#im feeling a bit more confident

[maskedinfinate]

deploying the yaoi

Yeah sorry it took me so long

Im so eepy its 3 am goddd help me

[dykedvonte]

I keep seeing fanarts of ppl's OC's being on the ship, so do you think that if there was 6st crewmember (specifically, another woman) Anya would've been more safe? Like, someone to actually call Jimmy's begaviour out, someone Anya might wanna trust? Is there a possibility something might have changed (even if a little) or it would not have mattered at all?

-💀

I feel like the game would make it part of the commentary on where she would believe and help Anya but still be sort of dismissive? Like the whole “don’t waste time crying and being scared keep going and move on, don’t let him win”. It’s supposed to be positive and reinforcing but sometimes it does more damage in those times of mourning and grief, it feels patronizing, like you don’t understand what you’re going through but they do. Even if they did call out his behavior it’s still on Curly to act and while another voice would help, it’s still 4 against 2 on guys that don’t get it until they have to vs women who always have to.

I don’t mind mouthwashing OCs but I do get a bit bored as they tend to be borderline saviors or like Jimmy aligned. They are either more complicit than Curly or just Jimmy haters for no reason, outside of what the creators know about what he did to Anya. I am never irked by OCs but in a story like mouthwashing you really need to think about what your character adds to the commentary, especially if they are there during the crash. It’s nice to have like characters on Anya’s side more whole heartedly and interesting to see characters who placate Jimmy but sometimes it’s one note.

I can’t and don’t want to police peoples OCs it’s never my intention when I comment on trends I notice, but I do feel like the way people make their OCs interact with these two characters and especially Curly, really show a grave misunderstanding of the narrative and these characters as people vs roles in the story. Still, I know people just make up characters for fun and that’s fine. Great even, but I guys I’m focusing more on OCs that are supposed to have those serious dynamics. My favs tend to be pretty-Tulpar or post-Tulpar au OCs.

The inevitably of the crash is on Jimmy. He did that not because he wasn’t stopped but because all his means to kill Anya were taken. The gun, the axe. Even if Curly did strip him of his co-pilot privileges and try to keep him contained there’s only so many people. An extra body helps but they have jobs they have to do, he’s the only one steering the whole ship and Jimmy would likely have an out: food, bathroom, etc. He’s not new and if he couldn’t crash the ship directly, who’s to say he wouldn’t sabotage something else? A clunker like the Tulpar wouldn’t take much. An extra person helps but it’s just another thing that prolongs what a person like Jimmy is willing to do to shirk responsibility.

It’s more than just needing someone to stand up to him and think that’s what is missing when it comes to inserting a character into the mouthwashing setting.

[plush-rabbit]

part two to the unnamed chapter from like a few days ago!! honestly, im suprised people liked it. like i didnt think it would get good stuff. like i dindt think it was bad, but im like the hype has died down anyways!! we meet the man, the myth, the devil himself!!

Word Count: 4.8K

You can hardly keep your eyes open. Even with the soft yellow glow of the light, it's far too bright for you. Shutting your eyes only brings you a bit of solace. You're somewhere soft, something light and feathery pulled over you, and you shift your shoulder blades to pull your wings closer to your body, and instead you sob, the pain sharp and unforgiving to your frail body.

Did you fall? No, maybe you slept on them wrong. You don’t have to think about stretching your wings, it was always second nature, as easy as blinking and as easy as moving your arm. You’d stretch your wings, and you’d ask Adam to help you preen your wings. You shift, and something feels empty, it feels light, lighter than air. You can’t remember your wings feeling so light, not unless you were flying. You’d hate to have messed up your wings over something as frivolous as falling.

Memories rush in, fragmented, only the beginning pieces clear enough for you to remember. Your eyes snap, and you’re met with harsh lighting. You see nothing but wood and stone, and a home that is not yours, and you groan into something soft under you. Moving your arm is painful, it feels bent and sore, and you reach for feathers, and find nothing. Your cries bury themselves into something plush, something that soaks your tears and drool and leaves only a patch behind. A hand pats softly against your arm, and you flinch. 

A voice shushes out to calm you. “It's okay. You're safe. I'm not here to hurt you,” they whisper. “Just relax, and try not to move. You still haven't recovered.”

Even if they speak softly to you, it's far too loud. The words echo in your head, and attempting to think about where you are and who you're with is making you nauseous. Or perhaps it's the sickly honeyed scent that is thick in the air. 

“‘S too sweet,” you slur, clawing at fabric beneath you. You regret speaking, the movement making your already sore jaw ache further, the joints pushing into your splitting skull. Your head pulses and your mouth is cotton filled, thick and impossible to speak. “Where?” You hope that someone will give you an answer to where you are. Or at least what you're on.

“Oh, thank you,” a voice chirps. 

“Don't think it was a compliment Bee,” a thick accent says in a hushed voice.

“Well I'm taking it as one,” the voice huffs.

“You're at my home,” the gentle voice is back. “You're in a spare bed. Just try to relax.” You can’t relax with all the sound, and when you try to tell him that, you only murmur, slurring letters together. “I know, I know.” He doesn’t, but you can’t correct him. “Just try not to move so much.” It's quiet again, a silence that stretches and fills the void with nothingness. The smell and the shuffling of bodies is the only indication that you aren’t alone, that you haven’t been left yet. 

“Luci, mate, you sure it's a good idea to have an angel laying around?” You hear the chime of bells, and you want everything to stop. 

“They aren't an angel,” a voice retorts. A hand places itself over your bicep, and squeezes you softly.

“Yeah, but like, it’s still a bit dangerous, isn’t it?” The voice is much more feminine, and you can hear a buzz when they speak, a low hum that doesn’t stop. “Having one of them just on your bed.”

“A spare bed,” the voice corrects. The bed dips beside you, your fingers tap against the mattress. “It was dangerous when we were first here,” snapping at the other, before sighing. “It’s been a long time since another angel has fallen.” 

“Lucifer, honey,” this voice is smoother than the others, and you wish they would all stop talking. “What’s the plan here?” Someone makes a noise of confusion. “They aren’t an angel anymore, if anything, they’re a walking target. We don’t even know if they’re an Exorcist.”

“Heaven hasn’t cast out an Angel in so long,” the voice says softly, a finger tracing shapes onto your arm. “And I highly doubt they’re an Exorcist. I can almost- I’m positive that they aren’t.”

An Exorcist. That’s what they think. Lute flashes in your mind, and Adam follows, weapons ready, and thinking hurts far too much. You groan, nuzzling into the pillow, trying to tune out the sounds. You need them to stop talking.

A hand pats at your arm, and soon you feel fingers tangle themselves into your hair. Fingertips ghost alongside the tender part of your scalp. The voice hushes you, lulling you back into a state of unconsciousness. “I’m sorry,” they whisper, “we must be too loud for you.”

“Lucifer, I know you’re still-” the person pauses- “upset-” they sound unsure of the word they’re using- “about the last few years, but you can’t take on a pity project.”

Lucifer. They keep saying- oh shit. You let out a whimper. You don’t know if you’re thankful for being found by him, or if it’s a curse to be found by him. He shushes you once more, massaging gently at your scalp. 

“Yeah-” the buzzing is louder this time- “you know, if you were lonely, you could have just said something. I got some cute little hounds that need loving homes, ya know? And uh, they’re cute-” they hiss that word and you furrow your brows- “and practically housebroken.”

“Luci, it’s not like they’re worth much. I mean look at ‘em. I don’t even think I remember seein’ them back up when we were there, so they gotta be new or somethin’.”

The hands still, fingertips pressing into the tenderness of your head. You let out a low sound, and give a soft nudge of your head for the person- Lucifer you presume, to let go. He apologizes, soothing over the spot where he’s touched. “It’s not- They aren’t a pity project. This isn’t that. Don’t you remember how bad it was. How painful it was to fall. At least we had each other. We were stronger than most angels.” You wish they would all stop talking. Especially when they refer to falling, you can't stand to hear it. “They have no one. This is- I just want them to feel safe.” His words come to a slow stand, and if it didn’t hurt to cry, you’d sob at the reminder of your punishment. “Their wings were ripped from them, they weren’t even allowed to heal.”

“Well it ain’t like Heaven is known for their leniency.”

“Listen, Lucifer, we’re just saying that you’ve been having a lot of big emotions recently, and maybe nursing someone back to health isn’t what you need right now.” Lucifer- at least you’re assuming- makes a noise in protest at what the other voice is stating. “What’s the long-term plan, hm? You fix them and then what? Do they live here? Do you kick them out? Take them over to Charlie?”

The room is still, the buzzing has quieted down to a hum, and you feel sleep grasp onto you once more. “You should all go.” The group protests immediately, voices overlapping one another, the buzzing higher, and scent of sweets and leather grows and irritates you further. Your head pounds, banging against your skull. You shift, pulling at the wounds, and a cry muffles itself into your pillow. “It’s okay, you’re okay” the voice says in a hushed voice, palms pressed flat against you, cooling your feverish body. “I’ll give you something right now to help the pain.” He clears his throat away from you. “I have to think about things. I’ll make sure to give you updates as they come along, but for now, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He pauses. “You should return back to your rings.”

The buzzing quiets down, and footsteps shuffle out. It's a mess of steps, puttering and pattering along the floor, and the sound is [welcomed] by silence. A door clicks shut, and you hear no lock. 

Thinking if you're a prisoner or not is too much of a task right now. The strength of the saccharine scent has left with its owner, and instead now gently wafts in the air. Somewhere on the other side of the room, you hear a sigh.

“I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have been having that conversation with you in the room.” You let out a short huff in response. “It won’t happen again, okay? We must have been loud for you, huh?” With all the strength that you can muster, you give a short nod. “Let me go get you something for the pain, okay?” You feel a soft hand over your bicep, giving you a soft squeeze. The hand lingers with fingertips that kiss over your skin in feather light touches as they pull away. 

You drift between consciousness and unconsciousness, unable to fully sleep, but you don’t register anything that happens. All that you’re aware of is that someone is back in the room with you. He’s beside you, something plastic touching against your lips and the thick taste of medicine is bitter on your tongue. 

“I’m going to light some incense, okay?” You’d rather he give you water or anything else to wash the taste off. “You just let me know if it’s too much.” The scent is much calmer compared to the sickly sweet one from earlier. “I had Belphegor send me some sleeping aids. I believe it’s the only reason you’re able to get some actual rest.” Your lips mouth the words “thank you”. Something soft and warm covers you, and you feel yourself sink further into the mattress. “I don’t know how much of your power was stripped, or how much you even had to begin with. Mammon was right about that, you are a newer angel, you might not even be able to do much other than heal.” His voice is growing harder to understand, it’s fading into the back, and sleep pulls you further in. “However, I wouldn’t ask you to even attempt to heal yourself- not in this state,” he whispers.

“Taste bad,” is all that you can mutter. Your head pounds, and it feels like it’s swelling. Each word that you speak is laid thick and slurred together. Every syllable only brings you sickness and an ache in your skull.

“I know,” he sighs. “The medicine here doesn’t taste good, but there’s not much that I can do about it.” A cloth dabs at your mouth. “Hell is supposed to be a punishment after all,” he says with a humorless laugh. “I’m- I’m sure that Heaven’s medicine is still divine as ever,” they mumble with a heavy weight on the words. 

“Like nectar,” you speak softly, the memory of it faint on your tongue. 

Something brushes along your face, and you feel the pull of sleep. “Yeah,” he breathes out, “like nectar.”

-

Knocking on the door disrupts your sleep. Something gargles sounds on the other side of the door. In your mind, it’s too faint to make anything out. You hear the squeak of the door open, and through bleary eyes, you make out two tall figures. Again, they speak to you, and you nod back to sleep.

You feel the latex of gloves touch your body, knuckles the brush against the nape of your neck and hands that grab your arms, ready to still you as you tense. “We’re just changing your bandages.” You shake your head. “It’ll be quick, just stay still.” You’d rather deal with an infection than with how the doctors treat you. You recall a voice making an argument that you’re not welcomed here, that you're an angel in a land of sin. 

“No, no,” you mutter, tears staining your face and wetting the pillow. You feel the cold breeze on your back, whispering over your wounds. The stickiness of the gauze peels away from you, and you can smell the stench of it- metallic, rich and earthy. Something so sweet, and it disgusts you and the doctors. 

Their hands grip tighter onto you, holding you down and you yelp. “Stay still.” You recall many moons ago how Lute told you something similar. How her words were laced with sorrow and false bravado. These doctors, these demons, spit the words at you, and hold you down. 

Your hands claw at the mattress, your screams echoing against the wall, bouncing and ringing in your ears. Light blinds you immediately as your eyes flash open, and your head is head, pushed down onto the mattress, as curses are spit onto you. You’re in Hell. Your teeth find themselves tearing into the pillow, drool pooling into a puddle and tears slipping down.

“Just,” they grunt, and press firmly down on your back, “stay still.” You gasp for breath, kicking and digging your knees into the bed. “Please,” they beg, and you fall, your body limp and heavy on the bed. 

As quick as it started, it ends just as quick. You’re left sobbing, gasping for breath, and despite the pain, and tearing open the wound, you hug yourself, your nails scratching against the cloth. They’ve placed it far too tight for you. 

-

Only a few weeks pass when you’re finally cognitive. When your head isn’t splitting at every noise, and you can move somewhat without risking any pain or even your fear of opening the wounds back open. You stay as still as possible, and try not to do any sudden movement that would stretch your back. Lucifer has attempted to reassure you that you’re fine now, that combined with Hell’s magic and his own blessing, you should be fit to move around. Of course, you will be sore, that can only go away with time. 

“You’ll be left with scars. That can’t be helped,” he told you, his eyes focused on how your hands fist the blanket, “but you’ll be okay.” He gives you a tender smile, and you cling to it in the night.

Once you were in a proper headspace, you knew you shouldn’t have been surprised to know that it was him taking care of you. From what you can faintly recall in one of the many conversations that he’s had in the room as you recovered, he knows what it’s like to be cast out. 

However, you are surprised at how caring and patient he is. That despite you being able to do most things on your own without stumbling, he is still beside you, keeping you company and comforting you when he has to change the bandages. He hardly lets anyone else do it after you complained about doctors accidentally wrapping the bandages too tight. His gentleness is a mask for his pity, and he can never meet your eyes without looking away. 

-

You’re laid on your stomach, and your only entertainment is wondering what could be inside the bedside drawers. While moving does not cause as much discomfort as it once did, you don’t risk stretching. You sit straight, and you look at the wall, and dare not to stretch your arms. Pillows have been fluffed and placed to create a soft barrier between you and the headboard of the bed. Knuckles rap against the door in a rhythm, and you stare at the wall in front of you. You wait for a second, and with a breath, you allow for the person to enter. 

“Hello,” Lucifer calls. “I’ve brought you some fruit. I’m sure that you must have been feeling peckish.” You give no reply. “I uh- I also brought some books.” The bowl of fruit is balanced above the small stack of books. “I was thinking that I’ll get you a television or something soon. But maybe some literature would be good for you.” He rests the tower on the dresser, and grabs the bowl between his hands. 

You should reply to him. You should tell him thank you- not just for the books and the bowl of fruit, but for housing you, for caring for you. But you cannot. Not when he’s a constant reminder of where you are. 

“I was wondering if there was any type of genre that you might like.” He sounds hopeful, wanting to continue a conversation with the husk in front of him. “It would be no trouble to get them to you.” 

His smile is stretched thin, and it looks painful. All of this is painful. Your eyes flitter over to the fruit bowl, and you wonder how you’d feed yourself when stretching your arms still pulls at the scars. 

“Would you like some?” He leans towards you, and you have the mental image of being some hurt bird being nursed back to health. “I had some demons go over to Earth and get some for you. I thought you’d prefer this over the food that we have here. Since you aren’t accustomed to Hell’s food, yet.” You stay silent, and after a moment he sighs. His heels click against the floor, and the bowl is placed on your lap. “You know,” he starts, “it would help if you talked. I know what you’re going through, and you can’t- you shouldn’t isolate yourself.” When you refuse to answer, he sighs. “Well, if you need something, just let me know.”

Despite not wanting to be here, of not having any need to want to continue your existence, you have grown a strong dislike of being alone in this room. You have no idea if he’s isolating for your own safety, or for some other nefarious reason. He clasps the door knob around his hand, and twists it. You wet your lips, and you need someone to talk to. 

“Lucifer?” You croak out, and you surprise yourself with your voice. You hadn’t heard it in so long, past the screaming and the tears. He turns to you, taking a step closer, and his hand returns the door knob to its closed position. “Can you stay?” You feel sick looking at the fruit. “Please?”

With a gentle smile, he nods his head. “Of course.” He grabs a chain from the corner of the room and carries it to sit beside you. It’s a deep wooden color, intricate designs carved into the legs of the chair, and a deep red cushion that is stitched into the seat and the back. 

The silence between the two of you is broken by the crunch of the fruit. You pierce a grape with the silver tines of the fork, and your body aches with the movement to bring it up to your mouth. The sweet juice does nothing to aide in your brooding and the awkward silence. 

He’s right, and you know that. You have to try. He’s the only contact that you have. Adam always hated how you’d hide your emotions, how you rather shut the world off, and at least that hasn’t changed since your falling. You need to talk to him. You can see the attempt that Lucifer has been making in order to keep you happy, to make your time here just a bit more bearable. You suck in your lower lip, and let your tongue brush over where your teeth have grazed.

“I was promised a trial,” you start. His eyes are on you, and you see him fiddle with his tie. “They promised it would have been fair.” You frown, and shake your head, an ache heavy in your chest. “I was so hopeful that it would have been.” The fruit is bitter on your tongue and you force yourself to swallow it.

After a moment’s silence, he speaks. “Who would have been the judge?”

The apple is pierced between your teeth, the skin ripping from the flesh of the apple. It was cute with care, no hint of the core tarnishing the fruit, ripe and perfect, only to be mauled by your teeth. “Father.” You swallow the fruit. “Or perhaps one of the Virtues.” Oranges are peeled, torn apart from the other slices, the piths of white removed. “I was worried that I would have fallen, even before I was given my verdict. My-” you look at Lucifer, and you remember who he has stolen- “I feared that I would have fallen, because I didn't matter. No one questions Heaven’s beliefs, not since-” you glance at him, and he turns his head- “I was sure I would have met the same fate.” The sweetness of the strawberries make your jaw tingle and ache. “And I did.”

“I’m sorry.” You hold the fork tightly, the silver pressing into the flesh of your palms. “The fear you had must have been,” he pauses, “intense.”

There is no one better who understands, other than Lucifer himself. You nod, and let the fork ding against the glass of the bowl. “I was good. I did what was needed of me, I didn’t dare speak out of turn.” You think of how Adam would run his mouth, how every other word would be a curse, would be of anything lewd. “Perhaps I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. Not if a question were enough to have me expelled from Heaven.” 

A gloved hand reaches, and falls just before your thigh. A gold band hugs at his finger, and you’re surprised to have yet seen his wife. Feeling your stare, he turns his hand, and lets the other fingers hide the symbol of matrimony. 

“Sometimes, that’s all it takes,” he says quietly, his tone soft, and wistful. “But, if it makes you feel any better, Hell has some redeeming qualities. It’s not all pain and suffering.” You look at him, and he gives you a smile. “We have an amusement park. There’s a uh-” he scratches the back of his neck, his gaze pointed elsewhere and checks flushing- “ride modeled after me.”

The corners of your lips turn, and you narrow your eyes at him. “After you?” You ask, an elfish tinge laced into your words.

“Shaped like my head.” A finger makes a circle in front of his face.

You scoff out a laugh, and the sound surprises you. You attempt to hide the smile, but when the corners still turn upwards, you look at your lap. “You are the Avatar of Pride after all,” you tell him, the lilt faint on your words.

“It’s actually very impressive,” he points out. “A whole ride dedicated to my likeness.”

“The line for it must be awful.” The juice of the fruit is thin on your tongue. “Heaven has zoos. There’s an area where you get to feed the birds out of the palm of your hand.” You push the fork upwards with the knuckle of your index. “They hardly ever peck your palm, but when they do, we call them kisses from one of Father’s creations.”

He snorts, and shakes his head. His smile is soft, and there's a lingering sadness to it before it falls. “Down in the Wrath ring, there are livestock shows where you’ll find horse bucking and catching the flamed greased pig.” You give him a look, and he smiles. “It’s not as nice as the zoo, I’m sure, but it’s just as entertaining.” He leans back on his chair. “Sometimes I would take my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” You knew of his wife, but you hadn’t realized that they had a child. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

He winces, and nods sheepishly. “Charlie,” he tells you her name. “I think you’d like her- she’s peppy.” He gives you a tense smile, and looks away. “We don’t talk as much as we used to.”

You frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shakes his head, and lets out a sigh. He sits straighter, and pulls his shoulders back. “How are the bandages?” You roll your ankles, unsure what to make of the sudden shift in conversation. “They’re not too tight are they?” It’s not your place to pry, and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable when he’s the one caring for you.

“No, Lucifer,” you answer. “They’re fine. Thank you.”

He nods, and you can tell he’s grown uncomfortable now. You don’t blame him. “Of course. I wanted to make sure that you were comfortable. As much as possible.” 

A silence befalls between the two of you. You bite into the fruit, and force yourself to swallow it. The nectar is sweet and makes your jaw ache. Beside you, Lucifer clears his throat, and you turn to him.He looks away, his eyes trained on the walls.

“If I may ask, I- Well you see, you know my name-” he looks at you again, and you tap your nails against the glass- “and I don’t know yours.” Your eyes widen, and you try to think back on when you might have whispered your name to him, but you can’t recall it. “I just- I was thinking since you’re here, and I’ve changed your bandages, I thought, that I should be calling you by your name.”

“My name?” You whisper, and you feel silly for keeping it close to you. For just a fraction of a second, for some far away thought to be held, that you didn’t want to share the last thing that ties you to Heaven.

“If only that’s okay. If not, we can come up with a nickname or something.”

You shake your head. You’ve kept your name to yourself, and you wonder if your pain-induced haze, if he’s ever asked you for it. You stretch your lips, and wet your tongue. “Did you ever ask for it,” you hold the words on your tongue, and they are heavy like wine, “when I was in and out?”

“Yes,” he confesses. “You wouldn’t answer.”

A name given by Heaven; whispered to you gently in the arms of Father, as sunlight shined down upon you and warmth surrounded you in your creation. It’s silly, and childish to cling to it, to hold onto it like a child holds onto their blanket, but it’s all that you have left. Everything else was stripped from you, taken and tossed aside, and you wonder if your name even holds any significance back home. 

You turn to Lucifer, and your name is heavy on your tongue, bitter like wine, and it’s your name, fitting you like a glove that will fit no other. 

Lucifer repeats your name, whispering it under his breath, tasting it between his canines and tongue, and you watch him. Chills run down your spine, and the feeling is not unpleasant. He catches your eyes, and his cheeks flush, the red spots darkening, under your gaze. He calls your name once more, louder and clearer, want held between the vowels, as if to savor your name, to savor what you’ve given to him. 

You nod, your chest aflame, as if you’ve done something scandalous. You can’t trust your voice, not when he's looking at you. Your knuckles feel as if it’s on pins, tingling and having you scratch against the bowl. 

He glances at your lap. “Are you done?” 

“Yes,” you breathe out rather quickly. 

He reaches for the bowl, grabbing it by the rim and stands from his chair. You watch in silence as he pushes the chair back, letting it block one of the drawers from the nightstand. The bowl clinks against the mahogany of the dresser, and he grabs the books, flush against his chest. 

“I hadn’t meant to leave the books so far from you,” he says, placing them on the nightstand. “They’ll be closer within your reach.” You nod, and peek over, reading the title of the first book. “I’ll be back in a few hours, if you need anything, feel free to call out. I’ll make sure to hear it.”

He walks away, his heels clicking against the floor, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. “Lucifer,” you call out, fisting the blankets in your hand. He turns around, pressing the bowl against his body, his hand wrapped tight around the doorknob, already opening it and stepping into the rest of his domain. You swallow nothing, and try not to think of anything other than gratitude.  “Thank you for everything,” you tell him, sending him a thinned smile. 

“Of course,” he calls your name in a sweet tone. “Whatever you need, just let me know.”

The door closes shut, and you let out a breath. Your hands fist at your shirt, grasping and you bite the inner corners of your lips, feeling the soft flesh of it be pierced by your teeth. It’s been far too long since you’ve had a gentle hand, since you’ve had someone be gentle with you. A hand reaches out and scratches along your bicep, pulling the skin and leaving soft arches across. 

You hadn’t realized how much you would miss Adam.

[lesbianherald]

I was thinking... It seems to me that you mostly like the post-canon character states of Jayce and Viktor? I think you like the more confident and self-aware post-trauma Jayce (when he is present) and the more insecure Viktor, or... As if he has an enormous guilt to overcome.

Will there ever be something more naive from you with their more naive, hopeful and yearning versions?

Coming home (but not to you)

(also, i do have something planned for after my medieval au if the hyperfixation is strong enough and the fandom doesn't tire me out)

update im adding to this because i cant stop thinking about it do people find my coming home jayce... confident? i was very much going for an 'i'm sorry for my migraines' and 'when I'm in the airport in the security I think I magically have a gun' kind of vibe KDLFJHSDkl

also said this in the tags but season 2 didn't even start coming out until chapter 11 the full thing wasn't out until chapter 12 so if they came off post canon inspired that is very unintentional DKJFHSLDFj

[chaikajpeg]

hinata shōyō | haikyuu

reference photo: link to the original post on twitter. shot by oremiya14

i don't know the name of the team and the player yet but i'll add them later (i'm in a bit of a hurry so i have to go... sorry!!)

[stellewriites]

thanks for the tags @dwarvenagenda & @pricegouge !! 💓

it was fun to check my stats for this year :3

funny to compare how i started my year vs how its ending (fandoms im writing for, fic length range, themes and tropes i’m preferring, etc).

i’ve found that although ive maybe written less and had less interaction in general from readers this year i’ve truly found some amazing people that i consider good friends on here now :’) and i wouldn’t swap that for anything!!

blank copy below and npt: @pricetagged @ohlawdthebirds @sentientcave @syoddeye @gloard @wraithdance @buttdumplin @luvrodite @mikichko @lewistoferrari @disgustingtwitches

[coulsons-left-arm]

You remember that "father's finding their kids as babies," post I made of Coulson and Daisy the other day?

Yeah, I'm dropping the fic here since people aren't seeing it in my reblog (I'm so sorry about that 💀😭).

So here's a subpar 1.4k of Coulson and May finding the 084 (aka Daisy) back in 1989. 🫶🏻

Coulson and May are called in for a level 8 classified op even though they're entry level agents. It's all hands on deck for this one, so they're a little nervous, but May is holding it in well while Coulson is tryna be extra goofy (that's how she knows he's nervous).

Boots on the ground, and it's an absolute massacre. Many SHIELD agents look like they've been torn to shreds, and it's hard to look at, but they assess all but one are dead. Coulson leans closer to an agent who's last breath was used to "Find the squad leader." He closes the eyes of the dead and hopes and prays they can get at least one of their men out alive.

May happens upon the squad leader propped up under a bridge, covered in blood... But he's holding something? She looks closer to find something bundled up in a piece of bloodied fabric... And it's a baby... Fast asleep by the looks of it.

Gunfire behind them starts to pop off. They have to act fast. May grabs the baby and holds it close to her chest, staying low and trying to soften her steps to avoid any jostling of the little one. Coulson was able to fireman carry the squad leader's body back to the jet right before the ramp closed. It was close, but the agents and baby made it out unscathed.

Coulson leaves the squad leader's body with one of the spare agents, giving a moment to honor his sacrifice, before heading over to May who was still holding the baby. She's covered in blood which was hard to look at, but her features were cute, juxtaposing the sight. Coulson runs a finger along her cheek, wiping some of the blood off her and earning a tiny, content yawn.

It wasn't too terribly long before they landed, immediately greeted by scientists and a doctor who removed the child from May's arms. The baby began to cry, and the two agents felt a pang in their stomach. They had to trust that they would take care of the little one.

~~~~~

It had been three hours with no word from the analysis department. Coulson couldn't take it, so he marched down there and was greeted by some upset scientists at his presence. He didn't have high enough clearance level to know what was going on, but he could hear the high pitched cries just beyond the doors. He fought his way through the twiggy researchers, and was met with a horrifying sight.

They *did* clean her off, but they had kept her all but naked and on a hard surface like a specimen... Which she was far from being. Multiple vials of blood samples were nearby and he almost absolutely *lost it* on a nearby white coat. He ran through the grasping arms trying to stop him, but he was able to snatch the protesting baby up and hug her close to his chest. Cradling her, her cries were beginning to wane while scientists were flapping their gums about "unknown origins" and "possible contaminates." But it didn't matter.

They were treating a *baby* like a *lab rat*, poking and proding the poor thing.

May reached the lab, all eyes on her and giving way. The analysts knew better than to mess with someone who graduated from Ops. She walked over to Coulson, standing her ground and signalling over the doctor. She demanded he find "something to cover the baby." From the bunching of his shirt collar in her fist, he read her loud and clear and retrieved a diaper and a fuzzy blanket. Although he never had any experience, Coulson's confidence carried him through cladding the baby in the diaper, and returned her to his grip, laying the blanket over her back and over the top of her head. He could feel a little spot of drool forming on his chest through his PT shirt, but he didn't mind. Her little body wasn't squirming and her breaths came easy with a couple hiccups dappled in for good measure. He swayed side to side as May almost took out one of the scientists who dared to inch closer and asked if she had eaten at all since they took her.

Of course not...

But formula was quickly retrieved from *somewhere* (honestly, did SHIELD just keep baby stuff on base? And what for??? Was it normal for babies to show up on their doorstep???? If so, Coulson wasn't taught about any of this in his training...), along with a bottle and a pacifier.

May singlehandedly scared all of the analysts outside the lab, including the heartless doctor, and locked them out. They found the light switch and dimmed it for the baby. Who knows how long they kept poking and proding her. They snuck out the back entrance with her, finding a way to Coulson's bunk since May was currently sharing hers with another junior agent. They had snatched the Bunsen burner from the lab, and May snuck out and snatched a pan and a few bottles of water from the mess hall. She noted a silent alarm had been activated and kept to the shadows, avoiding cameras to get back to Coulson's room.

She was met with an evergrowing fussy baby in Coulson's arms as he was trying to keep her calm and soothed by gently speaking sweet nothings over her head as he sat on the edge of his bed. They both made quick work with the formula, getting the bottle to a warmer temperature they thought might be right. Neither of them knew *exactly* what they were doing or how to do it, but it sure was better than the treatment the scientists were putting the baby through.

Coulson shifted the baby from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow, and grabbed the heated bottle as the baby's cries were coming to a crescendo. Guiding the nipple into her mouth, she ceased her racket, and began frantically sucking while looking up at him with wet, red rimmed eyes. He couldn't help but swipe away some of the wet tears coating her chubby cheeks, smiling softly at her.

"Is that what you wanted?" He cooed over the light sucking sounds. "Does it taste okay? It's our first time making this stuff, so it's probably not five star worthy. Sorry about that."

It must've not been too bad since she consumed almost the whole bottle, her sucking coming to a slow as her eyes began to droop.

But aren't you supposed to burp babies after they eat? That was a thing, right? As much as he didn't want to disturb her entering a slumber, Coulson set the bottle down and propped her back up to his shoulder, patting her back. It didn't take long before he felt a warm sensation drip down the back of his shirt.

"She spit up, didn't she?" May nodded her head, looking towards his dresser drawers. "Second drawer from the top. Don't care which one.... As long as it's not my Cap shirt. Don't want her messing up that one." He received a scoff as he settled the baby in between his closed thighs, carefully pulling off his dirtied shirt. He twisted behind him to reveal nothing got on his sheets, a sigh of relief eacaping his chest. But the baby began whimpering, so he didn't wait for May to throw a shirt at him before picking up the (once again) fussy baby and cradling her close to his bare chest. She seemed to immediately quiet at the contact. Maybe it was the heat from his bare skin on hers? Maybe she could hear his heart thumping in his chest? Maybe... Maybe she just *liked* him??? Yes, it was a silly thought, but Coulson knew a lot of people liked him, whether it was someone he met out in the street, or a fellow junior at the academy. Maybe he had a similar effect on babies?

He snapped out of his silly thoughts when a lump of fabric hit his side, seeing an olive green t shirt sitting at his side.

"Thanks, May... But I don't know if I want to put that on quite yet. Look," he said as he twisted his torso in her direction. She peered over at the bundle against his chest, Coulson possibly seeing the tiniest sparkle in her eye. Completely forgetting to close his dresser drawer, she slowly padded over and sat down next to him on the bed, eyes trained on the little one who's breaths were lightly puffing against Coulson's chest hairs. She reached a finger towards one of the tiny balled up fists, her breath slightly hitching when it uncurled and grabbed a hold. The baby seemed the most calm they had seen her since finding her, settled deeply and undisturbed by the outside world. May carefully reached for the baby blanket that was discarded on top of the bed and draped it over Coulson's front.

"Maybe you should lie down with her," she suggested. "Make sure she gets some rest." It seemed reasonable, especially since they saved the poor little one from torture. It felt *right* to give her some rest. Coulson scooted back across the covers carefully, lying down against his pillow and feeling the gravity of the tiny weight naturally press against his chest.

There were a whole lot of things swirling around his brain. A sense of fierce protectiveness. Of unconditional love even though he only just met her. Of some sort of gap that filled that he didn't even know was there? Or maybe he did, but never acknowledged it? Either way, something in him wanted to break, but it would have to wait for later.

May reached for the baby blanket, covering up the both of them just right and placed a gentle hand over the baby's back... Which was also where Coulson's hand was. He'd be lying if his heart didn't skip a beat... Or two.

"I should probably head out and grab a couple things--"

"Stay?" The single word escaped his mouth before his brain could even catch it. He could feel his ears go warm at the way her hand's weight shifted on top of his. It almost left, but at his word it stopped for a moment before returning pressure.

*She wanted to stay, too.*

"...Okay." And before his brain could even process, let alone his bleeding heart, his partner in crime laid down next to him on her side, facing him and the baby, keeping her hand planted over his.

Coulson's mind boggled at the fact that he was shirtless, with a random baby on his chest snoozing away, unaware that he had his academy crush lying in his bed with him (fully clothed, but honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way).

Fury wasn't kidding that SHIELD was unlike any opportunity he would ever receive in his lifetime.

[offorestsongs]

being in my little carefully curated fandom bubble makes me genuinely forget that some people still think that oc x canons or self-shipping or x reader fics or whatever are 'cringy' or 'embarassing'

[wetslug]

.

[puppppppppy]

who up seeing their disorder in a fictional character but feel like its not their place to put a name on it

[many-gay-magpies]

isaac lahey is like charles rowland if he wasn't afraid of his anger. isaac lahey is like charles rowland; afraid, but of the world rather than of himself. they are like each other, scared and abused and alone, until something happened to them that saved them from it—saved them, and yet robbed them of any chance they might have had at a normal life.

[hinata-boke]

1hqaday

as of right now i think getting to AT LEAST 100 is a good goal, but my current list is a handful of characters short. if you'd like, please send asks of your favorite underrated haikyuu characters who i havent drawn yet and ill try not to miss them!

[loverboybrightsideghost]

10am

me: oh boy i sure hope i can start gigging this holiday season, but i don't know very many people so i don't know how!

2pm

my violinist friend's teacher: hey iris are you available to do a gig in my church this weekend?

me: oh fuck yeah

[ummmuhhidk]

getting back into a series my dad got me into as a kid and one of the most recent developments is that a character has come out as transfem to her sister (who is/was a very christian very sheltered typa girl) and was accepted. literally like maybe 10 days ago. fucking ten days. the comics been goin on since uhhh like when, 2010? yeah 2010. the character was revealed to be a heavily closeted transfem person in TWENTY FUCKJNG THIRTEEN THIS WAS A 9 YEAR WAIT AND IT FUCKING HAPPENED!!!!!! also let me fucking tell you when i first read the comic where she came out (shes a writer, sent a link to her work to someone and it had her name as opposed to her deadname) to someone i . okay well it seems i had the physical book version of some of the story and i uh. i flipped back to that page so much that the book may have uhhh fallen the fuck apart . jesus

[tomboyyyaoi]

catboy?

[the-pea-and-the-sun]

chat what do u do when it kinda seems like a girl likes u