#its been collecting dust half finished for months

[dilfslayer1080p]

hey if you're still up for suggestions i think it would be funny to put benry in one of those hydraulic presses and crush him. like in all those youtube videos

He's having a fantastic time

[skbeaumont]

"You Should Probably Leave" | Joel x Reader oneshot

Part 1 of Play it Again, a new series where each story is a oneshot, but all are shaped around country songs.

Song: You Should Probably Leave – Chris Stapleton Summary: He works long days. You help out with Sarah, make her dinner, put her to bed when he has to stay late. And then when he gets home you help him out, too, even though you both know you should probably leave. Tags/Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, porn without plot, prose but kind of poetry/lyrical, sexual tension, PIV, oral (m! receiving), sub!Joel, you're Sarah's babysitter, AU! No outbreak, set in the 90s. Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: I've taken the lyrics and worked them into the story, so I'd really recommend listening as you read. I've been thinking about writing this series for sooo long because country songs + Joel is a match made in heaven. If you've got any song recommendations, let me know!

It’s like a dance, a well-worn routine that you both know, practised and perfected after months of repetitions. You both know where it leads but you’ll still follow all the steps. That’s how it is.

You put Sarah to bed ages ago, spent the last few hours of babysitting on the sofa finishing up some college work, waiting for Joel to get back. His key in the door is a familiar click, the latch sticking the way it always does, his shoulder forcing it open.

You stay where you are. When he comes into the lounge his toolbelt is still strapped around his waist, the remnants of a long day’s work painted across his handsome face and strewn in dust that’s collected on the knees of his well-worn jeans and callused hands.

He pauses in the entrance, arm stretched up above him to rest on the mantle of the door, t-shirt pulling up to reveal a strip of tanned skin above his belt. There’s a glass of wine half-drunk on the coffee table beside you and your feet are tucked up under you.

Neither of you speak for several long moments. You just watch each other, the tension too delicious to break.

“You should probably leave,” He says, but you make no effort to move and he stays where he is, too, dark eyes watching you.

His expression is open, taunting, and you already know what’s going to happen. You untuck your feet and shift them onto the worn carpet, standing to step towards him. His form takes up most of the doorway, his shoulders so broad that they almost touch both sides of the frame.

When you reach it he’s looming over you, blocking the exit off from you if you wanted to leave, but you don’t. You turn into him, press your nose to the slice of skin between his shoulder and neck and inhale deeply, smell the work of his day on him: the musk of sweat, the tang of iron and sharpness of wood shavings.

“I suppose it ain’t all that late,” he says, voice rumbling through his chest, “still time for you to finish your wine.”

You won’t finish the wine, but it’s all part of the well-worn routine the two of you have. He works long days. You help out with Sarah, make her dinner, put her to bed when he has to stay late.

And then when he gets home you help him out, too. Let him relieve some of the tension that he carries in his shoulders, on his thick-set jaw. You press the first kiss here, letting the rough caress of his stubble eat into your own cheek. When you let your hands course through his hair, scratching your nails into his scalp, he leans into it, eyebrows pitching up, something like a whimper falling from his lips.

There’s a devil on your shoulders, and its urging you each towards the same predetermined end.

“We shouldn’t.” He says, but he doesn’t move away.

“Just one kiss?” You ask, feeling him relax into your touch, the bulk of him slipping down the doorframe, bringing his mouth within reach of yours.

“Alright,” He rasps back, his voice pitching with need, and you claim the last syllable with your mouth, press your lips against his, pull a moan from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Say you want me to stay,” You tell him, and he does, whispers it into your mouth, chases your tongue with his.

When he looks at you his gaze so intense it’s almost intimidating, and you recognise the look in his eyes, the need that’s behind the blown-out pupils and hazy expression.

The slow retreat to his bedroom is well-practised, the carpet belying a well-trodden route you both know. He lets you walk him backwards up the stairs, sighs when you push him against the closed door to fit your mouths together again.

Inside, his bed is unmade and you press him into it, pin his hands above his head and lick a thick strip up his neck, following the tendons to the underside of his jaw.

His moans are the chorus of this well-rehearsed dance. They spur you on as you undress him, revealing the strong lines of his chest, the thick trunks of his thighs, the impressive bulge of his cock in his briefs, already half-hard.

He twitches in your hand when you draw him out and you shift down the bed to take him into your mouth, the head of him heavy and salty on your tongue. His cock swells, the vein that spans the underside pulsing against your palm.

It’s intoxicating and dizzying and familiar, the recognisable ache in your jaw as you take him into the back of your throat, fist gripping the part of him that won’t fit.

“So good to me, darlin’” He groans, running shaking fingers through your hair, trying to sit up against the headboard.

“Relax,” you tell him, pushing him back down to lie against the rumpled duvet, “I know what you need.”

You know him and he knows you, and you both know how this goes. You pull back, work your dress up over your head and pull down your panties, which are ruined with your slick, so damp they catch on your thighs as you peel them off. Joel’s eyes widen as he watches; he can never believe you want this – want him – as much as you do.

When you sink down on his length – the fat head of his cock catching at your entrance, making the stretch delicious and white-hot – he squeezes his eyes shut tight.

You run a finger along his eyebrows, coax him to open them and he does, a muscle in his jaw fluttering as you rise up and drag your cunt back down onto him again.

“I wanna do the right thing, baby,” he tells you, as though this – the pinching heat of him between your thighs, the tremble of his hands as he clutches at the flesh of your ass – isn’t the greatest thing that’s ever happened to either of you.

But you know he hates himself for it, hates that he’s a good decade older than you, that you’re Sarah’s babysitter, that this – this twisted arrangement you have where you stay when he gets back and then end up in his bed – is the only thing that gets him through those long works days sometimes.

“I know,” you say, “but it’s getting kind of hard to resist, isn’t it?”

“You should leave,” he says, thrusting up into you, “we should – Jesus, baby, just like that – we should stop.”

You arch up off the bed, tilting your hips so that he can drive his cock deeper, bottoming out and groaning brokenly into your ear. It’s filthy. Depraved, probably: The slap of his hips as he cants them up into yours, the breathy moans that tumble from your mouth, Joel’s desperate, needy curses.

It’s easy to make him come like this: Three steady, deliberate rolls of your hips and he’s a quivering mess beneath you, his hands fisting in the sheets as he spurts hot and wet inside you.

After, you tell him you should probably leave. He makes you come with his fingers first, tells you to finish your wine, that it still ain’t that late.

And when the sun’s on your skin at 6am, he’s there watching you sleep, hoping you’ll say you’ll stay, even though you should probably leave.

[art-of-love-and-war]

Hi!!! This is the first time I've EVER requested anything, so I'm super excited to be asking you. Would it be OK if I could have headcannons with some of the ikevamp boys? If you're comfortable with it, could I have Arthur, Comte, Isaac and Leonardo with and mc who has ADHD? I completely understand if you don't, feel free to completely ignore me. Thank youuu 😊😊😊❤❤❤

Characters: Arthur Conan Doyle | Comte De Saint Germain | Isaac Newton | Leonardo Da Vinci x GN!Reader  Rating: General.  Word count: 819 words  Warning/s: Reader has ADHD, mentions of procrastination, hyperfocus, not enough focus. Author note: Hello! Sorry this took so long, I’ve had this on my mind for a very long time, and I even thought about doing Isaac’s route to write him more accurately but work has been killing me so I didn't get to open the DSM-V collecting dust in my shelf for this one :c

[୨୧] — Arthur Conan Doyle

There are quite some things he can understand about your symptoms. The main thing being procrastinating. 

Listen, he is a writer, and he is not perfect, and there are moments where inspiration poofs out and he is forced to stop with his writer's block, or sometimes he feels stuck in a sentence and decides to do everything except finish his next chapter, so he can empathize when you go through periods where you keep pushing certain activities until the last minute.

He still worries about your well-being, even if he is not a doctor anymore; he is curious about the treatment you had back at your time and home. 

He is sweet and understanding, despite having some pet peeves, he does his best to understand how it's something that is part of you and can work with support. And he wants to be that support.

Arthur also finds relatable the moments where you are stuck with your hyper-focus periods, and you happen to do your and Sebastian’s chores for the day on your own, though he is hurt by you mostly ignoring him those awful days when he wants nothing but to pamper you.

[୨୧] — Comte De Saint Germain

He is a wonderful and understanding man.

I can imagine him having a lot of pet peeves with people getting distracted too easily or drifting off and, part of loving you is the imperfections you embrace of each other and, they make you perfect for him as anyone. 

He is careful of the periods where you either procrastinate too much or hyper-focus too much to not exhaust yourself with the chores you take or by making you overwhelmed by taking care of the mansion and its inhabitants. 

He will listen to your weekly obsession without trouble. Do you want to tell him about 30 crow facts you learned? Tell him. Did you find a new way to make Sebas flick your forehead? He frowns. Do you want to tell him about your comfort fanfic you know by heart because you can’t read it anymore? He will listen.

If you fidget too much, and if you ask, he will get someone from his multiple contacts to make a “replica” of the fidget toys you used to have back at home.

[୨୧] — Isaac Newton

I have been seriously thinking of this since I got this ask because it seems too funny even if I haven't read his route: Consider, you don’t shut up.

Isaac strikes me as the type who wants to study in peace and quiet.

So maybe your relationship is quite a bumpy ride at first. 

What amazes him is your capability of telling him about 100 things that interested you in the span of a single week.

Your conversations flow at random, so he would often be working on his stuff to suddenly be whisked away by you to tell him about that one thing you found out about hedgehogs for 3 hours. 

Sometimes you are the cause of some of his frustrations. Last month you started knitting? He found some yarn with a texture you like and bought it as a gift, thinking you could make something for yourself.

He came back to find your knitted sweater half done and forgotten, and now you are learning how to bake. 

And it is an ongoing cycle, but he finds a bit of happiness in you trying new things, as you often drag him along, which means spending more time together.

Maybe your relationship is the answer to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

[୨୧] — Leonardo Da Vinci

ADHD? 

Avoid tasks? Hyperfocus? Not enough focus? This man is a master at all those (and at dozing off)

He doesn’t mind you procrastinating, he has been avoiding to clean up his room for the last century, so he can’t complain. 

Now, if you forget or get distracted about other things, now that’s a different story. Did you feed Lumiere in the evening and forgot to tell him, and then he fed him that same day, and now you have a chubby cat? 

That’s funny, but no. 

Aside from that, he doesn’t have trouble with your condition; he is still a loving man. He always is and has been when it comes to loving you. 

And he likes your energy and how you keep him awake, in a sense, always making him try new things together, like dancing! Which he is not the best at, but he doesn’t mind trying your interests. 

If you take an interest in one of his multiple areas of expertise he’d definitely teach you and not be bothered if you happen to drop your interest in the activity, in fact, he invites you to try other things.

Beware, he is a strict teacher, so he doesn’t want your attention wandering off too often.

He enjoys…, grounding you, lets say. 

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Abandoned

For Angstpril, Day 6

cw: aftermath of torture, mentioned hand whump, death mention

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hero was troubled.

It wasn't the fight. He'd gotten better of the five supervillain-wannabes without breaking a sweat, stripped them of the tech they were using, and watched as they were all led away in handcuffs.

He'd dusted himself off, briefed law enforcement on the scenario, then started collecting the gear the criminals had used so it could be turned in as evidence.

It wasn't until he was holding the first piece—a cuff that let its wearer manipulate electricity—that Hero's blood ran cold. It was inch-for-inch identical to something he'd seen Villain use.

He collected the rest of the gear in a hurry, giving each item a quick once-over, and each piece further confirmed his suspicion.

Villain had made the tech that outfitted the aspiring criminals of the day. Dammit. He should've realized this was bigger than an attempted robbery. Villain was always a step ahead.

And he'd been missing for months. Plenty of time to plan something big. How many other petty criminals had he outfitted in that time? Would the city see a spike in crime? Or…

A chill washed over Hero as he remembered the last time he'd seen Villain. Running away, tail between his legs after a crushing defeat at Hero's hands.

Was this revenge? Had the robbery been a distraction?

He handed the rest of the gear off quickly, trying not to let the worry show on his face as he took off. 

What if Villain had attacked his base? His team? His family? Even in route, he called back to the team's headquarters in a hurry.

"Hero?" Sidekick sounded half asleep.

"Sidekick! Are you… tell me you're okay."

"M'fine. Why? What's going on?"

"Check the perimeter. I think Villain's up to something."

"What? I mean, okay."

"I have to go. I'll be there soon."

"Hero?"

He hung up before she could finish her question. First he had to check on his parents. His brother. It felt unlikely, unreal even, that Villain would be able to find them, but he couldn't risk it.

It wasn't as if Villain wouldn't stoop that low. He'd taken hostages before, and had proven time and time again that he didn't make empty threats. If he'd hurt any of them…

But he hadn't. 

A thorough search of his parents' house, his brother's apartment, even the surrounding block, yielded nothing.

Nothing at home, nothing at his base.

So what was Villain planning? It was so unlike him to do anything without it being part of some grander scheme.

Maybe he'd just handed off the tech to a random gang and told them to go wild. Spread some fear. A promise of a chaos that would plague the city.

Or maybe it was all a mind game, a way to get back at Hero without ever having to touch him.

Dammit. If that was it, it was working. Even after assuring the safety of his family and friends, Hero couldn't sleep. He had to get to the bottom of this. Find Villain and imprison him for good. Prevent any further weapons dealing. Protect the city.

Hero got in contact with the police first thing the next morning. They'd managed to get an address from yesterday's delinquents, and it was as good a starting point as any.

Before taking off, Hero got one more look at the gear the group had been using. If nothing else, it would give him an idea of what he'd be up against in the weeks to come. Villain was an engineer. An innovator. His only power was his intellect, but that was enough to let him go toe-to-toe with the likes of Hero.

The police had locked everything up in a vault, but he had no trouble convincing them to grant him access. After all, this could finally lead to Villain's arrest. An end to a reign of terror.

There were five items locked away, one for each criminal. Two electrokinesis cuffs. One pair of vision-enhancing goggles. A pair of boots designed to increase speed. And a belt that equipped its user with near-invisibility. 

A collection of Villain's favorites. Hero could identify all of them on sight. None of them seemed new, but why would Villain bother making petty thieves custom stuff? He'd probably just tossed them his hand-me-downs.

Or more likely, he'd given one of them his hand-me-downs. The collection seemed more designed to outfit a single person, not equip a full team.

And wasn't this the exact setup Villain had used in their last encounter? An odd coincidence, but Hero tried to shake it off. Once Villain was safely behind bars, he'd ask about it directly. Right now it was time to investigate the address. Maybe by the time he returned, the police would have more information for him.

The address didn't lead to some secret base, or shady warehouse; just a one-story house on the edge of city limits.

It felt a little odd to knock on the door, knowing who this place was affiliated with, but Hero was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. What if it was just one of the robber's mothers? A grandparent? He wasn't about to bash in the door and give some poor old lady a heart attack.

After a few tries with no answer, he forced the door open. A standard deadbolt was no match for superhuman strength, and if the homeowner did end up being an innocent bystander, a lock would cost him less than the whole door.

Inside… there was no one. All the lights in the house were off. The front room held nothing but a beat-up easy chair, and the rooms beyond didn't offer much more. No spare tech, no mysterious notes, not even an unlabeled phone number or address. Before Hero could call it quits, a shed in the backyard caught his eye.

Not much, but it was worth a look.

He tore away the padlock that held the shed closed, taking a chunk of wood with it. The door swung open, sunlight spilling in to illuminate the area. There was a tool chest against one wall, with a workbench directly across from it. A wooden chair sat beside it, speckled with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood.

Hero stepped inside cautiously, wanting a better look at the part of the shed where the sunlight didn't quite reach. A small scraping sound stopped him short, and he held his breath and listened.

Whatever the noise was, it was coming from the back corner. A box. No, a large dog crate.

Did the bastards from the robbery keep their dog locked up in here? Stale air and darkness, no protection from the elements… He muttered a curse under his breath, and the thing in the crate let out a quiet whimper that sounded almost human.

No way…

Hero reached the front of the crate, letting his eyes adjust as he peered through the metal bars, taking in a silhouette that was definitely not a dog.

He knelt, a little too quickly, and the figure inside flinched back, as far as the cramped space would allow. The scraping noise followed them, a sound Hero now recognized as chains.

"Dammit… don't panic. I'm going to let you out," Hero said in a low voice, crushing the locking mechanism with one hand and pulling away the front of the cage. What the hell had the bank robbers done? He knew they were reckless. Stupid and selfish enough to put people in harm's way in order to get what they wanted. He never would've guessed they'd be keeping a person in a dog cage? And who…

He clenched his jaw. No. He already knew the answer to that.

"I won't hurt you," he said. "Just come out, and I'll get you out of here, okay?"

He couldn't bring himself to think about it. Not right now.

The figure in the cage began to crawl forward on bruised, bony limbs. A short length of chain linked their ankles together, and a longer one hung from their neck, like some kind of leash. A muzzle glinted from somewhere beneath their dark, matted hair. Hero took a step back, giving them room.

He could leave now. Call the police. Call an ambulance. Leave and never confirm what he already knew to be true.

"Come into the light," he said instead. "Let me get a look at you."

The captive seemed to be in pain as they crawled to the other end of the shed, stopping just short of the door and staying there, head bowed.

Daylight reflected off of their chains and lit up the bruises scattered across their naked torso. A few sloppily-stitched gashes cut across their legs, and welts ran across their shoulders, but the worst of it was their hands.

Bloodied bandages wrapped around mangled fingers, most of which looked like they'd been broken or dislocated.

Hero knelt next to them. He could still go. He could still get away with pretending this was someone else, some innocent victim—

"Look at me," he said, trying to soften his voice.

He wasn't surprised when it was Villain's eyes that met his own, half-shrouded by dark strands of hair.

Villain, who'd once held a daycare hostage to get the City Council's attention. Villain, who'd murdered the mayor's wife to get her to take his threats seriously. Villain, who now looked up at him with tired, fearful eyes.

Whose body was a testament to the cruelty he'd lived through.

Who was chained and muzzled and broken.

Dammit, why couldn't it ever be easy?

"I'm going to take the muzzle off okay?"

Villain nodded, eyes downcast as Hero tore through the leather straps like they were pieces of paper.

Villain reached up, rubbing his jaw awkwardly with the back of his hand.

"Please…" came his voice, rusted with disuse. "Please, Hero, just arrest me. Please. I'm done. I c-can't—"

"You're okay. I won't… I won't hurt you," Hero said, the words coming out stilted and wooden. How was he supposed to comfort someone like Villain? He'd made his fair share of assurances. Accident survivors, rescued hostages, Villain's own victims. But they were always innocent, undeserving of whatever misfortune had befallen them. Villain on the other hand…

He took in his nemesis. Gaunt frame, hunched shoulders, unable to stand, barely able to crawl—

Did he deserve this much?

"Let me see your hands," Hero said quickly. He was no healer, but damage assessment was better than contemplating whether or not the man before him deserved his pity.

Villain shifted, holding both hands out, wrists bared. Like he was expecting to be cuffed, Hero realized.

"I'm not arresting you. I just want to see them," he clarified, reaching out to unwind the bandages, one-by-one. Both hands were spotted with deep puncture wounds, some of which looked infected. The marks were strange, and Hero was unable to guess at the cause until he removed the last bandage, revealing a small screw still embedded in Villain's palm.

"Dammit—!" he almost dropped Villain's hand.

The hand of an engineer. Someone who tinkers and builds, someone who uses their hands to create— The notion sickened him more than anything else he'd seen today.

"Why?" was all he could say. 

Villain didn't answer.

He couldn't sit here and dwell on this. Villain needed a healer, or at least a hospital. And then— and then, he'd need to be arrested. He'd pay for his crimes, but not like this.

But what if it happened again? Villain had plenty of enemies. Rivals and ex-henchmen who were in prison now, ready to take revenge. Guards and cops who'd been personally wronged who would look the other way. He'd have to take preventative measures against that.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let's go then." Hero knelt, taking Villain into his arms and cradling him to his chest as he took off. The beaten man curled in on himself as they flew.

"Please…" he said, barely above a whisper.

"No one will hurt you," Hero replied. "Villain, you're under arrest." After a moment, he added,

"And under my protection."

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Unfinished Tales lately and always get stuck on Théodred—the uniquely horrifying circumstances of his death, the big brother-little brother bond he had with Éomer, the fact that Éomer doesn’t really get to mourn him in any sense because there is so much other chaos happening. (We’re talking about the book here, where Théodred is much older than Éomer and dies far from home without a funeral. Don’t be fooled by the gif below, which I just had to include as one of the only existing visuals of them together!). So, anyway, I wrote this.

A Life Interrupted

As he approached the door, the twinge in Éomer’s chest slowly increased from the dull ache that had accompanied him everywhere for the last few months to a sharper, more insistent pain. It was finally time to grieve an enormous loss, one that he had so far been unable to really experience in its fullness because of the urgency of other needs, other battles, other losses. But no such distractions remained now, and he was at last ready to reckon with the death of one who had been a brother to him. He turned the knob and entered Théodred’s room.

Everything remained exactly as Théodred had left it, the room frozen in time on that February morning when the prince of Rohan had ridden off toward the fords with his men. Dirty boots sat in a corner, waiting for a spare moment to scrub them free of mud, and a bridle with a snapped noseband rested on a work table, mid-repair. A half empty glass of water sat next to it. Everywhere Éomer turned, there was evidence of a life unexpectedly interrupted, things put on hold in the expectation that they would be taken up again and finished later but now were just collecting dust.

The windowsill was covered with small pots and containers planted with the flowers and herbs that Théodred had always loved to tend, his long, strong fingers just as adept at coaxing life from seeds as they had been at taking lives in battle. No one had watered or pruned the plants in months, and most by now had dried into withered leaves and brown, brittle stems, yet more casualties of the war. Éomer took a pot with a single stalk that somehow still bore a few green shoots and placed it by the door to take with him when he left. He had no particular talent with plants, but he would nurse that little shrub with water, light and fresh soil until it was thriving and would keep it thereafter on the windowsill of his own bedroom for many years.

He came back and sat on the edge of Théodred’s bed. Sleep clothes were slung casually over the tangle of blankets, resting wherever they had fallen when Théodred had dressed on his last morning there. Éomer tried to imagine what Théodred might have been thinking that day as he prepared himself to leave…whether he knew that the first stroke from Isengard was about to fall and that a great battle would be joined. Whether he had thought about the possibility that he would never return to make his bed or care for his plants. He surely could not have expected that every foe on that battlefield would have a single, overriding mission—to kill the heir to the throne of Rohan at all costs—and Éomer shuddered to think of the horror that must have settled over Théodred when he realized that wave after wave of the enemy was bypassing closer, easier targets in order to charge directly and unceasingly at him alone.

This image of Théodred’s terrifying final moments at last brought forth the tears that Éomer had been holding back. He curled up in his cousin’s bed, clutching the sleep clothes to his chest, and sobbed. Without the inhibiting presence of other people, he finally allowed himself to do what he needed—to cry out and to whimper, to heave with wracking, ragged breaths and to lie still, to weep until his eyelashes were heavy with tears and the pillow beneath his face was saturated. He gave himself over entirely to his grief.

When the sobs eventually ran their course, he began to come back to his conscious mind and regain his awareness of his surroundings. He could smell the warm, woody scent of fresh stable hay carried onto the pillow from Théodred’s hair and clothes but mixed with a light, floral fragrance that surely had come from Eadlin, Théodred’s bride to be. Whether she had been here after Théodred was killed or the scent was left over from a distant day when two lovers had spent a lazy morning draped in each other’s arms, Éomer did not know. Eadlin had left Edoras shortly after Théodred’s death to return to her own family in Aldburg, unwilling to remain here where her memories of him were so numerous and vivid.

He turned his head and studied the rows of books that lined a shelf on the far wall. He could read and write in basic Westron, as was required for all members of the royal family, but he had never taken to reading as Théodred had. While Éomer spent much of his free time galloping the fields with Firefoot or trading jokes and stories with Háma, Théodred often was absorbed in a book, and he had acquired many volumes of lore from distant lands, treatises on the plants and animals of Rohan, and works outlining the history of the line of Eorl.

As he scanned the titles, Éomer’s eyes landed on a series of books on the bottom shelf. They were bound differently than the others and bore no identifying marks on the spines beyond handwritten numbers. He stood and walked over to the shelf to pull one out. Flipping it open, he found page after page of Théodred’s sprawling, unruly handwriting with notes and thoughts from days spanning all of the year 3014, five years ago. There were summaries of training exercises, reminders to re-shoe his favorite horse, and updates of news from the East and West Mark, but also fretful concerns for a friend who had recently taken ill, ideas for a birthday present for Éowyn, and sketches of a plan for a new flower garden. One entry from October of that year recounted a recent visit to Aldburg, where he had met a beautiful, witty woman who he could not wait to see again.

Éomer smiled and replaced the volume on the shelf, skimming his hand over the other journals in the series until his fingers rested on the one marked 3002, the year that his parents had died and he and Éowyn had come to live with Théoden and Théodred. He slid it from the shelf and opened it to an entry from just two weeks after his mother’s death.

“My cousins arrived this morning, and it pains me to see them in such a state. Sweet Éowyn cries easily and often (as could only be expected for one so young and so touched by tragedy) but Éomer puts on a brave face and seeks to comfort her as though he has not also just lost everything he knew and loved. Elfhelm’s wife will come for a time to help look after Éowyn, as she is too young to always be in the stables or on the training grounds, but I will try to keep little Éomer by my side as often as I can. He’s a brave boy with a kind heart, and I can already see that one day he will grow into a good man. I hope only that this early misfortune will not mar his chances for the happy and blessed life that he deserves.”

Éomer blinked back more tears. Blessed. Éadig. Yes, he had been blessed. With a happy childhood rescued by Théoden and Théodred from the wreckage of that calamitous year. With a prosperous kingdom that was now his privilege to rule in their stead. With an extraordinary woman who would become his wife and help to extend his family to another generation. Blessed indeed.

He slipped the journal back onto the shelf and walked to the door to pick up his little shrub, his fellow survivor. Then, taking one last look around the room, Éomer Éadig stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

[shads-shipposts]

"Anachronism" Prologue Rough Draft +LORE✨

Remember how I mentioned that the chapters prior to this would only leave you more confused as to wtf was going on? Well, the prologue is now finished and is being posted.

The background of Anachronism is this: back in 2015 I attempted to rewrite a 2014 RP that included the Tintin sailors (which is my first fanfic ever). True Colors was the name. It was never finished, instead transitioning halfway through into an original fic where the sailors got new names/designs/backstories as they were changed into ocs. The Karaboudjan would become the Caroline, but Scarlett was already a self-insert so her initial character remains (though she's changed quite a bit). Both the original fics and the 2015 are scrubbed from the internet, though I do believe one of you followers actually read that 2014 one when it was on Deviant Art. I am so sorry you had to witness that 😬.

Jump to late 2017-early 2018, the first hints of Anachronism were forming. It wouldn't be until 2019-2020 New Years that I started it in earnest. The story follows myself (yes, I get "isekai'd") as I end up in the same timeline as that 2015 fic. Originally it was the 2014 fic but I really don't want to deal with certain elements of that mess. Anyway, that Anachronism kinda started collecting dust as my Bad Batch hyperfixation hit and Adventures!AU was born. That series takes place after Anachronism, but Anachronism was never posted.

Well, 4+ years, three and a half books, and 500k+ words later I am finally starting to post snippets to curse the world lol. Schedule-wise, Anachronism won't premiere in full until 2029 most likely, as Adventures!AU is still my main project. But I miss the Karaboudjan crew, and my hyperfixation is strong for them rn so I'm posting and working on chapters.

All that to say buckle up, this fic gets wild. Magic elements are minimal in this fic, but they still be there.

Enjoy! :D Feedback is most welcome, I'm still figuring out the characterizations for the fellas as it's been a while since I really wrote heavily with them (Bad Batch has claimed most of my time).

CW: Mild horror elements

1872 words

---------------------------

“Scared, Allan?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself here after he closed his eyes. It’d been months since the incident that gave rise to the event playing over and over again in his dreams, but time hadn’t dulled any of his emotions concerning the event.

“I must say, your fear scent is… unique. Fishy and tart.”

 Confusion, horror, shock, disbelief.

“Don’t worry your little head there. I respect you and, strange as it may seem, I do find the need to fear you.”

Yes, fear there too.

“Funny ain’t it?”

And who wouldn’t be scared?

“An Alphian fearin’ a human.”

When they were faced with an alien of unknown magical abilities?

“Don’t see that every day.”

The scene wobbled and fizzled at the edges, like staring at a reflection on the surface of a stormy sea. The secrets surrounding the scene trapped deep in its depths, unreachable even if one tried their hardest to grasp the answers.

Allan Thompson walked through the scene, removed from his own actions as if he were just on autopilot. He couldn’t change the scene, no more than someone watching a reel on a screen.

He sat at the table, across from the half-human, half animal woman that watched him like a hawk. Dark stripes cut through her skin like thick shadows across a moonlit patch in the woods, a black and white tail flicked behind her, and piercing eyes the color of glaciers scanned him inside and out. She was a head shorter than him, yet power radiated off her like heat from an open flame.

His voice reached his ears, muted and distant.

His own and yet… not, in a way.

“Kid… I’m sorry about Turtle.”

The alien looked up at him, the furry ears on the sides of her head flattened against ginger hair.

“Thanks, man.”

Those cat-like eyes shifted to the side, as if searching for any other threats.

He knew it was a dream. Knew what was about to happen.

It did not ease the churning of his stomach.

“Actually,” she continued, mouth moving but voice coming from the very walls surrounding them. “I kinda wanted to ask you about something related to that.”

Allan knew what was coming. Knew what she was going to ask.

Knew how badly it would go, how swiftly the scene would turn dangerous.

But he was helpless to do anything but follow the script. Follow the events as they unfolded.

Eyes on her hands, waiting to see those thorn sharp claws, Allan again heard his voice from far away.

“Aye?”

He wished he could change course. Wished he could prevent what came next. Perhaps, if he could, then things would be different.

But no.

“Let me go after that short slaver with the dark brown hair. I want his head for orderin’ me to kill Turtle.”

There it was. The request that shattered everything. The request that would leave Allan with gaps in his memory that no amount of pondering or searching could ever fix.

He felt the shock course through his body, felt his spine stiffen and his heart skip a beat.

“I’m sorry…” he heard himself say. “But I can’t allow that.”

Ears shot up, a tail bristled, sharp teeth bared, and anger blazed in those icy eyes.

“What?”

If only he could alter his words. Explain more, explain better.

Save himself.

If only.

“I can’t allow you to kill him.”

He had dreams. He had nightmares.

This hell was something else entirely.

Pupils narrowed to slits across from him, jagged scars streaking down the table as wicked claws dug into the old wood.

“Is that your final answer?”

There was red now, deep in those eyes.

He could only watch, silently scream in his head as he fought with all his might to change the memory.

“Aye, I refuse to let you go after him.”

Futile. The scene would play out as it had many nights before this one.

The woman stood, ears low and tail lashing.

“Whose side are you on, Allan? Huh? The slavers?” A snarl curled her lip, the temperature around them plummeting as ice snaked out from her hands across the table. “How disappointin’.”

The edges of the scene corrupted, bleeding red and black.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to hide.

Hide from the devastation bearing down on him like a hurricane at sea.

But there was no refuge. No escape.

“There will be another time to kill him.”

He had to witness the event that would alter his fate.

Words came faster now, a distorted echo to them that sent chills down his spine.

“But I heard the other slavers talkin’! He’s goin’ on patrol tonight! I can’t pass up this opportunity to claim revenge for what he did.”

“Look, kid. I said no, and that’s final.”

“Nobody’s gonna stand in my way. Not even you. Stand down now, Allan. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He got up.

Walked over.

“I told you no, kid! That’s an order!”

“Give it up, Allan. I’m doin’ this my way. I’m killin’ him tonight and you can’t stop me. Don’t even try to.”

He got close.

Too close.

It was over fast. She winded him with a headbutt, driving him back into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from him. He didn’t even have a chance to rise to his feet, weight pinning him to the floor. A rag clamped over his mouth and nose, drowning the world in a sickly-sweet haze.

 Darkness followed swiftly after, a growl echoing in his ears.

“You brought this on yourself. Sweet dreams.”

And those were the last words he ever heard from Scarlett Hyde.

Allan sat up in his bed with a gasp, cold sweat pouring down his face as he fought for breath.

Was that her now, hiding in the dark corner?

He flicked on the light, fingers struggling to grasp the knob.

Nothing, just his trenchcoat.

It was too hot. Too stifling.

Air.

He needed air!

Staggering to the porthole, he yanked it open and welcomed the sharp chill that rushed in. Allan leaned against the wall, eyes closed as he fought to catch his breath and sooth his racing heart.

After that fight, any and all memory of the Alphian ceased. He couldn’t even recall what happened once he woke up. Because they sure as hell didn’t go from being overrun by slavers to being back at their home port without any sign there was even a hostile force occupying the ship.

Only one man had memories of Scarlett that went past Allan’s; Tom.

His friend and trusty right-hand man. The closest person to Scarlett on the ship prior to her mysterious disappearance.

Allan hoped he could have shed some light on Scarlett. Maybe Scarlett somehow drove off all the slavers after knocking Allan out, accessing some type of beast mode or something. She was an alien, and could shapeshift, so it wasn’t entirely implausible.

But no.

Tom’s last memory of her was Scarlett heading off the ship into the woods. Tom had gone after her, only to find himself face to face with the same slaver Scarlett was after. The slaver attacked him, but Scarlett showed up in some animal form and attacked the slaver. She won the fight but was stabbed in the process. Tom tried dragging her back to the ship after she shifted back to that half-human form, but then his memory too went dark.    

That was it. The trail ended. Went cold. With no hope of recovering the fractal memories.

Maybe Scarlett was around longer, and had some alien way of wiping their memories. Why, then, did he have any memory of her at all? If she truly aimed to wipe all memory of her existence, he should have forgotten her in totality.

Instead he was left with only partial memories and no explanation that could even remotely make sense of the event.

Every port they stopped at, every contact he knew, he asked. When Scarlett Hyde rang no bells, he tried the false name she gave at first; Ice Shadow. Still nothing.

He tried her description, her species, her family, everything.

Nothing.

As if neither she nor her species even existed in the first place.

A knock sounded on his door, and Allan turned away from the window to stare at the clock by his bed.

05:00 am.

His port watch wasn’t due for another few hours, so it couldn’t have been someone calling him for that.

“Al?”

Tom. What was he doing up this early?

Passing through his dayroom, Allan opened the door and found Tom looking almost as disheveled as himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tom rubbed his arm. “It… happened again.”

Allan’s eyes widened. “Scarlett.”

Tom nodded.

Allan stood to the side to let him in. “You too, huh?”

Tom straightened, looking slightly more alert as he sat on the couch in Allan’s dayroom. “Same dream?”

“What other dream would it be?” Allan growled.

Tom wasn’t put off by his tone, but then again he never was. “What are the odds, huh?” he said in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, a weak smile accompanying the joke.

Allan wasn’t amused. “Real funny.” He leaned on the table, pushing his hair back. “This is the fifth time in two weeks,” he growled. “I do not need this. We got that proud peacock prancin’ ‘round like he owns the damn ship, orderin’ us to and fro like damn dogs. I don’t need this headache on top of it.”

“At least the captain ain’t givin’ us any issues.”

“Don’t think that old man would notice if I scuttled the damn ship,” Allan grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Probably not.” Tom tilted his head. “Don’t think the dreams mean anythin’, do ya?”

“Concurrent dreams about an alien that we both know had the power to alter dreams?” Allan said. “It’s fishy.”

“Think she’s comin’ back?”

Allan shrugged tiredly. “Hell, Tom, I don’t know.” He glared in the direction of the door. “At least Sakharine’s finally tracked down the second ship. Then we can be back at sea, and I’ll have other things to keep my mind on.”

“Yeah, can’t wait to have that guy off.” Tom shuddered. “Gives me the creeps.”

“Feelin’s mutual.” Allan stretched. “Guess I may as well get coffee, not like I’m gettin’ any more shuteye today. Want some?”

Tom nodded, stretching too. “Won’t say no.” He shuddered. “Anythin’ to keep awake after that nightmare.”

Allan understood his hesitation with going back to sleep. Tom’s dream was far worse than his, with the man being hunted down in dark woods by a slaver bent on murder. Scarlett’s animal form wasn’t exactly comforting either, Tom describing it as a large tiger-looking beast with saber teeth that was a third again the size of a normal tiger.

“Alright, I’ll be there in a minute. Maybe the cooks have somethin’ already.”

Tom nodded. “I’ll wait outside.”

As Tom left, and Allan headed back to his room, the first mate mumbled under his breath.

“I really hope it was just coincidence.” He punched the door open. “Because I cannot deal with anything else.”

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Fic Titles Named After Food Masterlist

Birthday Cake (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance luke/calum E, 2k

Summary: Birfffday Cake

It’s Luke’s birthday and Calum decides to make it special.

burnt eggs & broken promises (ao3) - kingscrossinseptember luke/ashton G, 4k

Summary: “…So after a month or two of getting hounded by people, I may or may not have invented a fictional boyfriend.”

Luke glanced up at Ashton with worried blue eyes, as if he was expecting to be berated for lying. Instead, Ashton shrugged. “I can see why.”

or,

Ashton’s always found his roommate, Luke, nothing but aggravating, but when they make a deal where Ashton has to pretend to be Luke’s boyfriend for a night, his opinion starts to shift slightly…

Cake By The Ocean (ao3) - HPFangirl71 luke/calum E, 1k

Summary: Just the boys having fun in Bali......

I was sort of inspired by the DNCE song but only in the fact that it inspired the title and the premise of our ship Cake having sex by the ocean. lol Its basically just a reason for more Cake smut!!

cake topics (ao3) - galacticsugar luke/calum E, 39k

Summary: Every morning that week, Calum goes back to the bakery, collects his lemon bar, and sets up on the terrace with his laptop.

And every morning that week, he sees the tall guy with off duty model vibes, right around the same time, always carrying his iced coffee, always wearing a leather jacket. Since he’s all the way across the street, Calum doesn’t really get a good look at him beyond basic shapes, so the off duty model thing is based entirely on his build and the fact that he looks sort of effortlessly put together with his leather jacket and casual sneakers.

That’s probably why Calum waves like a maniac and blurts, “Hey buddy!” when he comes face to face with the guy when he’s in line for his lemon bar the following Monday morning.

Candy Cane Lane (ao3) - HeartbreakAshton94 luke/calum G, 270

Summary: Luke has never been to Candy Cane Lane, so Calum takes him there this year.

Candy Canes (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton E, 1k

Summary: In which Ashton is a tease and Luke gets his own back.

or

Ashton teases Luke by sucking on a candy cane, and Luke has a better idea of where to put it.

carrot correspondence (ao3) - galacticsugar, kaleidoscopeminds luke/calum T, 15k

Summary: His eyes. Calum is losing seconds if not weeks looking at them. They’re a little heavy and a lot hazy, framed with such ridiculously long lashes, and they glitter and shine at Calum as he pauses, with his lips already half turned up like he’s prepared to be delighted at any of Calum’s answers.

Calum entertains an errant passing thought about whether the bride would be willing to go for a gold glitter dusting on top of the piped flower design for the godforsaken carrot cake and—

The fucking carrot cake. Fuck.

Cherry Stained Lips (ao3) - Rainbow711 calum/ashton M, 1k

Summary: Cal and Ash want to make each other fall apart, Cal has a plan.

cups of coffee (ao3) - jasperdillon michael/luke G, 697

Summary: sometimes luke’s internal monologue leaves his mouth without his permission and sometimes it turns out good. this is one of those times

Dripping like Honey (ao3) - FayeHunter michael/luke E, 8k

Summary: Michael can’t seem to escape Luke and her wild ideas. She doesn’t really want to

Grapes (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance michael/luke E, 3k

Summary: Luke was bored and when he found an interesting package, he could not help his curiosity; he wanted to see what laid inside. Oddly enough, he wanted to use what was inside. Luke was horny in L.A, Michael was horny in Sydney and it just happened.

I’m Going Blind from this Sweet Craving (ao3) - kaleidoscopeminds luke/calum T, 6k

Summary: “Bye, Luke,” Calum says. “Maybe see you tomorrow, and… Hope you have a great day too.” His face breaks out into a wider smile that reminds Luke of the feeling of getting just the right consistency for macaron batter, or a perfectly smooth finish on a cake, or the way good puff pastry flakes into the perfect fragments when you cut through a mille-feuille. Or something.

-

A bakery au

I think I like you… even more than your cinnamon rolls! (ao3) - FernandaLC luke/ashton, michael/calum G, 1k

Summary: Luke has been working in the bakery for one year. He really likes his job, he really enjoyed it. He dedicate three days on the week to make his cinnamon rolls. Everybody loves them. If that place was famous is for those delicious rolls. The blonde has been hearing comments of other people about his recipe, but one in particular, from a curly and handsome boy, makes him feel really happy.

no tempest in the tea (ao3) - kingscrossinseptember luke/calum T, 1k

Summary: Ever since Calum found out that Luke had been cheating on him for a significant amount of time, Luke has never tried to lie or make excuses. It’s just a fact. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, and Luke has been sleeping with another person regularly for the past six months.

Of Cherry Blossom And Chinese Food (ao3) - Juliaenerys luke/calum E, 12k

Summary: Luke and Calum have a big fight and it turns into something else, which they hadn't planned.

Popsicle (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance luke/ashton E, 4k

Summary: When Ashton proudly stated that he did not beg, Luke takes it as a challenge. He was going to make sure to make Ashton change his mind, however long it would take or to what extent he would have to go.

Sugar With the Sweet Talk (ao3) - galacticsugar luke/ashton G, 1k

Summary: Luke’s hands are shaking as he carefully pipes frosting onto a three-tier s’mores cake. It’s for Michael’s birthday, and Luke wants it to be perfect. Michael may be a troublemaker and a pain in Luke’s ass, but he deserves a perfect birthday cake for taking care of Petunia while Luke was filming Bake Off.

Waiting for Pizza (ao3) - Nichole_Fanfics michael/calum N/R, 1k

Summary: Michael and Calum are just waiting for their pizza. It's not their fault they decide to pass the time by fucking.

[gwen-tolios]

"Burn these," Lady Francis said, passing along a stack of letters.

Susan took them with a slight bow, stuffing them into her apron pocket, barely interrupting her dusting of the library. From the corner of her eye, she continued to watch her employer sit at the table reading a novel.

At least, she assumed it was a novel. Ladies usually read novels. The rate at which Lady Francis flipped the pages also indicated it was not a book full of knowledge to digest.

Susan withheld a sigh, aligning the books on the shelves with a cloth-covered hand as she finished her chore. Susan didn't dare touch one – the bumpy leather covers, the gold embossed letters – because she knew she wouldn't be able to resist slipping one into her apron pocket and Lady Francis or her husband would certainly notice its absence. But letters to be burned? Well. No one would know if Susan didn't feed them to the fire.

They sat in her apron pocket all day, Susan patting the space to ensure she hadn't lost them every time she switched chores.

She only pulled them out when she got home, sitting on her bed in her shared room at the boarding house. Amelia, her roommate, watched her in the vanity mirror as she washed her face. Amelia also worked as a maid for a wealthy family in the city. Based on the soot she scrubbed off, that day's tasks had been a lot of fireplace cleaning.

"Did you steal letters again?"

"It's not stealing if they're not wanted."

"One day, someone is going to find your collection of scraps. It won't matter that you can't read, they'll still believe you took them for some nefarious purpose."

Susan spread the letters on her knees, tracing their shape. The greeting at the top, the paragraphs flowing down the cream paper, the departure at the end. A name, signed with a flourish.

Amelia was right. Susan couldn't read and had no one to teach her. Lady Francis allowed Susan to handle her papers because she was illiterate. Her salary wasn't enough to allow her to attend classes either, not with the only schools accepting female students having tuition higher than a month's rent.

Susan had only reached New York City by asking for directions, but that wasn't uncommon in the rural parts of Connecticut she had lived in. It was rare for a woman in her town to know how to sign their name. What was the point? What did she need to read? She knew where all the shops were and there was no one she wished to write letters to.

She didn't need to read in the city either, many people didn't and it was no big trouble to ask for directions. But it would make things easier – reading the labels in shops or the names in windows. She could get the news from the paper, not wait to have someone tell her what it said.

"I'll read someday." Susan slipped the letters into a basket near her bed. Her collection was growing, filling half the wicker basket.

"Well, staring at those paper scraps every night is not going to make the knowledge appear in your head."

"You never know." Susan slipped out of her work clothes, careful not to step on the hem. The fabric was thin enough that if she did, the resulting rip might be too large to mend.

Amelia sighed, digging into her trunk for her sleep shift.

"Reading isn't proper for women, Susan."

"Says you. One day, I'll memorize my entire collection. Every word. Every drop of ink."

"You better stop pilfering then. The more you collect, the more you'll have to memorize."

Susan hadn't considered that, but the next time something to burn crossed her hands, the children's letter practice sheets, Susan pocked them.  

-----

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[invyou]

now we’re worlds apart (teaser)

PAIRING: miya atsumu x fem!reader

WC: 20k+ ??

DATE: dk

GENRES: heavy angst, fluff?? (barely), established relationship, tragedy

WARNINGS: major character death, depression, grieving, heavy angst, suggestive, arguments, physical violence (not sure yet), time skip characters

SYNOPSIS: it felt like any other day when you woke up next to your boyfriend, feeling like you had the entire universe in the palm of your hands. but today was different, a day that slipped unnoticed until its arrival. a momentary lapse was enough to snatch everything from your hands and now you had to witness the aftermath all alone.

Present

There’s a glass of water on the kitchen counter, half empty. You watched as your boyfriend retreats to the bedroom, not sparing you a glance. It shatters your heart, but you bite your lip almost drawing blood to keep your tears in. Its too early to let them out. The door slams shut, still gentle. Then the silence is unbearably loud again.

Everyday has been the same. He wakes up, god knows when, having lost all sense of time and routine — actually you don’t even think he’s been sleeping these days — and you only see his face when he walks into the kitchen or to answer the door, only after persisitent, relentless knocking. He’s still in the same set of clothes he’d been wearing the past week now. You hear the heart-wrenching sobs that make him choke up and it forms a lump in your throat. Its unbearable. He has locked himself away and you’re always greeted with red rimmed eyes the next time he walks out. All you wanted to do was to take him into your arms and comfort him, tell him it was gonna be alright.

But its not.

Nothing will ever be the same and it was your fault. He lost everything and there was nothing you could do or say to fix anything. The helplessness you’ve felt since following your boyfriend back into the house had been suffocating, enough to kill you twice. 

You had taken up the empty space on the velvet loveseat the one you had spent an entire month’s salary to buy. Your boyfriend — contrary to how others assume he was, regarding his spending habits, had chided you for it. This was your favourite spot in the apartment. You’d be there in a tangle of limbs, watching movies, reading, or just doing your own things together on lazy Sundays. 

Its starting to collect dust you notice, the blanket left in the exact same position you left it almost a week ago. It feels cold even as you’re sitting there.

Everything’s much colder and you know being in the familiar comfort of your boyfriend’s arms can make it go away. But that’s not something you can ask for anymore.

┈➤ A/N: i’ve had this idea in my head since earlier this year and it was originally meant to be an atsumu fic but i wanted to write for gyu so switches it up. i hope i finish this well bc the idea was great and i don’t want to disappoint myself :)

this will be my first fic on tumblr so it makes a me a little nervous, pls lmk what u think so far!! reblogs and feedback appreciated! i’m not sure if this will be a one shot, if it’s longer than i expect then i’ll split it but we’ll see.

i also don’t have friends on this at all tbh, so i’d love to interact with you guys <3

[adelaidedrubman]

wip wait who the fuck made it thursday already

tagged on this day by @chickenparm and over the past few weeks by @shallow-gravy @marivenah @direwombat @schoute @starsandskies @multiverse-of-themind @unholymilf to share a wip! sending tags out to any of the above in a fresh sharing mood and also to beloveds @henbased @florbelles @ishwaris @belorage @heroofpenamstan @dihardys @roofgeese @purplehairsecretlair @jackiesarch @bluemojave @vasiktomis @josephslittledeputy @stacispratt @derelictheretic @snake-in-the-garden @strafethesesinners @socially-awkward-skeleton @a-far-cry-from-my-main

taking a lil wildfire cooldown (lol) and instead screaming crying scrambling to get at least one kinktober piece finished before the month ends, so here’s a couple longer (sfw) excerpts from that

1. faithjen prompt i’ve been kicking around. pre explicit parts so only warnings are ig implied nudity and vague references to their cult crimes.

The creak of rusted hinges crying out in complaint at the opening of the door cut through the soft sloshing of bath water, a gentle hum joining in its chorus in a slow searching rise and fall, as if attempting to find a harmony with the metallic screech. 

Jenna subtly tilted her head upwards and to the side to better view the woman, her cheek pressing against cool porcelain. 

Faith continued to hum under her breath, smoothing out the tune with the settling of the door back into its frame at the gentle press of her fingertips, padding footsteps weaving left and right in something of a half dance on her path towards the tub. 

It was Faith’s own way of slowly washing off the day, Jenna thought with an amused smile, the gradual easing out of the public persona into something more organic and relaxed. 

Her song bubbled into a laugh (muted, not rising with the pitch it did around others) as she bent at the waist to hover over the tub. Jenna met her with a low, flat hum of her own and a wordless nod of acknowledgement. 

Faith held the silence, reaching a hand out to drop dried flower petals to float atop the water. Not bliss flowers — a collection from their private gardens. A smattering of primroses and poppies. She was well aware of Jenna’s stance on compartmentalizing. That bliss, however pleasant, was business, the very business she was washing herself of for the day. 

With her basket emptied and set aside, Faith smoothed her skirt out to prop herself seated at the edge of the tub. She leaned down to skim her fingers along the water, crowding Jenna’s senses with the syrupy perfume of bliss that clung to her as she did — a more natural, softer version of the scent, lacking the sharp chemical notes, but familiar enough to wind the tension of work back into Jenna’s muscles nonetheless. 

“You shouldn’t,” she said plainly, gesturing with her eyes to the fingertips cutting ripples through the bathwater. “Touch the water directly,” she clarified. “There’s at least some miniscule risk of chemical residue.” She cupped a hand, dunking it and then raising it again, presenting the iridescent water pooling in her palm. “Mixture of an undetermined toxicity.” 

Faith pulled back, blinked slowly. Then dropped her head with eyes closed, corners of her mouth stretching outward to let out laughter that was now full and bubbling. 

Residue, Jenna thought.

2. old johnjess no reaping au wip i’m dusting off and attempting to convert into a kinktober piece. again, pre anything explicit so no warnings, just classic jessie normcore behavior.

She considered the complimentary pen and notepad resting on the nightstand, reaching for the former and worrying with its top, bending the flimsy plastic clip back and forth until it snapped and caused the lid to fly across the room. She sighed, pressing the tip of the ballpoint into the pad of her thumb instead, letting ink smear there as she dug it into her finger before finally twirling it in her hand and pressing against the thin pages of the notepad to scribble. 

406-555-8528. 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t memorized the number a long time ago, despite keeping up the pretense of refusing to program it into her phone and ripping up every piece of paper she was handed with it. 

Which she did with the current one as well, thank you very much, tearing it to shreds that fell along her lap then brushing hands along her legs to scatter the pieces along the floor. 

She grunted in frustration, kicked a heel against the nightstand. Restless fingers clawed against the fabric of the bedspread, the friction sending an unpleasant shiver crawling lightning quick up her arm and down her spine. A sensation she was driven to release by shifting the hand to drum against the table top. Then find the pen to slide between her fingers, bouncing it between them with that same frantic energy, finally bringing the tip of the pen back to the notepad to glide absentmindedly along the paper, scribbles looping along the page before ultimately taking shape into that same series of numbers. 

406-555-8528. 

Shit. 

She scowled, ripped through the line of numbers, sprinkled the scraps of torn paper on the floor again. 

Then wrote the number again, tore it to shreds again, as if this time would really exorcize it from her attention. 

Then did it again. And again. And again, until every page of the notepad lay in a pile of confetti at her bedside. 

She huffed, threw the pen across the room and ran a hand through her hair. She slammed a fist against the nightstand, causing the phone to rattle in its cradle. She thrust her hand up to slam atop it so as to steady it. 

She left the hand there, slowly curling fingers around the handle, clenching hard enough to summon the slight crack of plastic in her grip. 

She bit the inside of her cheek, lifting the receiver to her face. She let her fingers dance along the buttons, pushing in the ones still stubbornly screaming in her head. 

She told herself she would allow one shrill ring to penetrate her ear, just enough to drill deep into her skull what a bad fucking idea it was, make the act of dialing real enough to have consequences. 

But the dial tone clipped abruptly before the first ring had even reached a lull, a brief panicked heartbeat of white noise before a familiar voice replaced the chime to pour into her ear. 

“Hello,” the voice greeted simply, politely, and Jessie counted five slow, heavy drums of her heartbeat throbbing in her ear before he spoke again. “John Seed, Esquire, speaking. May I ask who is calling?”

She gave a sharp, annoyed inhale, restraining herself from barking some variation of ‘Of course you have to announce the fucking Esquire too, you pretentious fucking creep,’ into the line, instead settling for huffing out a single long exhale — just enough to preserve the possibility he would read it as a rejection of his bullshit — then slamming the phone back into its cradle. 

She threw herself back onto the bed with equal roughness, springs squeaking with her weight. 

The fresh ring of an incoming call pierced her ears before the bounce of the mattress had time to still.

[androidmuses]

[ 27.11.2023 , 1246]

Pancakes and Painting

"I finally finished my painting, it has been about three months since I started. It was originally just supposed to be a simple landscape but I decided to paint the city from a "looking up" view. It is nice, but has a few unfixable mistakes."

"I might end up selling it or put it in storage. I get inspired to paint the pictures I take but am never able to capture its true essence. So the painting usually ends up collecting dust in my closet. Sad I know, but it just doesn't seem right to sell or give a half assed painting to someone."

"On another note, I tried pancakes for the first time at this new cafe that just opened. They were nice, sweet and warm. I hope to try more human foods."

Hwang Hyunjin

[bluewindfall]

📝😯

Aw, I'm so happy you sent me this!! :D Thank you for the ask!! This wip is the one I'm working on right now. I'm really hoping I'll be able to finish it over winter break so I'm trying hard to stay motivated! ^^

The alley is damp. Bluish veins of weeds have sprouted between the cracks of its bricks like patina. He brushes his fingers under the bent edge of a leaf as he passes by. Even from here, he can smell the static, twisted miasma left beneath the fog. 

Water trickles from a roof drain, collecting near the dumpster and soaking his shoes. He crouches to examine the tuft of a feather caught on the rusted links of the fence. The asphalt is littered with amber and green shards of broken bottles.

“Here too?” a woman from forensics asks, holding a pair of tweezers in her gloved hands. 

Yukio sniffles, slipping his hands back into his pockets when her hasty footsteps approach from behind him. They’ve been searching in the rain for the last few days, and his cold has been getting worse.

“Yes.” He makes an effort to smile as he steps out of her way. “Thank you for all your help,” he adds. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Okumura Yukio, lead exorcist of the Tokyo unit.”  

The woman snaps a photo before placing the feather into a collection tube and screwing the lid on. “Ito Akari. Nice to meet you.” She bags the specimen and frowns. “Some higher-up was looking for you for a case.” 

“A case?” 

Ito shrugs and shuffles away to join the rest of her team. 

Yukio turns in a half circle in the alley, sighing as he breathes over his hands. Fall has just begun, yet the air is as sharp as winter this early in the morning. This alley and the next will have to be decontaminated for temptaint precautions, but for now, he’ll stay here as long as he can, memorizing the way this demon’s hatred stings like static and dust against his skin. 

He doesn’t understand how it bothers him so much. They’ve been chasing it for a month, yet no victims have been found. He’s only seen scraps of the demon left behind. 

A delicate, metallic clink makes him straighten. 

“Oh, over there? Hey, Yukio! Are you over here?” The sound of running carries from down the street. “Yukio!” 

Yukio recognizes his voice before he sees him. 

A splash scatters the puddle in the entranceway of the alley. It’s Rin.

He’s dressed in rumpled slacks, and his hair is a bit longer than Yukio remembered. A bright, relieved smile curves across his lips when he steps forward. “Yukio! I was looking everywhere for you.” 

Yukio pushes his glasses up. An inevitable sense of dread stirs beneath his exhaustion like the dark silt in a riverbed. “What exactly is an Arc Knight doing here?” 

Rin’s smile wilts only slightly. “Hey, don’t be like that.” His sword clinks as he slings it over his back. “So… a chimera, huh? That’s what they have you working on? You haven’t answered my calls for a whole week.”

Yukio presses his lips into a flat line. Rin had better not be here for this mission. There are select factors he’s observed over the years that compound into poor outcomes for missions, such as collaboration with the local police department, objective summaries longer than a single page, or civilian casualties. Likewise, an Arc Knight’s involvement does not bode well. 

“Whatever it is that you’ve been tangled up in, I’d rather not be associated with it. I’m busy.”

[w24ith]

Today is July 21st, and starting tomorrow my life is going to get a whole lot more complicated.

Tomorrow, ideally at 5:00 sharp, I will board a plane with my mother and fly to Germany. I will spend several weeks in art courses and awkward conversations with distant relatives (all the while artfully dodging fun topics like my top surgery and whether or not I’m going to hell), and then, when it’s all over and we’ve had enough of all the excitement, we will fly back home.

Normally that’s where the adventure would end, but not this time. No, this time things get a whole lot more complicated because only two days after touching back down on home soil I’ll be back in a car again, this time driving south to my new home for the next four or so years. I’ll run a few loads of laundry, shove everything I think I need (as well as all the things I think I think I’ll need) into several duffel bags, and somehow get it to fit inside the car.

Once it’s all done and shoved into place I’ll be able to look at my room from the doorframe and try really hard not to cry. And since I’m already having a hard time now, four weeks prior to that fateful day, I’m certain I’ll at least cry a little when the opportunity presents itself.

My room is clean for the first time in months now. My desk is empty of everything nonessential, my floor is swept and free of cat litter, and the clothes in my closet are folded for the first time in a year. My posters are still up and so are my guitars, soccer balls, stuffed animals, and all the small trinkets that make this room feel like my own. But soon they’ll either be crammed in a box or collecting dust. Soon I’ll have to decide what items I’ll allow to become relics and which ones I’ll take with me into my cramped dorm room. I’ll have to know that half of my hoodies are still at home, that half of me is still at home, and that the room I have lived in for the last 18 years is now more a museum dedicated to a prior life than proof of the real thing.

I’ve been sorting my clothes into bins since eleven today. Admittedly, that’s not all I’ve done, but sorting has been the word of the day, I fear. I sorted my clothes, my shoes, my school supplies, my art supplies, and even my art itself. All of it is now packed and categorized into three piles: going to Germany, going to college, or staying home.

And I hate it so much - these boxes, the scattered piles of stuff with me in its center, questions of ‘do I want this?’ and ‘do I really want this?’ until it’s all been picked apart like a whale carcass. Perhaps I’m being overly sensitive, (and a touch dramatic to deal with that,) but sorting things like this makes me want to rip out my teeth.

I think this is affecting me so strongly because it’s kind of like proof that all of this is real and happening. I can’t put off the hard parts anymore. I’m a big boy now and have to not only get my shit together, but also figure out which one of the many boxes that shit belongs in.

The last few days have shown me just how much I can despise change. I finished a major art project, and didn’t know what to do with myself once it was done. I cleaned off my school desk of two years and mourned for a spot that was never really mine to begin with. I said goodbye to three friends who will all be going to college far from me, without me, and had no idea how to deal with it on the whole hour long drive back home. Now, packing up the pieces of my room that give it character or make it ‘mine,’ I feel all these crushing emotions and more. As I peel back layer after layer of my possessions, sweep a decade of dust out from under my bed and sort my old schoolwork into piles, my room feels more sterile. I feel like a landlord painting over personality as one would door hinges with white paint, removing the things I love to make way for change. Change that will come, yet I have yet to accept.

God, what a feeling. To know that this thing that I’ve built in my heart and with my hands could be so easily removed. Perhaps when I stand in the doorway, ready to leave on move-in day, I’ll see it as nothing more than a shell of itself. Something that used to be alive that I have bled dry. Maybe I can convince myself that it was never really my room to begin with, and that these four white walls have always been as empty as they are now.

Maybe it will hurt less that way.

July 21st, 2024, 11:11 pm

Edited August 16th, 2024, 1:17 am

[moklebutt]

ANGST, ANGST, ANGST, ANGST

Riley’s head hit the underside of the sink she was camped under. Her phone timer blared, alerting her that it was time to check the results of the 6 pregnancy tests she just took. Slapping around blindly above her, she knocked the collection of plastic to the floor.

Every single one read “pregnant” in its own language. Double ticks, crosses, even just the word in bold, flashed before Riley’s eyes. If she had anything else in her, she probably would have vomited from the confirmation. Instead, she just pressed her palms against her eyes, rubbing little specks of color into her vision, and groaned.

“Fives? That you?” Gaz's voice echoed from the other side of the bathroom, Riley must have failed to notice him when she first barraged in or failed to notice him come in.

“Yeah… over here by the sinks, Kyle,” she sighed, senses returning enough to feel the pain throbbing in the back of her skull.

She quickly shoved the tests into his… her hoodie pocket, hiding her secret from one of her best friends. Kyle approached the sinks and crouched down to eye level with Riley, he clearly had just gotten out of the shower, his robe haphazardly tied, small droplets of water clung to his face.

“Hungover again?” he asked. That had been her cover up for the morning rush to the bathroom. Hungover from drinking her sorrows away. Truthfully she hadn’t touched anything like that in the two and a half months that Johnny had been gone. 

“Yeah, as always,” she snorted, glancing up at Kyle’s soft eyes. He seemed concerned, his brow furrowed and his head cocked just slightly. He extended a hand.

“Let’s get you off of this nasty floor and back to your room, sound good?”

Kyle helped Riley up off the floor, maneuvering her head away from the exposed pipes. She dusted herself and smiled gently at Kyle before absolutely losing it. Tears streamed down her face, built up from not talking about anything to anyone for months coming out at once.

Poor Kyle stood there for a moment before embracing the woman. He cupped the back of her head, holding her gently. 

“Is there anything I can do for ya, Fives?” he asked, sighing as she just sobbed into his robe.

She shook her head, “I need to talk to Ghost.”

…

After she calmed down, Gaz removed Riley from his shoulder and walked her to the lieutenant’s room. Assuring him that she’d be okay, Gaz walked back to the bathroom to finish up his shower.

Riley knocked on the door, silently praying that Ghost would be out, that she could put off this conversation. Or just never have it. That would be ideal.

But alas, he was in and let Riley inside.

Riley sat down on his bed, taking up as little space as she could, her hands shoved in the pocket of her jacket, running her fingers over the six tests jammed in there. Ghost pulled up a chair and sat facing her.

“What’s on your mind, Riley?” He asked, his voice quivering, knowing that all conversations between them could be fragile.

Riley bounced her leg up and down rapidly, she should have prepared a speech or something. Something that would have let her be prepped at this moment. He placed a hand on her knee, encouraging her to relax. She clasped her hand over his.

“Ghost, I need to tell you something. I don’t know how. Words are not my strong suit. Especially not now,” her free hand dug deep in the pocket, gathering all of them, “so I’ll just give you these. Spark a conversation I guess.”

Riley turned over Ghost’s hand and quickly dropped all of the tests into his open palm. His eyes went wide. Immediately knowing what the little plastic sticks were. She could see as he struggled to swallow, words jammed in his throat.

“You’re?” was all he could stammer out. Riley turned to tears again, nodding.

Ghost dropped the tests on the floor and scooted closer, “hey, hey. It’s okay. This is okay. Let’s talk, yeah?”

Riley wiped the hideous amounts of snot and tears from her face. She continued her nodding until she was confident she could breathe and get through a sentence without bawling again.

Ghost gripped her knees gently, “what do you want to do, Riles?”

“I don’t know. This isn’t something I want. But. I know that you want to be a father. And Johnny did too,” she avoided his gentle gaze.

“I know you’ve never wanted to raise a kid. You’ve been clear about that the whole time I’ve known ya, love,” Ghost went to cup her cheek in one hand, soothing her, “don’t feel like you have to carry my horrid spawn for me.”

“It’s not,” Riley’s voice was low, too low for Ghost to hear.

“We’ll get you an appointment off base if that’s what you want,” he prattled on, her attempts at getting his attention falling on deaf ears.

“Simon,” got him to stop talking for a moment, “Si. It’s…

Riley struggled to clarify.

“This isn’t yours.”

Ghost tilted his head, puzzled, “then why did you come to me? You’re an adult, you can talk to the other people you- oh.”

He saw how fast her expression changed.

“Yeah. Timeline only makes sense for Johnny to be the father. This is why I needed to talk to you, Simon. I don’t know what to do.”

Ghost stood up and turned to rummage through his desk, frantically searching for something. He produced two papers, one a business card for an off site natal clinic, the other a very short list of baby names written very clearly in Soap’s handwriting, a strange hodgepodge of cursive and block lettering.

“Johnny and I had talked about finding a surrogate. The plan was next year,” Ghost slid off his balaclava, his emotions fully on display, his features soft, lost in a good memory, “but Riley, if you are willing to carry, I want to raise this child. You do not have to be involved, but I want a chance at getting to raise his kid.”

“I figured that was the case. Simon, there's no guarantee that I can carry this to term. I need you to understand that,” he nodded violently at her words, “there are a million factors going against this pregnancy. My own personal medical history, Johnny's, the fact that I have an IUD in place.”

Simon took a deep breath, exhaling hard enough to flip his overgrown hair. Riley smiled, rarely getting to see this man’s face, she stroked the dirty blonde locks back into place.

“I know it's asking a lot. More than I've ever asked before. Crossing probably the biggest line you have but. I. I want to have the chance of raising his kid. Make Johnny happy…” Simon trailed off.

“If you’re willing to go through this with me, I will carry. Get me an appointment at the clinic and we can talk with a doctor. I just need you with me every step of the way, Simon.”

Simon rested his head against Riley’s belly, “I promise. We'll do this together. I’ll make the appointment now. After that, we'll talk to Price about leave for us both, yeah?”

“He’ll understand, hell, I’m sure he’d love to lend a hand,” Riley said, absentmindedly stroking her fingers through Simon’s hair, “you have a weird little village at your fingertips.”

…

Three months later, Riley found herself mourning the loss of her pregnancy. A feeling she never, ever expected to happen. A feeling she didn’t want.

She could feel how disappointed Simon would be at her once he returned from his mission. How disappointed Johnny would have been for failing to keep a promise. 

She had done everything right. Taken the vitamins, gone to every single doctor’s appointment, stayed active, watched what she ate. Everything within her power.

And yet there she lay, in her bunk, sobbing her eyes out, begging softly for this to be some cruel joke. For the horrific bleeding and days in the hospital to just be a sick fever dream. 

She flipped over onto her back, looking up at the photos she pinned to the underside of her bunk. Photos of her and Johnny, him and Simon, the three of them together. Photos of happy times. The pic of young Johnny in his football kit (one that his mom had given her much to his embarrassment) free of scars, both physical and mental, sparked too many thoughts.

Would the kid have looked like him? Would they have taken more after Riley herself? 

Riley, sitting with her thoughts, knew that it wasn't a family she craved but normalcy. Something that wasn't constantly fighting to survive and losing friends and partners. How many lives had she taken? How many people had she put in the same position she was in now?

She sighed and rolled over again, tears clouding her vision as another wave of cramps hit her. 

Breaking lease would be easy enough, her landlord would understand, being a mother of six herself. She still had American citizenship, flying home wouldn't be an issue. But did she want to return to Baker? Bury her problems, forget the task force. She could bring the dogs, they were technically hers after all. Start some dog training program in the god forsaken desert.

Riley shut her eyes, trying to avoid thinking about how pissed Ghost would be. His last chance to raise Soap’s kid was obliterated because of her stupid genetics. Ghost had said many times that it would be okay if she couldn't carry to term. He assured her and reassured her constantly that this whole thing was her decision.

But would he keep his words when he returned to base? When she broke the news?

Her sobbing slowed, cramps dying off momentarily. As her sleeping pills kicked in, Riley tried her best to wave off the feeling of dread.

…

She awoke the next morning to the feeling of being held. Ghost's large arms wrapped around her, holding her close.

“Good morning, Fives,” Ghost said sleepily, voice gruff and grainy, “how'd you sleep?”

Riley sniffled, trying to remain calm, “like a damn rock, didn't hear you come in. Should've woken me when you got in.”

“Price said you haven't slept in days. Probably would have been animal cruelty to wake you up,” Ghost squeezed her gently, Riley's legs drawing up into a fetal position almost reflexively.

“Simon, I think we need to talk,” Riley stammered out, uncomfortable with beating around the bush.

“If it's about your stay in the hospital and the reasoning, there's no need. Price got the info to me,” Ghost said, moving his hand down to rub little circles on her hip, “got a feeling that's why you haven't been sleeping, hm? Scared of me?”

“I didn't want to disappoint you,” she sobbed quietly.

Simon tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear, caressing her face in the process, “I have no right to be disappointed. You promised to try and you did, that's more than I could ever ask, Riles. I'm just glad you're okay. Couldn't live with myself if I lost you too.”

“So you're not mad?” Her voice still small and far off.

He shook his head, not that she could see, “never. I knew going in that this was a possibility, ya?”

He paused, considering his words.

“I'm sad, yes. But I don't think this was the right time for a shot at fatherhood. I'm not ready to retire. And I think I'd rather have Riley being herself than the miserable thing she turned into the past few months.”

“I'd like to be me again, too,” she said, relieved that he, at least for now, wasn't angry.

“Lemme know how I can help, love,” Simon whispered, sleep overpowering him again.

“Just stay here, sleep for a bit more,” she turned towards him, wrapping an arm around the brick house of a man.

“Copy,” Ghost said, tucking her head under his chin, “then we'll pack your bags, grab the dogs, and head to your place for the rest of downtime?”

“I'm on call with the cadets ‘til Friday, but yeah, I’d like that.”

[biniminisblog]

Definitely most excited for ways to a broken heart and under the mistletoe!! ♥️ third wheel sounds funny/interesting too! Hope to read them soon, can’t wait 🥰

im glad ur looking forward to it! ill def try to finish utm since its almost finished anyway, though im not sure when ill start wtabh. probs after i finish my finals and im sobbing because of my grades (gotta utilize those tears to create the ultimate angst fic yaknow)

third wheel is probably the one im most excited to write abt (its been collecting dust in my drafts for months) so hopefully it does well 🤞🤞 ill try my best to finish them soon while also not making it half assed lmao but anw thank u for ur thoughts!! ❤️❤️

[nixie-writes]

Hi! I was scrolling and saw some of your angel dust works and I thought they where really good! I genuinely started crying while reading the touch starved reader one lol. So I was wondering if you could write angel dust with a trans male reader? (he/him or it/its pls) basically like Angel walks in on the reader in his binder and gets confused while reader has to explain to him that he's trans lol :))) ofc no pressure!!

Hey, I love this idea so much!! We need so much more representation of trans folk in this community and pride month is getting even closer, it's time to be very proud of ourselves! Not gonna bother with a cut on this because it's pretty wholesome! Angel just lived in a different time period and didn't quite learn any hints towards trans people and learns from his lovely (and quite dashingly handsome) s/o. You can tell I had a good time writing this, even if it's a little on the shorter side. Enjoy and I love you!! (Someone please ask me to do a part two to this where Angel defends his trans male s/o from some antis so I have an excuse to dump my ideas of Angel and his trans male s/o this is very important to me.)

Angel tore open another dresser drawer, digging around in the poorly bundled lumps of clothing. He needed that bra and he needed it tonight. He had this new burlesque gig to pull up on and he’d be double damned if he wasn’t going to show up every other dancer in there. Issue is, he needed that bra and he’s been through his closet, Nuggs’ little bed made up of various things found around the hotel, his dresser drawers…Maybe someone else had a bra his size, he could think of one person who seemed to love collecting different bras of different sizes. Yes, [Y/N] had to have something. Leaving his mess of a room he descended a flight of stairs, took a sharp turn to the left, followed the hallway, took another left, hallway, right turn, finally arriving at [Y/N]’s door, with their name on a plaque beside the door. He tapped his knuckles against the door a few times and there was certainly some scuffling on the wooden floor but no response. Maybe they were busy. Shrugging Angel turned on his heel with the full intent of jokingly asking Vaggie for a bra just to piss her off. So he did. Following the hallowed wings he’d grown so used to he entered the common room where, as expected, Vaggie, Charlie and Husk were each at another post. Husk with a half empty beer bottle playing solitaire because he can’t play Poker against himself. Charlie attending the front door, patiently awaiting another lost soul to wander in and ask about a room. Vaggie slouched into a chair, scrolling down some app aimlessly. She looked bored as hell and it was Angel’s time to ruin it. 

“Vaggs!” He cheered as he approached the slender silver-haired woman. Her one eye shot up at him, immediate suspicion in her gaze. She bluffed an uncaring persona, turning her focus back to the phone in her hand. “Is it a serious question this time Angel?” Her voice sounded agitated already, meaning this would be even more fun. Raising his eyebrows and grinning wickedly he quipped, “can I borrow one of those black lacy bras of yours? I don’t care if it’s the one with Charlie’s name on it I just need one f-” he hadn’t finished his half joking question before his face was smashed into the chair arm. He was expecting that much at least but what followed wasn’t quite up his alley. “Fucking puta, asking the most depraved questions like une dolore nel mio culo go bother someone else.” Vaggie released his head from the arm chair and after taking a deep breath of air he replied, “fine, I’ll just see if [Y/N] answers the door, I’m sure they won’t mind lending me a bra.” Vaggie quirked an eyebrow for a moment before realizing Angel was serious. 

“No, no, that’s not - not the best idea.” Vaggie spoke quickly, setting down her phone with visible concern in her one eye. “You don’t ask them about bras, you don’t ask them about panties, nothing like that.” Angel felt his childish grin fall. Why couldn’t he ask them about underwear? Why not specifically female underwear? 

Charlie chimed in, “it’s not our place to say anything but, just trust us it’s a sensitive topic.” She insisted from her perch at the door. Angel could now feel his lips pull down into an active frown. What did these two women know about [YN] that he didn’t? A little less excited about his burlesque he trudged up the stairs, taking the same route, back at the door with [Y/N]’s name embezzled beside it. He tapped his knuckles against the door, harder this time and another set of scuffling feet moved around but still no answer. Angel was done with this, he tossed open the door and walked in haphazardly, closing it behind him immediately. He scanned the familiar room until his eyes landed on [Y/N], standing almost entirely undressed surrounded by different items of clothes, most looking like crop top tanks, and other unrecognized articles of clothes. Ignoring the situation he stepped closer, his voice hushed as he spoke. 

“I knocked on your door, you didn’t answer I know you were in here. I need a bra for my show tonight. I asked Vaggie and she was a bitch and when I said I’d ask you she said-” he was silenced by [Y/N] freezing in apprehension. He’d struck a nerve. Their voice shuddering a little, they asked softly, “...what did she say?” Snorting Angel responded, “some cryptic shit about ‘don’t ask about bras or panties’ and Charlie had to say ‘just trust us it’s personal’ or whatever. What do they know that I don’t?” His eyes were fixed on the smaller figure cowering under him, practically quaking in fear. He was expecting a terrible answer. They had another woman’s clothes in their room and the two girls were covering for them? They were actively doing something with someone and the girls were covering? They were covering something. The answer he received was unexpected and blunt, yet well received. 

“Angel I’m trans.” Oh. Oh. “Transgender? Like, born the wrong gender?” He had to make sure he heard correctly, and [Y/N] nodded slowly in response. “See these are binders, I use them to make my chest flat.” They motioned to the crop top tank - no, binder - they were wearing. “I’m trying to find the one I like most. This is all new and I asked Vaggie and Charlie to keep it a secret. Some people don’t accept this kind of thing. I’m sorry.” They sounded genuinely apologetic and never met his gaze and now Angel felt like shit. 

“Well, fuck...Here I was thinking all sorts of terrible things about you, and you’re just in here trying to like your body. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have stormed in.” He apologized in return. There was an awkward silence for a moment before he asked, “So what are your pronouns and what do I call you?” [Y/N] beamed a little, smiling as they replied, “I use he/him pronouns and it/its is good too, and you can call me [Y/N].” Angel quirked a smile in return, he liked how it sounded. 

“Alright, well, I got a few hours until the show. Want me to help you pick out your favorite binder, my lovely prince? Hell maybe I’d look as good as you do in one of these.” He was teasing a little but he was genuine, he wanted to see [Y/N] happy in his body and Angel was happy to help. [Y/N] accepted the offer, immediately tossing a specifically pink and white colored one at him. “Try that one, I had it commissioned. Your name is written on the back of it.” 

He already knew what he was wearing to the show.