#just a snippet not the full thing

[freezingwhitefire]

A little peek at part of what I'm working on. This is a nightmare, so if it doesn't quite make sense that's why. I'm not sure what tags might be needed for this so if I forget any feel free to let me know.

The corridor stretched out in front of him, seemingly endless. His heart raced as he ran down it, one hand reached up to feel something around his head. That had to be the gag, he could feel something in his mouth that made his jaw ache. An open doorway passed him and Time glanced inside as he kept going. There was a golden figure with a harp inside, the harp was giving off music which he expected from one so favored by the Goddesses. He kept going though. Time wasn’t sure what he was running from but he knew he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t go back to the room to warn the musician of the danger and he couldn’t do anything to make the wolf lying across the floor ahead move. Nimbly Time hopped over the wolf and kept going. He had to go, to get away. A quick glance back, wanting to make sure the dog got out of the way, and suddenly he was falling. His hands shot out to catch him but chains wrapped around his arms, trapping them to his sides, and a hand around his throat caught him. Time twisted, wanting to get free from the hand, but it held fast. Sharp nails pierced his skin as he was lifted up a little, the chains around him pulling tight with the motion. He tried to kick out but the second he did the world was awash with pain as he hit something electric.

[aroaceleovaldez]

i have suddenly become obsessed with a theme that HoO established but never proceeded to extrapolate on, which is:

You are Percy Jackson, and you have been swapped with a boy who was allegedly everyone's favorite person, but they have decided to replace him with you. They just met you. You stand next to his best friend and the people he's known his entire life. In his home. In his cloak. In his place. They stopped looking for him.

You are Jason Grace, and you have just found out you have a long lost sister who completely replaced you in her life with this girl you just met. Your lives and personalities are mirrors. She is you, living the life you were robbed of.

You are Annabeth Chase, and you have just become starkly aware that you have been inhabiting the void left behind by your best friend's long lost brother. You and Luke were just replacements for him. Now you have to look him in the eyes when he has nothing and know you took that life from him.

You are Piper McLean, and you have just found out your relationship is fake and built entirely on the memories of Annabeth Chase. You have been given a boyfriend when hers has been taken away. You have no idea how much of it is real or not but regardless you feel like if your relationship isn't exactly in their image that you have failed.

You are Leo Valdez, and you have just learned that you are the echo of your great-grandfather. You are not your own person. You just exist to be a mirror of him. A doppelganger. An actor and stunt double facing all the danger he never had to but wearing his face. To be there for his best friend decades later simply because he couldn't. You are playing a role. A seventh wheel and a pawn for a goddess who carefully sculpted your entire life for her own purposes.

You are Hazel Levesque, and the only reason you are alive is because your brother couldn't save your his sister. You are a consolation prize. An apology. Your existence here is misplaced in every way but you inhabit it anyways.

You are Frank Zhang, and you are a shapeshifter. Inhabiting your own body feels strange and clumsy when you could be literally anything at any time. You are anything and everything and live your life with the simple certainty of knowing exactly how you will die.

[sailing-through-hawkins]

When the apocalypse happened, it was just a random Wednesday.

Well, it was for Eddie.

For the kids, it wasn't that random and it was a long time coming sort of thing.

"We've been dealing with this kind of shit for a while," Dustin had told him nonchalantly as he handed a bottle, ready to be set on fire, over to Lucas, who settled it in a box of other weaponry. "It's like, our yearly bonding activity."

"You've been fighting zombies for years?!" Eddie had said. "But you're toddlers!"

"First of all, shut the fuck up," Max glared at him before sniffing. "They weren't - always zombies."

"What does that mean?"

"We were trying to take down the lab," Lucas sighed, patting the side of the box. "They did some freaky shit in there and we wanted to stop them."

"It went wrong." Will continued, and Eddie's neck was aching so bad from all the spinning his head was doing. "They released some kind of neuro-agent and we..."

"We had to leave." Dustin said blankly. Eddie peered down at him, watching the slightest tremble of his lip before he rubbed the bridge of his nose and continued preparing the cocktails. "But we're gonna fix it."

To this day, Eddie has a feeling that the "it" isn't really about the zombies somehow.

"Ready?" Jonathan nods and Eddie nods back.

Everyone else is in the garage with them while they get ready for the supply run.

Lucas was the one to encourage them to come up with quick-time strategies, something about using them back when he played basketball but Eddie distinctly remembers him not joining the team so he has no idea what he's talking about.

Dustin sits with him over their blueprints, arguing about codenames and extraction points, sometimes tapping at the shiny watch he never takes off.

Nancy Wheeler, blessed badass that she is, is polishing off a freshly-sawed gun, her eyes glancing over to Jonathan every other second like he's going to just disappear if she doesn't.

Mike sits with Will and the girl-from-out-of-town, Elle, weirdly quiet as the other two talk through some other strategy blueprints that Lucas handed to them.

Joyce, Hopper, the weird Murray guy, they're all having some sort of group huddle in the back, glancing over with fake-smiles (Joyce's is the most believeable one) once Eddie starts the car.

Through the window, he can see Robin, as stern and as ever, right beside a blank-faced Max, her hand tightening its grip on her axe. He wonders what Robin sees, when they have to go out into the desolation. When her normally tired eyes become fierce and her numb tone becomes snarling.

How many years have they had to face this shit?

Why, whenever they gather round in any place, no matter how small, is there always an empty space between Robin and Dustin?

What happened to these people?

[ao3userforgets]

okay, here is the first thing i wrote of john in my gale centric clegan fic, not sure when this takes place, just that gale’s psyche has been doing the mental equivalent of punching him repeatedly in the head :) daddy issues don’t care if you’re fighting in wwii, they Will get you :) and so will the voice of your dead mother :)

“John, a ways down the bar, John, as broad shouldered and flare bright as he gets. His mouth is whiskey wet around a canine sharp smile and his narrow eyes shift away from the cluster of baby faced airmen huddled around him, the flick of his eyes too fast to be searching, knowing Gale is right where he left him.

Just like your daddy. It’s Mama’s voice, inflected with Gale’s own self accusation.”

[quacaserous]

AIGHT 40 SECONDS DONE i’m gonna go to sleep now ❤️ enjoy ur food (tw for gore/intenstines n whatnot for anyone that’s a little queasy!! they arent very realistic but still)

[wttcsms]

horribly short summary of what im trying to accomplish here, but if you were to read a fic featuring character, a soldier honorably discharged and is officially off the battlefield and yet he can’t seem to shake off the war from clinging to his body, and he’s basically a bit of a mess and feels incapable of returning to ordinary life and there’s you, the sweetest thing in the whole world, and he keeps trying to tell you he’s no good and you’re there to help him with everything (and it kills him a bit, to see you wasting your time to help him, and it kills him because he feels like he shouldn’t be the type of person who needs help) and !! just slowburn and falling in love and just read the tags for the vibe ok, who would it be for

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Outdrawn

f/f contemporary romance

two cartoonist who’ve been rivals since uni, and now have competing webcomics online, have to work together on the relaunch of a cult classic at the comic press they both work at

they both struggle with art-related physical and mental health issues, and complicated families

[lesbiangiratina]

Yay someone mentioned daisuke’s previously untranslated comments about testament’s pathetic nature and incomplete existence on their wikipedia page i can yoink this for my cooler wiki without feeling like i will be killed

[pinkeoni]

one last thing maybe not but will being central in a scene with more than three characters ive waited for days like these

[reinedeslys-central]

wip that just germinated in my brain:

Summary, I'm thinking:

"Sorry, who's this?" Robin tucks her cellphone (cellphone! Sometimes she still can't believe it) into her neck as she sorts out the groceries Steve had forgotten about (again. Ugh.).

"It's, um, Carol. Carol, Carol Perkins? I was told this was Steve Harrington's number?"

There's a faint droning sound in their warm kitchen from the dishwasher, and it smells like summer. Robin wonders how the tinny voice in her ear is supposed to reconcile with the one in the back of her head from '86, whispering 'Oh, Carol Perkins - bad news. Don't bring her up around Steve'. Minus all their late-night conversations where anything goes, obviously.

"Oh! Oh, no, well, Steve's number and mine are pretty similar I guess, so it's an honest mistake, don't worry about it, oh, and you must not know why I'm answering either way, sorry, it's - "

"Robin Buckley, I know," Carol Perkins huffs warmly. "Steve brought you to my wedding in '06. You're all good, hon."

"Right. Right, sorry, I wasn't sure you'd remember." Robin laughs. "Right, well, with that out of the way, yeah, our numbers are flipped, he's got the '45' at the end where I've got the '54', so you probably just typed it in wrong. I swear, I told that dingus we should just tell people our landline. Even the kids mix it up! Do you - Uh, do you want me to take a message? For him?"

There's an intake of breath from the other side of the line, and a sound sort of like someone's hand hitting their forehead. What did Max call it? A facepalm? Robin fans herself as she sits at the table, her notepad stolen off Family Video from way back when open with a pen poised to write down whatever Carol still wants with Steve in this day and age.

"Oh. Well, um…" At least Carol's clearly feeling as awkward as she is, yay for small mercies. "I guess it's not much of a message? I was gonna message him on Facebook, but it didn't really seem right. For this."

Robin feels a little stone drop into her gut. "For…?"

Carol laughs a little bit, like whatever comes next, she can't believe it herself. "For this, yeah. No easy way to say this, but Tom's gone."

Another stone joins the one in her belly.

"Gone?" Truthfully, Robin doesn't even care, really. Tommy Hagan's just a high school bully in her mind, save for the weird, weird days they've met since becoming (or pretending to be) functional adults. But she knows it's not the same for Steve. Steve will care.

[yorshie]

Personal Headcanon Snippet

“How To Defeat a Dragon”

Bayverse Michelangelo point of view (cw: stab wound, poison, angst)

Michelangelo woke with a start, the terrifying dream that haunted him these past few nights fading like smoke between his fingers, curling back in the recesses of his mind where he knew it would shift and bother him for the rest of the day. He gasped in a breath, becoming aware he’d been holding it instinctively, scales sweaty and head a little dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

Well, a little more than sweaty. He grimaced, pressing a careful hand to the bandage held in place underneath his arm, the wide swatches of white linen sticking uncomfortably where his wound had seeped through the layers.

“Shit.” He hissed, pulling his hand away and checking the color, anxiety deflating a little when the liquid wasn’t one of the alarming shades Donnie had told him to watch out for.

“Who knows what was on that knife, Mike, and if you’re not gonna tell me about it I have to assume the worst.”

The pills he was supposed to take upon awakening were by his bedside complete with a passive aggressive note from Leo on what kind of pain was to be expected if he didn’t take them. Mikey eyed them for a moment, before he made the conscious decision to head for the kitchen for a glass of water to swallow what he jokingly referred to as ‘horse pills’ when Donnie had slapped them in his hands.

The dry look Donnie had leveled at him over his glasses had cooled any sort of comical routine Mikey was planning to divert the questions, something sad and disappointed hidden in his brother’s eyes that even now slithered and wormed around in Mikey’s stomach just thinking about it.

The Lair was quiet this late at night, which suited Mikey fine. The stab wound was supposed to have healed a week ago, and while it certainly was getting better, Mikey was in no mood to have to dodge pointed glances or stand through another bout of Leo trying to order the answers over what happened out of him.

Breathing out roughly, Mikey moved towards the kitchen, wincing now that he knew there was no one here to see it-

“Michelangelo?” A weak voice called, a summons that Mikey could never have the heart to disobey.

He turned to the living room area without conscious thought, rounding the plush armchair that sat facing the tv and dropping in front of it with a wince so his face would be eye level with the occupant. “I’m here, Dad.”

Splinter’s milky eyes sought his own, a reflex that never failed to squeeze Mikey’s heart with a vice grip. His nose twitched, the bald spot on his muzzle where the fur had long fallen away wrinkling as the old rat tested the air.

“My son?” He asked, hand reaching, and Mikey completed the connection, gently taking his father’s hand so he knew where he was and placing it on his face so Splinter could pat his cheek. “Ah, there you are. You missed dinner earlier.”

“I fell asleep.” Mikey told him, not expounding on why he missed the family meal and hoping his sensei wouldn’t push the subject. He and his brothers had decided unanimously to not mention the wound, or how long it was taking Mikey to heal after how distraught their father had become when his youngest son had literally crashed into the Lair the night he was hurt, bleeding and O.D.ing from whatever had coated the blade. The first few nights when Mikey had been confined to the med room, not even Leo’s patient insistence had kept Splinter from sitting at Mikey’s side, even when the old rat was shaking and too distressed himself to stand.

Splinter hummed, and after a moment he patted Mikey’s cheek, his palm cool to the touch. “Ah, well, there are still leftovers in the fridge. I asked Raphael to make you a plate.”

Mikey almost grimaced before remembering Splinter would be able to pick up on the facial expression. He very much doubted Raph had made him a plate, or if he did Mikey wasn’t going to risk eating it. Raphael still hadn’t forgiven him for going out and finding trouble on his own, and Mikey wouldn’t put it past his brother to have licked his food like he did when they were younger and trying to keep the baby of the family from eating all the pizza.

“Thanks, dad,” he made himself say instead, cupping his hand along the back of Splinter’s. “I’ll get it in a little bit, promise.”

Splinter sighed, falling quiet for a moment before his eyes roved to the side. “Would you read to me, Michelangelo? I grow tired of the tv.”

“Sure,” Mikey slowly stood, setting Splinter’s hand back in his lap. “Let me go get a book, and I’ll be right back, ok?”

He left his father nodding and mumbling to himself just long enough to grab a random book from his room and dry swallow one of the pills with a gag when it lodged for a moment in his throat. It wasn’t until he was scooting to sit by the armchair again that he looked down and faltered when he realized which book he’d picked out.

The cover was still bent where he’d accidentally squashed it the first time he kissed her. The memory came out of that painful place in the back of his mind that the nightmare had carved out for itself, reared up and screamed at him.

The lights in the room had been twinkling reflections in her eyes, when she looked at him and smiled. All he could see was the curve of her lips as she whispered to him, “I think you’re the knight, Mike.”

He’d kissed her with all the inelegance of a boy that had never so much as held hands before, but she had laughed through it until he’d broke off to giggle too, had held his hand and shown him how to press chaste kisses against each other’s mouths-

Splinter shifted in the chair, and reality crashed back down on Michelangelo, leaving him blinking back tears and thankful his father was effectively blind before hating himself for that errant thought.

He cleared his throat, rising once more, “sorry, Dad, hold on, I grabbed the wrong book-”

Splinter’s hand unerringly finding his forearm and clutching it tight had Mikey stuttering to a halt, half crouched awkwardly. “I do not care what type of story it is, my son, I only wish to hear your voice.”

“Oh, right….” Mikey trailed off, returning to sit with a grunt of pain as his wound was jostled. He floundered for a moment, stuck, knowing if he pushed the issue his father would question it. With a little angry huff, he gripped the book tightly, telling himself it was just a story, that he could do this for his father.

Detached, he read it in monotone syllables, watching his father more than looking at the pictures that illustrated the well worn novel.

After a few pages, his tone loosened, and glancing more and more at his father revealed the old man was slowly falling asleep, lulled by Michelangelo’s voice.

Mikey swallowed painfully, and started reading again in a softer tone, determined to bring his father a little comfort, even if reading this particular story was like dragging nails along a chalkboard inside his mind.

When he finished, he shut the book, and stood quietly so he wouldn’t disturb his father. He made sure Splinter was covered, tucking the book carefully beneath his folded hands before sighing and straightening.

“I liked the story.” Splinter said quietly, and for once Michelangelo didn’t jump at the way that even now, blind and tired and mostly chairbound, his father could still out-ninja his sons.

“I do too, dad.” He told him, thinking it was just sleepy mumblings and not letting himself dwell on the answer.

“Though…” Splinter opened his eyes, the milky white coverings pinning Mikey in place, “I always thought a knight was a poor match against a dragon, don’t you think?”

Mikey grimaced, his hand falling to his side. The wound on the edge of his plastron gave a sharp ache all of a sudden, and it took everything Mikey had not to hiss and grab for the hurt.

“Yea?” He asked instead, hoping his father couldn’t tell anything was wrong, praying he’d fall asleep again soon so Mikey could leave.

“Hm…yes.” Splinter said, turning to look at the ceiling once more. “You boys were adamant growing up that a knight would always beat a dragon.” He smiled softly at that, lips curling up. “You four used to have fights over who had to be the dragon, do you remember?”

Mikey hummed, “yea, kinda. You made us take turns, right?”

Splinter nodded, “yes, and I recall having a whole debate over it over dinner one night. You all were heartbroken when I suggested the knight might be unmatched if the dragon melted his sword with its fiery breath.” he snuggled down in the blanket, sighing softly in comfort. “I always felt a dragon was better suited for ending another dragon, but I doubt I ever fully convinced the four of you.”

Mikey froze at that, but Splinter only shut his eyes again, heaving out a sigh. “Thank you for reading to me, my son. You may go if you wish.”

Mikey waited only long enough to make sure Splinter’s chest was rising and falling easily before he padded back to this room, his hand suddenly itching for a pencil.

Better suited for ending another dragon… The words echoed in his head as he changed his bandages slowly, an idea formulating in his head.

If I can’t be a knight, I’ll be something else.

[psychicthepsychic-daily]

hood is the ceo of “other people have it worse” /HJ

[valeriianz]

it's been a while, but the brainworms would not stop festering until i wrote this little prequal to my original Vampire Hunter!Hob ficclet. dedicated to @mathomhouse-e, the biggest instigator for this au lol. thanks @quillingwords for some mad crazy beta skills <3 i appreciate you!

“Don’t look now, but that guy in the back has been staring at you since we sat down.”

Hob hummed as he took a long sip from his tankard for his mate’s benefit. Hob didn’t have to turn to confirm this; he’d felt the stranger’s eyes on him as soon as he’d entered the crowded pub, though he hadn’t spotted him yet. 

The revelation fascinated Hob now, after weeks and weeks of scattered moments where he had felt that itch of being watched, Hob could recognize the feeling and pinpoint it to one, singular person.

Their eyes had met a handful of times, Hob turning away politely at first, sometimes lengthening the stare with a curious look, or more recently, staring back with challenge in his gaze. Intentionally holding the man’s icy blue– visible even in the murky, darkened room– stare until Hob was forced to look away first, a chill running up his spine.

The feel of the stranger’s eyes on him had become frustratingly familiar. It was a bit hair-raising, to be sure. But it was also… alluring. Inviting. Titillating. 

Hob had begun dreaming of this mysterious man, drafting up introductions in his mind, anticipating a confrontation eventually. Whether their meeting would be easy or difficult was warring within Hob’s chest until he’d finally made a decision to confront the pale man with striking blue eyes. It seemed like divine intervention that, the day after making this decision, the stranger would appear in his usual spot, at Hob’s usual haunt, precisely as he sat down to join his friends.

“Want me to tell him to fuck off for ya?”

“Nah,” Hob downed the remainder of his pint before slipping off the barstool, tossing some coins on the counter. “I got it.”

Hob made his way to the man’s table, tucked away in a corner, where he sat alone. Where he always sat alone. The mud brown of the pub's interior seemed amplified by the yellow glow of the electric sconces on the walls. It made the White Horse’s patrons seem dull and muted, even those who wore many colors or laughed raucously. Hob’s stranger in the corner, however, seemed to push through the soft and warm glow like a supernova.

And strangely enough, he was dressed in all black. Darker than shadows and just as intangible, like the starless night sky when the moon was hiding. The lights hit his cloak and revealed a matte, velvet texture that looked rich and soft and clean. Too clean, too pressed. Like the man had walked straight out of a tailor’s and came right in here. The man stuck out like a sore thumb amongst everyone else, and yet no one seemed to be paying him any mind.

Hob kept eye contact as he drew near, his posture lax, unimposing, though he could feel his heartbeat in his throat. And he wondered, briefly, if his stranger could feel it too. The way his eyes seemed to brighten as Hob approached, the way the corner of his mouth began to curl, making Hob’s stomach twist with a mixture of unease and delight.

“Hello,” Hob greeted as he finally stepped up to the empty chair opposite the man. “May I sit?”

The man lifted one elegant dark brow in response and Hob took that as an affirmative, pulling out the rickety chair and dropping himself into it.

Hob had to remind himself how to breathe, looking upon the man who’d been unashamedly watching him for the past few weeks. The dark clad man was already a vision from across the room, his eyes alone making a statement. But up close he was devastating. His coal dark hair was thick and messy, long tendrils that framed his ghost-white skin and severe cheekbones like a painting. A vision of lust, secrecy, and– Hob realizes belatedly with a stab into his gut– danger.

And he hadn’t even spoken yet.

“Are you aware of how obviously you behave?” Hob managed to find his voice again, dredged up from where it had fled moments prior. “Maybe instead of staring at me all night, you can buy me a drink.”

The man across from him tilted his head a fraction, imperceptible. Hob forced his usual smirk, roguish and sly. The one he used countless times to woo women to his bed, as he waved down a barmaid.

“And what is obvious… about my behavior?” 

Hob looked twice at the man, unable to parse the words at first, convinced he had just heard a rumble of thunder outside. But as he stared, the stranger’s face became more and more curious, waiting for an answer. 

Hob swallowed. The question– spoken in a low murmur, deep and decadent– fluttered around his chest before finally settling somewhere low in his gut. Hob felt his bravado promptly leak out his ears.

“Ah. It’s not exactly what I’m used to,” Hob hid his hands under the table to hide how he began to fidget. “Typically a ‘hello’ or ‘how do you do’ is more acceptable than silently watching.”

The barmaid finally arrived and it gave Hob the excuse to pull his eyes away from the indigo sea swirling before him, almost hypnotic. He took a shuddering breath and blinked, staring up at the woman who was waiting for an order.

Hob ordered two cask ales, forgetting about the bold way he’d suggested the man buy his drink and operating now on autopilot. As the woman left, Hob brought his attention back to the enigmatic man before him, his skin prickling with gooseflesh at the realization he hadn’t moved an inch, piercing gaze still on Hob, posture straight and solid as a wooden stake.

“I was watching,” the man spoke again, his voice soporific. “Because I’m interested.”

Hob’s heart, which had finally calmed down a bit, flipped over in his chest. “In me?”

The man hummed, his chin tilting down, considering, while something akin to a smile tugged on his lips.

“In a way…” he replied cryptically. He spoke slowly, as if mulling each word over, making them deliberate. He closed his eyes for a moment and Hob belatedly realized the man hadn’t blinked once thus far.

“You are an apprentice.”

Hob couldn’t help it, he grinned, pulling one hand back on the table’s wooden surface to drum his fingers.

“How can you tell?”

The man tilted his chin up, taking a moment to study him and Hob felt his smile grow with the attention. Though there was something in the back of his head, tickling his base instincts of self-preservation. It was odd, Hob didn’t feel as though he was in any danger, but there was a certain… air about this gentleman. Hob couldn’t be sure yet, but there was definitely something off about him. Perhaps he was a lord– he certainly dressed the part. With his thick cloak, parted just enough to see an expensive looking waistcoat made from damask, the design threaded in gold that glinted with each microscopic movement.

The way he carried himself too, was with arrogance and power, and without a trace of sympathy. It was cold and hard. It was also breathtaking and Hob delighted in the man’s sharp gaze, his scrutiny, focused solely on him. 

Not just now, Hob had to remind himself with his own smug grin. But for the past few weeks.

“You dress the part,” he nodded down at Hob’s clothes. “But you are still young. I assume you’re in training.”

Hob looked down at himself, hardly dressed for style, but comfort. For easy movement during his training but also leather clad to protect against blunt force and brutal encounters. His coat, which he’d draped over the chair, had deep pockets for concealing weapons and the thick utility  belt around his waist had many compartments to hold his tools… though he had very few at the moment.

And like his stranger, Hob wore all black, to blend in with the night. He wouldn’t say what he was, even if the handsome man asked… it was frightening enough that he’d managed to even guess at his occupation thus far. 

“Good observation,” Hob said, offering nothing else.

The barmaid returned, setting their drinks on the table and leaving again with a smile.

Hob brought his own up for a long drink, for thirst and also to distract his hands, which desperately needed something to take hold of.

A beat passed before the stranger spoke again. “A priest?”

It’s the tone of the question that made Hob set his drink down slowly, swallowing deeply and eyeing his stranger again, his own brow arching. His tone was polite. As if he did know what Hob was and only asked to prompt him to reveal his true work. Like the man was playing dumb.

Hob looked down suddenly at the wooden cross hanging low on his chest, which is what might’ve provoked the inane suggestion. He laughed and he could hear in his own ears the edge to it.

“Far from it,” Hob tucked the cheap jewelry into his shirt. “Just superstitious, is all.”

The man hummed and seemed to relax, imperceptibly, in his chair. Hob took note of it with a curious expression

“And what about you?” Hob leaned back, fiddling with the handle of his pint. “What is your business?”

“Hardly worth mentioning.” The man responded quickly, his words premeditated. “I am curious though, young apprentice. Do I entice you?”

Again, Hob’s heart lurched at the forwardness. His blood racing through his veins and nearly making him dizzy. 

Unexpectedly, the stranger took a slow, deep breath through his nose, his chest rising with it and Hob unconsciously felt himself leaning forward. It is as though the man intended to pull Hob in, like he’d tied a rope around his chest and tugged. Hob caught himself on the table’s edge, forcing his eyes down at the man’s untouched drink and took a shaky breath, stolen from him, back into his lungs.

Hob laughed, shaking his head, pulling himself back up and hoping he hadn’t made too much of a fool of himself. His chest and neck were burning.

“What kind of question is that?”

For the first time all night, the man took his hands from where they’d been hidden under the table and clasped them on the surface. Hob sees no rings but couldn’t help but to fixate on his long pale fingers, his knuckles smooth as silver bullets. Hob wondered if they’d be just as hard and cold, too.

“You approached me. You sat at my table.” His hands turned palm up, fingers spreading wide. “What kind of question do you think it is?”

Hob laughed again, nerves getting the best of him. His young, traitorous heart was like a racehorse galloping along his ribcage.

“I’m afraid to answer that question,” but Hob smirked anyway, taking his drink up again to distract himself.

A small, barely there smile crept through his stranger’s carefully composed visage. A proper smile filled with pure amusement and– Hob blinked dumbly as realization settles in– desire. His eyes seemed to glint with excitement, hunger.

Ah, that was it. Like looking upon something you craved, pupils dilating with it and lips unconsciously parting, which Hob’s stranger did now. It was an intoxicating sight, and Hob could only stare, caught like a mouse in a trap.

Then he rose, so fluidly and gracefully that it took Hob a moment to even register that he was staring up at the man.

“What’s your name?” Hob asked, his voice gone quiet, awestruck.

The man hummed again, eyelids low, considering.

“Next time.”

He set a gold coin on the table, right next to his untouched ale, and left.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

"...my one year anniversary being on testosterone!!! I had a vision of capturing my total gender euphoria [...] My trans and nonbinary body is divine I honor my body as it is now, and as it will be as I continue to become more and more myself..."

[starheirxero]

Hello Lunar angst enjoyers. Places this here

[betweenlands]

i am so deeply emotional about sbk right now. how the hell does a server this good exist