving a muscle when Theo and Lux started aggressively tugging Louis, breaking the moment.

"C'mon uncle Lou, let's goooooo."

"We're getting LATE!"

Within fifteen minutes, all of them were seated in Louis' car driving to the dog sitters house. The car speaker was playing 'Do you wanna build a snowman' on Theo's insistence and after dropping Clifford, they were driving off to the wonders that awaited them.

Harry waited with the kids as Louis went ahead to buy the tickets. Once they got the tickets, they stood with a group and a tour guide greeted them.

"Hello and welcome to the Warner Bros Studios- the making of Harry Potter. I'm gonna walk you through the sets and--"

Harry was distracted by Louis practically bobbing with excitement next to him. Soon the guide led them into the studio and they stood in a wide hall, at the centre of which a statue of the Gringott's dragon was suspended.

People around them were buzzing around and clicking pictures. Even Louis took out his phone and with great concentration took a picture if the dragon. From there, they were led to a set up of the inside of privet drive and the cupboard under the stairs.

"Oh my god, Theo look Harry's room," Lux pulled Theo out of the crowd to show him what she'd seen.

Next they went inside the great hall where and it was magnificent. Harry had seen the Harry Potter movies, but wasn't that deeply invested in them. But Louis. Let's just say Harry had come to visit the place with three kids and not two. Louis couldn't contain his excitement at all. He took in everything with eager eyes, took pictures randomly and every now and then Harry could hear him murmur "wish I was a wizard."

Slowly they walked through a lot more sets each as exciting as the last one. From the Gryffindor common room, boys dorm, Hagrid's hut, potions & herbology classroom, leaky cauldron, to the various shops of Diagon Alley, each captured the attention of the crowd and made everyone's jaw drop. They had a difficult time in the forbidden forest, where huge spiders kept appearing every now and then, scaring Theo and Lux, and Louis had to keep explaining that those weren't real.

There was a particular emotional moment when Louis was brought to tears by a stuffed werewolf because it reminded him of Remus Lupin. Both Lux and Theo, along with Harry had to console him afterwards. He had barely recovered when they were faced with a abstract statue of Sirius Black and Louis was sad again.

Soon it was time for lunch and they found some nice seats in the in-studio restaurant and ate to their fullest. Louis and Harry even tried butterbeer and Louis declared this should be available at all regular clubs too.

After lunch, they were led towards the Hogwarts Express and Harry took pictures of Lux, Theo and Louis one by one in front of the 9¾ platform. In another section, tourists could dress up in Hogwarts robes and sit on a broomstick and record videos and of course all three of them did.

All of them were amazed at the props section. Each and every prop used in the movies was placed in glass boxes and they looked so realistic, it'd make one think that they were actually in the wizarding world.

Walking around the wizarding world set up they didn't even notice the time and soon it was almost evening.

The tour was almost over and their last stop was the merch shop. Upon entering the merch shop, nobody moved for a few seconds. They were taken aback by the variety of items that had been stacked up for sale. Louis bought Lux and Theo a wand each and they couldn't stop waving it around even for a second. He himself wanted to buy a Gryffindor quidditch costume, which earned a tease from Harry,

"Fancy seeing you go to work in these."

"Don't be silly Harry, it's for Halloween."

At the end he settled for a Gryffindor t-shirt and bought robes for the twins instead. Hufflepuff for Theo and Gryffindor for Lux.

Louis even made Harry take the Sorting Hat quiz right there, so he could buy him something. Hufflepuff.

"Yay, Harry you're with me," said Theo running to hug him.

Harry wouldn't buy a robe so Louis got him a t-shirt too.

They also bought a Hogwarts poster for the twins' bedroom at Louis' (because their mum wouldn't let them put up so many posters in the room in their own house and well Louis is the cool uncle so he'll obviously buy it for them).

On their way out they bought loads of chocolates and in his excitement, Louis didn't notice that Harry was lingering a little longer at the payment desk.

It was a wholesome day and it left them exhausted but happy.

After exiting the studio, Louis drove them to his favourite restaurant for dinner. The twins were staying with them tonight and had insisted Harry stay back too. Harry readily agreed and Louis was the happiest.

Theo had fallen asleep in Harry's lap and Lux in Louis' and the two of them slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment carrying the kids in their arms.

After reaching the apartment, Louis woke them up for a while to brush their teeth while Harry got them ready for bed. As Harry and Louis tucked them in their bed, they both said their goodnights in sleepy murmurs.

Harry was feeling tired too and went to the guest room (which had begun to look like his room) after wishing Louis goodnight.

As Harry settled in the bed, he took out his phone, deciding to post some pictures.

As he finished posting some pictures, he noticed that Louis had put up some stories on Instagram too. He was amused by the excitement which was radiating off of Louis' stories. He really was a kid at heart.

Harry was about to keep his phone down and go to sleep when he noticed that Louis had posted a picture. He quickly scrolled up and when he saw what Louis had posted, his breath hitched.

Harry will never know what possessed him at that moment that he jumped out of bed and pulled the blue wrapped packet from under the bed, deciding to go to Louis' room at once. He grabbed a clean t-shirt (which belonged to Louis) from the bedside drawer and at once made his way across to Louis' door. Clutching the packet tightly in one hand, he softly knocked.

Harry waited for about 2 seconds before the door was opened by Louis, still shirtless.

"What happened Harry? Did you need something?" Louis asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

"No, --um yeah, I mean- I wanted to give you something," Harry replied waving the packet slightly.

"Oh come in."

They made their way to the bed when Louis seemed to remember he wasn't wearing a shirt and quickly dived into the drawers for one. Harry's brows furrowed in frustration when he saw Louis putting on a black tank top and coming over to sit next to him.

"What did you get me?"

"See for yourself," Harry said handing the packet to Louis.

"You didn't have to," Louis continued, carefully opening the packet, "When did you even--"

Louis paused midway, opening the box in the packet, gaping at the content inside. "Harry, you-- I-- you- thanks wow, I mean- how did you-", he tried forming a coherent sentence while picking up the carved wooden wand from the box.

Harry chuckled quietly, "I saw how intently you were learning the wand choreography. It's only fair that you have one too."

Louis flung himself on Harry, knocking the breath out of his lungs, "thank you so much, I love this."

Harry hugged him back tightly, trying to steal as much warmth as he could before he had to let go.

Louis let go after a few seconds, face flushed and went back to examining the wand. Harry watched Louis' eyes sparkle as he held out his wand and tried out some moves. Louis couldn't stopped smiling and that made Harry's insides flutter.

After a while, Harry decided it best to leave, "So I'll leave you to your devices. Goodnight."

Harry got up to leave but was stopped by Louis tugging the hem of his t-shirt.

"You could stay if you want," Louis said, ducking his head down.

"Here?" Harry asked, unsure, not letting his hopes get the better of him.

"Here," Louis replied looking up, holding Harry's gaze.

"Um okay."

Harry sat back on the bed as Louis shifted around to remove his clothes from the bed. Harry moved back in the bed and leaned against the headboard. Louis joined him soon and for a few moments both were quiet, not knowing what to say. The silence wasn't uncomfortable though.

Louis had kept the windows open which let in the cool summer breeze and Harry felt at peace listening to the sound of crickets with Louis beside him.

Louis started first-

"I saw that you posted a picture of me from your main."

"Yes."

"Wouldn't that be a problem?"

"Why? I can hang out with my friends."

Friends

Harry quickly tried to correct himself after seeing the look on Louis' face, "Not that I consider you one-- I mean-- yes I do, but not in that way, you know-- I mean-"

"It's okay Harry. I know," Louis replied, relaxing once again and slowly sliding down the bed, lying flat on his back.

Harry watched him as the moonlight settled on the curves of his face, and watched as his eyelids fluttered slowly, the moonlight dancing in the shadows of his eyelashes.

Harry tangled his fingers with Louis' half afraid that Louis would remove his hand but Louis just tightened the grip.

"Thanks for today," Harry hummed so slowly, that Louis missed him.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for today," Harry said, a little louder this time, "for everything actually."

Louis craned his neck upward to look at Harry's face and said, "Someone's being sappy today."

Harry smiled and slid down himself, propped himself on his left elbow, head resting on his hand and looked down at Louis. "Well you make me one."

"You make me one too."

If Harry could choose one moment to relive over and over again, it would probably be this, him lying beside Louis, their fingers intertwined and his face hovering inches above Louis'.

They gazed at each and even in the dim moonlight that had filtered in the room, they could see every inch of each others face clearly and suddenly without a warning Harry leaned in and kissed Louis.

Louis' brain short circuited and he froze for a second before giving in. Harry astounded by his own courage didn't waste time in climbing on top of Louis and taking his breath away.

Harry could feel the butterfly convention in his stomach going feral.

Louis let out a nervous laugh when they stopped to catch their breaths. Harry's curls were all over his face and Louis brought his hand up tuck the wild curls behind his ears.

"Harry are you sure?" he managed between ragged breaths.

"Yes," Harry replied, his voice strained.

"But-" Louis stopped, not knowing how to say it.

"Oh god," Harry groaned, "you're gonna make me say it aren't you? Yes Louis Tomlinson, I want this, if it wasn't clear enough. Just that-" he paused, "you're the first-"

"-bloke you're snogging?" Louis completed with an all knowing smile.

"I would have framed it better, but I guess that works too."

With that Harry closed the gap between them again, hands fiddling with the fabric of Louis' shirt which he managed to pull off in a few minutes.

"Shouldn't have put it on," Harry murmured in between their kisses.

Louis tangled his hands in Harry's hair and tugged at it in response.

"I love seeing you in my shirt," Louis said, rolling them over, settling on top of Harry, legs straddling Harry's hips, "but right now, I'd like for it to disappear."

Louis grabbed his wand from the bedside table and pointing it down at Harry, said "Evanesco!"

Harry watched in amusement as the boy above him, held a wand out and incanted a vanishing spell in the middle of a heated moment. Trust Louis to be dramatic. Louis' eyes glistened in the dim light and Harry obliged instantly. Louis leaned in on Harry and they got into their rhythm again, slowly discovering every inch of each other's skin, neither willing to let go.

--

When Harry woke next morning, he pleased to find himself on top of Louis' chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of Louis' belly underneath his hand. He slowly got up, careful not to wake Louis up and got off the bed, planting a kiss on Louis' forehead and made for the bathroom. He quickly freshened up, and returned to the room, to find Louis sitting up, with his back facing the window, sunlight slipping in through the curtains and illuminating his back. Louis smiled sleepily and beckoned Harry to come over. Harry started making his way over to him but suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"Stay here, don't move, I'll be back."

He dashed out of Louis' room and into the guest room and returned a minute later with his phone.

"Can I take a picture?"

"What?" Louis laughed in disbelief. "You can't be serious, I'm in my boxers."

"That won't matter. You look beautiful."

A slow blush spread across Louis' face and Harry took that as a cue to move forward. He stood at the end of the bed on Louis' right side and with great concentration took a picture.

"Let me have a look" Louis asked.

"Nuh, uh. You'll see when it's time."

Louis pouted his lips in faux sadness which earned a kiss from Harry.

"Now freshen up, the twins will be up anytime soon."

Inside the shower, Louis couldn't stop thinking about last night. He could feel a stupid grin spread on his face everytime he thought about Harry.

God. He might be in love.

Louis emerged into the drawing room and an amazing smell of pancakes wafted into his nose.

"Hey how'd you know?" Louis asked, making his way over to the kitchen and climbing on top of the kitchen counter.

"Huh? --oh this? Lux told me. Pancakes. Household favourite."

"You're spoiling them."

"You're one to talk," Harry raised an eyebrow at Louis and had to force his thoughts from wanting to kiss Harry again to the delicious pancakes being cooked.

The twins absolutely adored Harry and wouldn't let him leave even after breakfast. Lot's of negotiations and promises later, they finally agreed to let Harry leave. Louis walked him to the door and as Harry was leaving, he reached out and held his hand.

"Um, you do realise that we've watched 21 out of 22 movies and it's just week 7?"

"So what? If you thought you'll get rid of me after a few calculated weeks, you're wrong mister. I think we established that already."

"Yeah, I was just checking if it stands," Louis replied sheepishly.

"After yesterday, you don't have to worry," Harry said, moving closer and pressing a chaste kiss on Louis' lips.

And he was off.

Louis would have stood in the doorway for a little longer if the sound of giggles behind him didn't break his train of thoughts.

Lux and Theo were peering around from the couch and had apparently witnessed the display of affection.

"Are you going to marry him uncle Lou?" Theo asked, his expressions a mix of glee and confusion.

"No Theo, put your mind to rest," Louis ruffled Theo's hair.

"Do you love him? Like mommy and daddy?"

Louis smiled at that, "I don't know Lux, maybe ask Harry, next time you see him."

Lux beamed at that and soon Louis was getting the twins ready to be picked up by their mum.

Louis' sister actually stayed for an hour and they talked about all sorts if stuff, catching up on things they'd missed in each other's lives. Louis thought for a moment of he should tell her about Harry but then decided against it. It was too soon.

No sooner had all of them left, when Louis got a notification of a new post from Harry's private instagram. He quickly opened it and what he saw took his breath away again. Harry seemed to be doing that quite often.

Harry Styles was going to be the death of him.

-----

Note : first of all I'm so sorry for the late update, my college schedule is all packed up ugh -_- Secondly I've never been to Warner Bros Studios myself, so excuse the narration!

PREVIOUS / NEXT

INTRO

[lothloriien]

Hey so, I'm not Muslim, and I really want to make sure I don't act disrespectful. Aside from not using jihad, I don't know anything else about being respectful to you guys, I want to make sure that I'm not spreading Islamiphobic things, and that I don't act Islamiphobic. For someone who knows absolutely nothing about your culture, what are some does and do not's? I also want to make sure that my blog is a Muslim safe place! Hope this finds you well!!

oh hello!!

some basic things you should know:

- hijab is not oppressive. this is somehow still not widely accepted. obviously some abusive pigs will try to force it on a woman, but while it is mandatory in islam, that choice is made by the woman wearing it

- if you see videos going around where a woman’s hijab is being ripped off, avoid sharing the video. discuss it on another post. if a woman is wearing hijab, she doesn’t want you to see her hair, and by sharing the video, you would inadvertently be contributing to her pain. there was a video going around of a woman’s soccer game where a hijabi athlete’s hijab came off, so before anyone could see, her (female) competitors encircled her so she could fix it. lovely video, sweet sentiment, but the person who shared it tried to zoom in on her hair when her hijab came off (the video was okay since her hair didnt show, i just wanted to give an example)

- while there are many posts about how hijab should be worn (no judgement, i made one too), you still should not judge a woman for not wearing her hijab following all of the rules

- people talk about face masks and how they love covering their face and might just do it permanently from now on. thats great, good for them. however, these people tend to ignore the fact that niqabi women have been doing it for centuries and they’re seen as oppressed and terrorists. so if you see posts like that going around, feel free to bring that point up (you dont have to, obviously, but it’s a nice gesture)

- avoid supporting the new mulan movie. it honestly breaks my heart, because the day it came out, my sister was so impatient that my dad bought the movie and we sat and watched it and i enjoyed it. so imagine my shock after finding out that it was filmed near the muslim concentration camps. also, please spread awareness of the uyghur muslims’ plight in general

- not all muslims are from the middle east!! we’re pakistani, we’re black, we’re latine, we’re hispanic, we’re european, we’re from all kinds of ethnicities and races. don’t assume that a muslim knows arabic or is from the middle east

- islam is a religion, not a race. people are not racist if they hate us for being muslim, they’re islamophobic. if they’re hating on someone who’s middle eastern, that;s racism

anyways!! im half asleep as i type this so idk how coherent it is but i hope at least some of this helps you!!

[jaskiersvalley]

So I'm sure that a lot of people tell you this and that I myself told you not even a few days ago, but you are an amazingly talented person

With so many people being so nice (repeatedly!) I need to watch my ego XD I honestly have no idea what I can do to return the kindness other than offer the only thing I have which is more stories. Today it’s a hurt/comfort kind of day - heads up for blood, infection and injury.

Of course Geralt had warned Jaskier to stay out of the way, to follow Roach and leave the fight to him. But could he? Not in the slightest. Jaskier had stayed close to watch, to draw inspiration for his next epic. Well, first epic. Usually, he was more for happy ditties and memorable drinking songs. But a bard could dream! So he had stayed and watched Geralt battle the...something. It had a name that simple wouldn’t be fit for singing so Jaskier had promptly forgotten it in favour of taking note of the swirling blackness that shifted along barbed tentacles. The dripping fangs and the spider like body heavy with the grey-green sludge that trickled and dripped from the wounds Geralt had inflicted. The stench of it hit Jaskier all at once and he was hard pressed to keep breathing, retching noisily. Which only served to draw the creature’s attention and a tentacle shot out. Jaskier turned but it was too late, barbs sliced through his back, sent a burning agony through him. The pull which tried to reel him in stopped and Jaskier let out a cry of relief, the tentacle fell limp from his back. Turning,he was Geralt had sliced it clean off and was now on the creature’s back, sword raised for the final, killing plunge.

Black eyes looked over to Jaskier. “Alright?”

There was no way Jaskier was going to admit to being foolish and being injured as a result so he gritted his teeth and shot back a tight “peachy”. It seemed to do the trick as Geralt hopped off the monster’s back and set about his post kill ritual. Parcelling up useful parts of the creature, bits to sell and the head to claim the bounty. Then it was a matter of finding Roach and heading back to the tavern. It was slow going, Geralt led the way, holding Roach’s reins while Jaskier tried to keep up. His back was a burning somewhat fierce and he wondered whether he could slip off to see a healer while Geralt was sleeping.

His hopes were dashed when, as soon as they were back, Geralt was telling him to pack up, they were leaving as soon as he picked up the bounty. No amount of wheedling and nagging seemed to change his mind. So, Jaskier did the only thing he could. Put on a dark coloured shirt and a leather overcoat. It was too warm for it probably but it was the only thing he had which wouldn’t soak through with blood. He tucked his shirt into his trousers, keeping he waist looser than usual. That way, any blood would trickle down the shirt and not soak the back of his clothes.

Leaving the town, Jaskier sighed. It hurt to play his lute, each breath pulled at his back. So he opted to stay quiet and tried to keep pace with Geralt who was leading Roach rather than riding her. Probably because she had a fair few things attached to her saddle.

The first night, they settled under the protection of some trees, a little way off the road. Remembering Geralt’s superior sense of smell, Jaskier was sure to stay downwind form him and also liberally applied his scented oils to drown out the smell of his blood. His whole back was sticky, the shirt clung to his skin. It was quite disgusting but Jaskier refused to admit his foolishness. Now, it was more because Geralt would be angry at the fact he didn’t mention it at all, rather than the fact that Jaskier, once again, failed to listen to him.

Sleeping on his back was out of the question, so Jaskier ended up on his front, breath only hitching once as he turned. It took a while to fall asleep but he hoped it would do him some good at least.

It did not. Jaskier woke feeling cold but sweaty. His whole back felt tender and stretched, like someone had taped a balloon of molten metal to it. Breakfast was out of the question as nausea made him squeeze his eyes shut. Still, he got up, applied his scented oils, ignored how his shirt had dried to his skin and pulled with each move. He let Geralt go ahead with Roach and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Up front, Geralt was saying something about a hunt, some creature or other. Jaskier honestly couldn’t care less though, his attention eaten up by moving forward, by trying to keep up. His foot caught on a rock and he tumbled, hand shooting out to catch himself. Something on his back gave, warm sludge trickled lower, slowly, too thick to be blood. Geralt didn’t even notice, he might have been talking to Roach for all Jaskier knew. It was certainly more than Geralt usually spoke.

“Geralt,” his voice was strained, “stop.”

Silence engulfed them. Jaskier blinked, patches of dark were dancing in his vision but he could still see the frowning glare Geralt sent his way. A few steps were all Jaskier could manage when a sudden gust of wind from behind picked up. He saw Geralt’s nose twitch and his eyes widen.

Warm hands were on Jaskier, guiding him down slower than he would have met the ground at his own pace. Words rumbled near him but other than knowing it was Geralt’s familiar voice, Jaskier couldn’t focus. His back was hurting, shoulders being forced to roll to slip out of the jacket. Behind him, Geralt sounded angry and Jaskier tried to shy away, not wanting to cause more problems than he already had. However, a hand held him down and something was cutting the back of his shirt open.

Pain was the only thing in Jaskier’s world after that. Pressure on his back increased but the pressing discomfort that radiated from within seemed to ease. The burning of something being poured over his back might have made him scream, Jaskier couldn’t tell if his voice was more than whimpers now. Finally, he slipped from consciousness.

Occasionally he roused. The rhythmic jostle of a horse moving under him while an arm was curled around him to keep him upright. It might have been night or Jaskier could have had his face tucked against a warm chest, he didn’t know.

Another moment where there were people gasping, the world tilted and the sound of feet running while Jaskier floated on a bed of pain.

A bed, it didn’t smell like tavern or Geralt or home. His back was on fire, a thousand tiny prickles which only got worse as he tried to move. Solid hands held him down, there were words somewhere near him but Jaskier couldn’t make out what they were saying. All he knew was that he was in pain and wasn’t being allowed to escape it.

The sheer agony was less the next time he was aware of the world. More bearable but he still didn’t want it. Jaskier was on his front, a few blocks of ice along his sides which made him shiver. Someone brushed a warm hand over his forehead before offering him a few sips of tepid water that tasted sweet yet rotten.

“Geralt?” he called out the next time he woke, a little more coherent.

“He’s sleeping,” a voice called and Jaskier twisted to look. Yennefer sat next to him, looking as beautiful as ever. Even if her eyes betrayed the fatigue she’d never actually show. “Once he knew you were going to pull through, he crashed. It’s been almost a day for him, eight for you.”

Guilt washed over Jaskier at that. Eight days of people fighting to keep him alive. All because he had been stupid and not listened to Geralt.

“Sorry.” It wasn’t often Jaskier apologised but this time, he felt he ought to. “And thank you.”

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with a Witcher,” Yennefer replied haughtily and Jaskier’s stomach tightened. He dreaded to think what Geralt had traded this time. “Relax, he didn’t do anything stupid. Paid me in scented oils - orange and lilacs. Said he couldn’t face their scent after they had been tainted so badly.”

Maybe it was fair that Jaskier’s scented oils were traded for his treatment. And if Geralt couldn’t stomach them now that they reminded him of Jaskier, oozing puss and blood as he fought for his life, well, it was perhaps for the best to be rid of them.

“You said you’d wake me if he came to.” It didn’t sound like Geralt was particularly impressed with the world. More so than usual.

“He’s been awake for three whole minutes. I had to check he was fit for company.”

There was a rumble of response from Geralt as he approached, sat on the edge of Jaskier’s bed and reached to smooth hair from his face. It was a move that felt familiar and Jaskier pressed into it.

“How are you feeling?” It was such an honest question, heartfelt in a way it rarely was from Geralt that Jaskier could only reply honestly.

“Like I’ve spent the last week dying. I certainly smell like it.” That drew a snort from Geralt, not quite filled with humour but close enough. It made Jaskier brave, he wrapped weak fingers around Geralt’s wrist and tugged lightly, adoring how easily the other followed. “This is your signature smell on a good day, you won’t mind a cuddle with someone who smells as bad as you.”

The cuddle was gentle, more like Geralt was cradling the most fragile, precious thing in the world. And to him, he might as well have been. Jaskier let out a sigh and burrowed closer to him, basking in the warmth and comfort.

“I should have listened.” His half-assed apology was lost to the muscles of Geralt’s chest but it didn’t stop him being understood.

“I don’t say things for the fun of it. But if you hide an injury from me again, I will personally kill you.” Geralt replied, his arms tightening just a little. Behind him, Yennefer snorted and stood.

“Well, that’s all on the up. I’ll check in on you in a couple of hours.” She made to leave but turned. “And Jaskier will not be up for any bedroom acrobatics for another couple of days. Don’t even try it.”

While she didn’t get any response to that other than some soft snickering, she wasn’t surprised when she returned, as promised, that Jaskier was curled up into Gerlat’s bare chest, both of them sleeping and looking rather dishevelled yet smug. Idiots, the both of them. Very deserving of each other if they couldn’t listen to simple instructions.

[transgenderteensurvivalguide]

I'm ftm (pre everything) and am in choir but I also want to sing and maybe pursue it later but if I go on hormones then I'm afraid I won’t be able to. Advice?

Lee says:

I like singing, how will T affect my voice?

We can’t tell you what will happen to your voice- people tend to be able to sing well (once their voice is done changing!) if they could sing well before, but there are instances of people losing their singing voices.

We’ve anecdotally heard of some people on T being able to keep their high notes, but it’s much more likely that you lose your high notes as your vocal cords thicken. 

T will most likely deepen your voice so your range will change, but as long as you continue to practice and don’t overwork your voice into notes you cannot reach anymore your singing voice probably will be okay- different, but okay.

But we can’t guarantee this, and it’s your decision whether testosterone and passing/being comfortable in your body are worth the risks of losing your singing voice for you.

This post has a bit more on singing

The Changing Female-To-Male (FTM) Voice

The Changing Female-To-Male (FTM) Voice Pedagogical Notes 

Testosterone And The Trans Male Singing Voice

Training the Transgender Singer: Finding the Voice Inside

Followers, any examples of trans singers on T for us to add? Or any personal experiences to add on?Followers, any personal experiences to add?

Followers say:

aeolianchemistry said: have a lot to say about this! i may not be the most coherent bc im half asleep lol, but anyone feel free to message me about this anytime and ask for more details!,

this was my biggest Thing when i was deciding to pursue hrt. ive been in various choirs for years, and its a very Important part of my life. but also my voice was my #1 source of dysphoria, and the #1 thing i needed to change. i searched for weeks to find anything about what to expect from hrt as a singer, esp bc ive heard stories of trans ppl losing their siging voice entirely. i was terrified, and couldnt find resources to shed any significant light on the topic.

and so, in no particular order bc im half asleep, here are some things to expect and things that i’ve experienced so far (almost six months on hrt):

- practice while your voice is dropping! feel it out every step of the way. get to know your voice while it’s changing, and try to maintain those high notes. i didnt do a v good job of this and my high range kinda just shriveled up. i cant be sure that it wouldve been hugely different if id practiced more, but ive heard it does help

- yoir voice will feel different. unfamiliar at times. you wont be using it the same way youre used to. technique will change, placement will change

- my speaking voice shifted downward after just a month or two (i had mild hyperandrogynism before, so this wont be as quick for everyone), before my singing voice did. i didn’t start getting new low range until later, but within my pre-t vocal range, my voice just sat a bit lower than it used to. my low alto filled out more. than i started getting new notes, slowly

- there will be periods of time where it cracks or breaks or is unreliable. dont push it, but dont despair either. keep practicing as well as you can

- my voice is somewhat fragile. if i yell (which i can only somewhat do currently) or push it or force it thru cracks/breaks/weak spots, it will get tired easily and take quite a while to recover. be nice to your voice. dont push high notes if they cause strain. dont push the low notes either, even tho im sure youre excited about them

- your voice will be weak while it’s shifting. this can cause frustration and anxiety. i’m two months into my choir season singing w two and a half choirs, and i’m dealing w lots of Complicated Feelings bc my voice just cant do all the things i want it to. i cant project much, and i certainly dont have the strength (yet) to audition for any of the solos i’d like to. Patience

- the Weird Spots and the Weak Spots will continue to shift around. i have this one area in the middle of my range (currently its about Ab3-B3, but a few weeks ago it was B3-C4) where its weird and weak and its kind of like a break in register but also a bit like a black hole, bc i Cannot Project there and theres no good placement for singing those notes, and notes in the vicinity of those are also Weird but Less So. it’s slowly sliding downwards, and i am learning to navigate it better. i’m hoping it will settle and go away soon, but we’ll see

- breath support is v important. as mentioned, your voice may be quite fragile, and putting strain on it could cause it to glitch out on you for a while. supporting your voice w lots of breath will put less demand on your vocal chords

- NEVER SING IN A BINDER or compressive garment. you need those lungs!

- you’re going to miss out on some of the nostalgic singalongs of old choir songs, bc you no longer have the range to sing your old parts. this is possibly the #1 consequence of transitioning that im the most sad about lol

- i have a very weird quality to my high range rn. it seems to be caught midway between the head voice it used to be and future falsetto or whatever it’s moving toward. for now its just Strange to listen to

the current state of my voice is this:

low range is down to almost the bottom of the bass clef. i can sing down to Bb2, A2 on a good day.

from there up to F3ish is quite comfy and possibly the strongest part of my singing voice, but i do find that if i spend too much time down there it can strain the rest of my range (i used to have this problem before too: if i sang in my low alto range too much or too enthusiastically, my sop range would get tired).

from G3-C4, it’s Awkward. the Awkwardness shifts around, and some parts of it can be more comfy than others sometimes, but it’s all v inconsistent. i cant project much here, and placement is veryvery Weird.

D4-F4ish is typically comfy but has a bit of that Strange quality to it. these notes are a bit floaty, but not bad.

G4-B4 are unreliable. somedays i can get up there. some days it’ll blink out or crack or break or just Not Be There. i am predicting that once my high range settles into a proper falsetto, i’ll be able to work on this range more and it’ll have less of that Strange quality to it, but only time will tell

again, apologies for being Scattered, it’s 1am and ive had a long day. any of yall are welcome to message me for more details ☺

there is a lot of weirdness and weakness and Awkward in the transition period. but while i’m frustrated at times, i’m not worried. everything i’m dealing w is temporary. now i can’t be 100% sure how my voice will settle or when, but i’m not afraid i’ve lost it forever. as far as i’ve heard, the stories of trans ppl who lose their singing voice on t are very rare cases. youre going to go through weeks or months where singing is Weird in constantly shifting ways, but itll keep on moving and developing, and personally i’m so excited to see where it goes.

i’m currently singing tenor2 in my choirs, and occasionally i get to take a trip down and sing baritone. im not even 6months in! that has transformed my choir experience to be even better than before, even w all the awkwardness. it was so weird and beginning to get verg uncomfy to be in a place like choir, which is so important to me, which i love dearly, which has had a significant impact on my life, but which revolved around the use of my one most dysphoric feature. but now i don’t have to worry about that. now i can sing the parts i’ve been wanting to sing for years.

i do occasionally miss some of my old voice. i miss soaring soprano lines, i miss all the old alto parts in songs i used to know. i miss the confidence and strength of a familiar, complete voice. and im allowed to miss those, i dont feel bad about having that longing or sadness, bc i have zero regrets. i also occasionally miss playing with and styling my super long hair, but in five years i have not once regretted cutting it all off. i own those memories and that nostalgia, but i keep moving forward to new and better things

pinesboi said: If you keep working at your voice and take lessons to make sure you never let it get out of practice, everything should be okay. I’m on T now about 3-4 months, and I’m still singing high tenor musical theatre

[the-revisionist]

Hi! Just to say, I LOVE your fics! Could you possibly write Things you said on New Year's Eve for Caroline and Gillian? If that's not a good one, then literally any of them will do I'm sure you'll write it perfectly! Thank you

Anon, hope you’re still reading…thank you for kind words and the prompt! Sorry this took longer than anticipated! 

This is a companion piece to “Completely Undressed and Mostly Sober in the South of France.”  @farminglesbian had suggested a continuation of that in some way and since she controls the Lesbian Empire on the European Continent in an Unspecified Rural Location Where They Are Inclined to Wear Lederhosen I must obey or I may never be allowed in Europe ever again.  

This story is a bit of an exercise in style. For dialogue I did not use traditional quote marks. So, you know, it might work, it might not, it’s OK and you can say so, I’m a big girl and I have a lot of wine at the ready, but please don’t be a twat about it. 

This one is post-series 4. 

faithful misrepresentations

i. it’s time to get the brioches

At 5 a.m. on New Year’s Eve, she apologizes for not shaving her legs.

The morning, blue and black with jagged frost etched across a darkened windowpane, rests at the edge of Caroline’s mind. It’s so terrifyingly early that she doesn’t really want to know the time but cracks open a reluctant eye anyway; the bedroom’s digital clock coolly burns a 5:05 on the inside of her eyelids, the blunt serifs morph into an SOS and she thinks, good God, I am awake at 5 in the morning, this is what I get for sleeping with a farmer. Because Gillian stirs warm and restless against her, driven by the undeniable rhythm of blood that always has her racing against the sunrise and who, because she is apparently the master of not only the unwanted spontaneous confession but also the truly baffling nonsequitur, opts not to say good morning but rather randomly and needlessly apologizes for not shaving her legs before this, their trip to France.

Blind as a kitten, Caroline reaches for her and, half-asleep through a tangle of warm limbs, hones in on her calf; the soft hair tickles, the solid muscle undulates, the raspy glory of skin warms Caroline’s palm. There is a scar on this calf, invisible in the dark but vivid in her mind as a distinct but delicate comet tracing a pale horizon. It was, Gillian told her, caused by a jutting, broken spoke on a wheelbarrow.

That’s when I learned not to do farm work while wearing shorts, she had said.  

Caroline replies to the apology by mumbling don’t mind into a pillow; sleepiness translates it into dun mime. She’s cresting the wave back into sleep when she realizes that Gillian is not moving, not rising out of bed with a stretch and a groan and a curse word. Which is odd, because Gillian likes routine. Every morning they’ve been here she’s up before the sun, making herself tea, reading for a bit, and then walking a mile to the village to fetch brioches from a baker amusedly tolerant of an Englishwoman who flirts with her grown son and insists on conversing in rusty French. By the time she returns the brioches are stone cold but she revives them in the oven, makes coffee, and wakes up Caroline by cannonballing onto the bed like a kid on holiday. Winter clings to her skin and clothes but her morning kiss is persistent and sweet and like waking into a warm, summery daydream and not a chilly old French farmhouse lacking proper heat.

She forces herself into a higher level of coherence, clears her throat, firms up a question: You’re not getting up?

Not yet, comes the reply.  

In the dark she aims badly for Gillian’s forehead and gently smashes her palm against a nose.

Are you sick?

No. It’s just—we don’t have much time left. Here, I mean. Want to enjoy it.

They return home the day after tomorrow.

By staying in bed as long as possible, Gillian adds as needless clarification.

Under two blankets and a comforter movement is heavy and surreal, a sluggishly sensual underwater ballet. The blankets move as Gillian slides on top of her, exposing Caroline’s shoulder to a rousing chill, which is briefly warmed by Gillian’s mouth before moving along the inlet of the collarbone toward her breast. She spreads her legs, Gillian settles in between them and presses into her, and even though it’s all so new between them—so wonderfully new, she thinks, as Gillian traces the inside of her thigh—she identifies the variance in tempos and moods better now and knows this time will be slow and sweet and hopefully she won’t bang her skull against the quasi-antique headboard again.

You’re giving up brioches for me?

Nah. I’ll get ’em later. Just delaying gratification, as it were.

So—how delayed is gratification when all you’re doing is merely sublimating it with another pleasure?

Even though they can barely see one another in the porous dark, a bluish outline of morning light traces the contours of Gillian’s face and hair and Caroline can see a hitch of expression, a shift of lines as she smiles.

Shut up, you, she says.

ii. continental beauty

For one horrible aching moment—while wiping down a quartz countertop aged to such an extent that it looks as if it’s survived a hundred years of everyday bacchanals, and this is why housework is dangerous and housewives go mad, she thinks, it sets the mind loose to dwell on so much of life’s chaotic cruelty—Caroline realizes that she never had this opportunity with Kate, that is, a long romantic getaway and not just a mucky weekend at a nearby hotel. Even on that modest level she fucked it up nearly beyond repair. Even on vacation with her husband of eighteen years always she felt—she knew—she was a fraud, nothing but a character in one of his novels. Maybe it’s a sign; maybe it means something. Here in this farmhouse in the Rhone Valley hundreds of miles away from home, she waits for the shoe to fall into a dreaded Grand Canyon of unspecified anxiety.

They spent months not talking about what they needed to talk about. It was easy enough to blame a host of things for this: demanding work schedules involving obstreperous students and sheep, parenting thickheaded boys, coparenting a toddler with a knobhead whose taste in women was obviously on the decline, a bountiful supply of excellent wine from a beautiful young woman who simply would not go away, and complete, sheer cowardice. Acceptance of the status quo has always come easily to Caroline, particularly in this instance because she was getting good wine and properly laid on a regular basis—thus her mother’s interrogations and condemnations, her secretary’s prurient questions (“You have it off with Brokeback Shepherd yet?”), and generally everyone’s bewilderment and clumsy emotional tap-dancing around the subject were all easily ignored.

Then last month, during one of those boisterous family dinners where, as was not uncommon, Gillian looked at her in an indescribably aching way—followed by a self-chastising frown, slight shake of the head, and a protective hunch of her shoulders that seemingly closed off any possibility of rapprochement—Gary announced to all present that renovations to his vacation home in France were finally complete. During this interminable period he had gone from referring to the house as a chateau to deeming it a money pit. It was actually an eighteenth-century stone farmhouse, its interior now as rustically authentic as one envisioned by a nouveau riche entrepreneur from Yorkshire, and Caroline twitchingly recalled Gillian’s proposal earlier in the spring—that they would go there for a few days during the summer and work shit out. But summer ripened and withered away and the promise, representing everything that was seemingly lost between them, lingered bitterly.

After dinner Caroline stood in the doorway of Gillian’s kitchen observing their motley, contented family—Raff playing Legos with Calamity and Flora, Lawrence attempting to show his grandfather and Gary how to play Halo Wars 2 on an Xbox, and Celia, post-two glasses of wine, going on about the life of the theater to the clearly bored yet admirably patient Ellie. She felt Gillian’s presence at her side—churning and restless as a spoon stirring a pot, staring at her feet, then a lamp, then her son, and finally fixing that burning gaze of hers on the woman next to her while the back of her hand glided over Caroline’s knuckles, thus causing the latter to force out a surprising hybrid of a squeak and a gasp.

Let’s—let’s do it, she said. Come with me to France.

Five minutes later they were purchasing plane tickets on the mobile.

Five days into this trip she has learned many things about Gillian: she slavishly embraces routine whenever possible, she likes brioches, she’s reading Middlemarch for the third time now but Caroline cannot imagine why because she herself has never made it past page 50, she’s capable of lingering over a cup of tea and not gulping it down because she’s not running late or has a hundred things to do in a day, she thinks MI6 was involved in Princess Diana’s death, she’s takes no firm side in the great over vs. under toilet roll debate—don’t people have anything better to do than argue about toilet paper? she had said—

—and she is an admirer of great beauty because now she barrels through the door after tromping around the countryside for an hour and breathlessly announces, I’m in love.

Caroline imagines herself unseeded by either the baker’s handsome son or the buxom young woman who works the vineyard nearby, the latter spotted the other day during a wine-tasting tour and whose sumptuous cleavage was the focus of surreptitious glances from Gillian. After half a lifetime of stealthily admiring the physical beauty of women, Caroline knows these covert maneuvers when she sees them. Alas, all she has to counter these continental beauties are certain oral skills and her talent for making a certain orange-ginger biscuit that Gillian loves and who knows, perhaps that will save the day, perhaps even as sun perpetually sets on the English empire all that truly matters is cunnilingus, tea, and biscuits.

I’m confident of your ability to attract, she wants to tell Gillian. But not my ability to hold you.

But while hanging up her coat Gillian starts rambling about a ram, a sheep with a fancy French name. She saw him posing on a hillside, broodingly apart from the herd, a Heathcliff among sheep. His markings and coloring exquisite, his horns symmetrical, his poise exceptional—

Before Gillian can declare herself high priestess of this mythic creature’s cult, Caroline—dimly aware of the unseemliness of jealousy over a sheep—interrupts rudely: What’s it called again? A rum-ball merino?

Gillian rolls her eyes. Rambouillet, she says. She grabs a cup for tea. A Rambouillet merino.

Ripe for plucking, the word hangs in the air and Caroline ravenously seeks its source in a kiss. She holds Gillian’s lower lip gently between her teeth, tongue running the plush length of it, tasting salt and mystery because, frankly, women have always been unfathomable to her.  Sweetly, wonderfully unfathomable. She starts to unbutton Gillian’s thick, lined plaid shirt—only to discover, underneath, a second plaid shirt thin and soft with age. At which she breaks off the kiss and bursts into laughter.

Jesus Christ, you’re like a flannel onion. Layers and layers.

It’s cold, in case you haven’t noticed, Gillian says—also laughing—as she sits the empty cup on the counter.

I’m trying to warm you up, Caroline replies as she sets in on the second flannel layer. In case you haven’t noticed.

Tossing her arms around Caroline’s neck and pulling her into another kiss, another embrace, Gillian says, I’ve noticed.

She doesn’t feel too distressed about fucking Gary’s sister on Gary’s distressed leather couch—burnished leather, she thinks he called it and the color was Churchill cigar—because there is an old blanket on it and as they fall onto it she doesn’t care about much at the moment except the wonderments and sensations of skin and taste, wondering if Gillian has ever called anyone else baby, Caroline can’t quite imagine that she has and would like to reserve that titular honor as her very own, wondering when the last time someone went down on her properly because her reaction and sheer enjoyment of it make Caroline feel like Aphrodite incarnate coming down from on high and she has to cling to Gillian as if she’s riding a rollercoaster by the skin of her teeth.

Afterward she’s sprawled on the couch wrapped in the comforter Gillian dragged out the bedroom, staring at the crisscross of the ceiling’s dark wood roof beams and with her head pillowed on Gillian’s bare thigh. With one flannel shirt back on, Gillian sits cross-legged while drinking one of Gary’s very pricey local Syrahs and pretending to read Middlemarch, pretending because she’s humming, which she usually does while absorbed in the comforting repetition of a task like washing dishes or mending a shirt or soothing a baby and in this instance the task at hand seems to be slowly, rhythmically running her fingers through Caroline’s hair. I like your—your hair, she had said the other day, shy and stammering and nervous after they made love, as if the gentle offering of a compliment would somehow be virulently rejected, and while Caroline loved the sweet awkwardness of it she hated the man who made Gillian terrified of revealing the slightest vulnerability.

She stares at the shadowed, foreboding ceiling beams, thinks that Gary should have picked a wood of a lighter color because the dark beams make her think of crucifixions.

Say it again, she says to Gillian.

What?

The name of the sheep.

Rambouillet.

Oh, she sighs, that’s lovely.

Unexpectedly Gillian drags her finger, damp and dribbling Syrah, across Caroline’s lips, as if soothing an infant with a taste of milk. You’re really weird, she says.

I’m not the one in love with a sheep, Caroline replies.

iii. the search for intelligent ovine life in the Rhone Valley

The afternoon winter sun, useless and pale, emanates as much heat as the moon. They are out in search of the great Rambouillet merino. Gillian insists she needs to get a better photo of the sheep so she can submit it to something called “Google sheep view” and Caroline, who is perfectly fine with not knowing what the hell that is, is nonetheless curious to know what the fuss is about and accompanies her. Leading the mission, Gillian stalks the dirt backroad that runs behind Gary’s farmhouse with her usual dogged, determined pace. She’s been in a bit of a mood since lunchtime and Caroline knows enough to let her be until she’s ready to talk; it’s likely, though, that she dreads the thought of returning home to the questions, the judgments, the expectations that will be laid at their feet.

She trails behind. Outside of the Yorkshire countryside she has navigated most of her life, her sense of direction is rubbish and she hasn’t a clue where they really are. She sighs and burrows deeper into her scarf. It’s the coldest day of the trip thus far. The stiff, expensive boots she purchased for the trip are pinching her toes and the too-high arches dig into her soles. In the distance she sees the vineyard that they visited days ago, the spherical red caps of the buildings distinct against the pale sky, and has a wince-inducing guilty thought about Olga.

Shortly after committing to this journey, she officially ended it with Olga. It was not so much a breakup as an act of disengagement; some days she actually convinces herself of this. Regardless it required some semblance of fortitude to finally override the guilt-ridden, passive-aggressive lust that propelled the relationship on her part. Olga took it well. She also took a case of an amazing Chenin Blanc from the Loire Valley that she had initially gifted to Caroline and now presumably would bestow upon another boozy, middle-aged lesbian—or, more likely, her ex—both nonetheless worthy of her considerable charm and refined palate, while leaving Caroline to the tender mercies of a sheep farmer overfond of cheap Lambrusco.

She stops for a moment to look at red roofs jutting into milk-white clouds and dwell in the newness of everything—place and memory, time and love—while accepting the sense of loss that perpetually nips at her heels. Snow flurries waltz to the ground.

Then she notices that up ahead on the road Gillian has stopped and turned around. Head tilted, she critically eyes Caroline as she would a lagging, miscreant ewe—as if to say, come along now.

Grimacing, Caroline takes long strides to catch up. She apologizes on arrival, insincerity muffled through the cashmere scarf.

Gillian carries a long, sturdy branch found earlier on the road. Alternately she’s been using it as a walking stick and brandishing it as a weapon, whacking at husked, brittle weeds lining the road, sadistically poking at stones. Idly she whips it around her body while frowning at Caroline.

What were ya doing back there? she asks.

Contemplating life’s mysteries. Appreciating the sublimity of nature. Oh, and staring at your ass. Not necessarily in that order.

Bashful at the compliment, Gillian lowers her head and grins. Then, wryly: So you weren’t stopping ’cause those boots are hurting you?

Not a bit, Caroline lies.

You’re limping, she says, and then nods in the direction of the winery. D’ya think they send out Saint Bernards with little wine flasks to rescue snotty English bitches who don’t wear proper footwear whilst they wander about the countryside?

That would be marvelous.

Gillian points up ahead at a copse of trees. The gesture is so startling and beautiful and confident that Caroline wants to seize her hand—ungloved, snowflake caught and melting on her thumbnail—and kiss it.

Right up there, she says, past those trees, is a shortcut through the wood to the vineyard. If you can make it, we could walk there. Couple glasses might revive you for the walk home.

And if it doesn’t?

Reckon I’ll have to drag you back somehow.

Cavewoman.

Nah. I’m not that strong, Gillian says with a roll of her shoulders, but I’ll give it a go.

Au contraire.

That’s the first bit of French out of your mouth since we got here.

You’ve been doing well enough for both of us, Caroline says, so why bother? She leans into Gillian, quietly pleased at the arm that automatically wraps around her waist. Then she presses her face into the crown of Gillian’s hair, kisses it, and says, I’ve always believed—she begins shakily, pauses clumsily—always known—you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.

Gillian pulls back and stares at her, unsure if what she’s saying is an obvious revelation or a faithful misrepresentation of the brutal facts that comprise her life. She thinks that Gillian usually skews toward the latter as a default viewpoint, and realizes it may take a lifetime for her to sort it, to undo it. If ever. What surprises Caroline is not this but the belief, settling into her bones and countering her own misguided self-assessments, that she is finally brave enough to be fully present in Gillian’s life.  

On the walk home, both of them tipsy and tired, they see the Rambouillet merino ambling across an open field into the setting sun. And he is beautiful.