#oh my god the citrus scale

[assbutttotheworld]

This just gave me flashbacks to a time I thought I had burried deep, deep, deep down below...

I remember.

I remember all of it.

The ancient scrolls of fandoms.

full offense but none of you would have ever survived fanfiction.net in 2009

[slusheeduck]

For Want Of A Wish

[I]

II. Last Night

“So you two are really venturing off into the Feywild?” Gale asked the next morning—well, afternoon, really—over coffee and leftover tart. “That’s a death wish to most, you know.” 

“Most people aren’t fey-favored,” Falerin said with a little smile, scratching Zel’s ears as she hopped up into his lap. “But my patron won’t come over here, which means I need to go over there.” He shrugged. 

“But I’ve been there before, remember. And we’re going to the Summer Court, with the Seelie; not nearly as dangerous as dealing with the Unseelie.” 

“I thought there was no such thing,” Astarion said, stitching as he listened. “I mean, Seelie and Unseelie. I thought that was something we made up.” 

Falerin tilted his head back and forth. “I mean, it’s not actually good versus evil. But the Unseelie are…less patient, and more easily offended. And it’s already easy to offend the fey.” He made a face. “I learned that the hard way a few times.” 

Gale leaned forward. “So how does one get there? I’ve only heard of people making contact with the fey that have come here, and those who found themselves spirited away one way or another.” 

“Oh, just a fey crossroad. That’s how I did it before.” 

Gale’s eyebrows shot up. “Those are real? I thought it was just stories.” His eyes lit up as he leaned in closer. “How do they work?” 

Falerin looked over the table for a moment, then grabbed the paper with the design Astarion was working on. “Can I use this, love?” When Astarion nodded, he held it out to Gale. “It makes a lot more sense than the astral prism we were carrying around, for one. But imagine this end of the paper is our world, and this end is the Feywild. There are points where they…” He brought the two edges of the paper together. “…touch, like this, and that’s where the crossroad is.” 

“Are they stable?” 

“I wouldn’t use the word stable, but they stay in one spot for quite a while. The one I went through should still be there.” He gave Gale a smile. “You could join us, if you wanted.” 

Gale squinted at Falerin for a long moment, clearly weighing it. Finally, he shook his head. “Much as I would love the chance to see the Feywild myself, I don’t think now’s the right time for me. After all, there’s the issue of time and…” He trailed off, then looked to Falerin. “Time moves differently there, you’ve said.” 

Falerin grimaced. “It…does, yes.” 

Astarion looked up from his stitching, face serious. “How long were you away again?” he asked quietly.  

“I…I had guessed about ten years,” Falerin said slowly. “But it was a century here in Faerûn.” He shrugged. “But one year to a decade isn’t a hard and fast rule. It could be less time.”��

“Or more,” Astarion said. 

Falerin rubbed his face. “Or more, yes. But there’s…there’s no way to know. Sometimes it ends up like me. Others are there for centuries and it’s only been half an hour out here.” 

“And they crumble into dust the moment they cross the threshold back,” Gale said quietly. “I’ve heard those stories, too.” 

An uneasy silence grew around the table, only broken by Zel’s purring.  

“Well,” Astarion finally said, setting his cloth down. “I’d best get the current orders done quickly, shouldn’t I?” 

“We could find another option,” Falerin said quietly. “You’ve already lost so much time.” 

“Yes, well, so have you,” the vampire replied, sitting back in his seat. “But what’s the other option? Spending the next decade hoping that this is the lead that pays off?” He let out a long breath, head falling back. “I know you hate acknowledging it…” 

“Astarion, we have company,” Falerin said through his teeth. 

“It’s Gale. But we have a limited timeframe to work with. I don’t want to spend our time together just…hoping for a solution.” Astarion looked to Gale. “You’re doing the majority of research. What are our chances of finding a cure in the next ten years?” 

Gale’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “It’s…not good,” he finally said with a sigh. “Not unless one of you suddenly becomes one of Elminster’s rivals in terms of magical prowess.” 

“And do you think you can manage that, Falerin? I sure as shit cannot.” As Falerin shut his eyes with a long sigh, Astarion leaned forward, hand wrapping around his wrist. “It’s up to you, whether we go or not. But I don’t want to miss a chance for us to have a full life together. Not when we have it. I’d give up a hundred years in Faerûn for this, gladly, if it meant being at your side for however long I can.” 

Falerin stayed still, eyes still shut. Slowly, his free hand went to scratch Zel’s ears. 

“Gale, would you be able to watch Zel for us?” he asked quietly, opening his eyes. “However…however long we’re gone?” 

A pained sort of smile crossed Gale’s face. “Of course. Rest assured, she’ll be suitably spoiled in your absence.” He hesitated, then leaned forward. “And, when you do go, I’d love to be able to witness it. Not every day you get to see a fey crossroad in person, after all, and I don’t think I’ve had quite enough once-in-a-lifetime opportunities just yet.” He looked between the two of them and added, much more quietly, “And I’d like to see you both off.” 

Falerin gave him a small smile, then let out a long sigh. “This time, I want to prepare before we go. I went in blind last time, and we have the time to plan.” He looked to Astarion. “And I’m not letting you out of my sight.” 

 “Do you ever?” Astarion teased, picking up his work again. “Look at us, off on another big adventure.” 

~

The luxury of being able to plan a harrowing adventure at their leisure was really rather remarkable. No threats of ceremorphosis hanging over their heads meant they could actively set up how they wanted to go about this—and prepare for the chance that it may be a very long time before they returned.

Over the course of two weeks, their home was packed up, with instructions given to a neighbor to move their things out and sell it if they weren’t back in a year. Astarion blazed through orders, making sure to mention his poor sick aunt back in Baldur’s Gate when passing off the finished product. (Yes, yes, terribly sad—he’s her favorite nephew, so of course he’s going to be the one to take care of her. Oh, who knows how long he’ll be gone—it could be six weeks, it could be six years. But luckily, he knows an excellent tailor in the area who could take over while he’s gone, provided they come back to him when he’s back in town.) All that was left was for Gale to come pick up Zel, and it was off into the Feywild.

Falerin sighed as he dug out his armor from a purposefully forgotten trunk, making a face.

“Do you think we’ll need that?” Astarion asked, hand grazing his lower back as he passed to fetch a few stand-by potions for their journey.

“Better safe than sorry,” Falerin said, setting his armor aside to dig for Astarion’s. “I don’t know what we’re going to encounter while we’re out there. Have you still got your blade?”

“Naturally.” Astarion took his armor—drow-made, with dark, feather-like engravings on the chestpiece—and looked it over. “Good thing we didn’t sell these like you wanted to, darling.”

Fal let out a groan, gripping the scarlet leather jack in his hands. “I hate armor. And I hate that we’re going out into danger again. We just got comfortable.”

“You really shouldn’t lie, darling. You’re awful at it.” Astarion shot a knowing smile to Falerin. “I saw that brightness in your eyes when you were talking about the Feywild with Gale. You’re excited to go back.”

Falerin made a face, tossing the jack aside. “Excited isn’t the right word. It’s more like…” He looked up, thinking for a moment. “It’s beautiful there. It’s…painfully beautiful. And I’m glad to be back home, but…nothing compares to it, love. But even so, it’s…going back to somewhere familiar. I haven’t had that in a long time.” He looked over to Astarion. “Best I can describe it is that it’s like…” He puffed out a little laugh. “…it’s like bringing you back home for a visit. I get to show you where I spent…well, most of my life.” He set the jack aside before going to drop down on the bed. “It probably won’t even be that different, after only being gone for three years.”

 Astarion went to go sit beside him. “Bit like meeting the family, isn’t it?” he asked with a small smile. “Certainly can’t be worse than meeting mine was.”

“Well, I’m assuming my patron isn’t going to be trying to kill me to get unimaginable power,” Fal said dryly. He laid back on the bed, letting out a sigh as he looked up at the ceiling. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“As much as I can be. I do feel a lot better going with you, even beyond the fact that you know what we’re getting into.” Astarion laid down beside him, also staring at the ceiling. “I hope we’re not gone too long, though. I’ve gotten fond of our little home, and I’m not keen to lose it.” He rolled onto his side, looking over Falerin. “You know, this may very well be the last night we have in this bed.”

“Don’t say that. I like our bed.”

“I do, too. We should make the most of it.”

“We won’t be able to sleep in. Gale’s going to be here just before twilight.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, then pushed himself up to straddle Falerin’s hips. “I’m propositioning you, you idiot.”

Falerin’s two-toned eyes went wide, and his lips parted in surprise even as his hands went to rest on Astarion’s thighs. “Oh.”

The vampire laughed, shaking his head as he started unlacing his shirt, only for Falerin to bat his hands away to take care of it himself. “You always look so shocked, darling.”

“Well, how can I not be?” Fal pushed himself up to sit as he pushed Astarion’s shirt off his shoulders, pressing soft, adoring kisses over the newly exposed skin. “I always feel so…unfairly lucky, getting to call you mine.” His lips dove down to Astarion’s throat, pressing hard against the hollow of it before working his way up. Teeth found his earlobe, and Astarion melted before turning his head to pull Falerin in for a deep kiss.

“Well,” he said, voice practically a purr as he drew back, “let’s hope that luck holds through our trip. And…” He plucked at Falerin’s shirt. “Let’s be free of this, hm, darling?”

Falerin grinned, pulling Astarion in for another kiss as the elf’s clever hands made quick work of his laces. His own hands traveled over Astarion’s back, tracing ever so gently over the scars etched in his skin–one of too many reminders of their lives before. His fingertips traveled further, tracing over the ridges of his spine before teasing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

“Cheeky as ever,” Astarion murmured, lips dragging down to Falerin’s jaw.

“That’s why you love me. Budge up so I can get these off.” He pushed Astarion’s trousers down, then set to wriggling out of his own. “Gods, remember doing this in the forest?”

“Are you trying to tell me you miss our romantic bed of sticks, leaves, and who knows what manner of insects?” Astarion snuck a kiss to Falerin’s temple, then leaned over to dig in the side table beside them. “If you want that again, go visit your druid. I enjoy creature comforts of a much less literal nature” He returned with a small vial of oil, pouring a bit into his palm before reaching for Falerin’s hand. His eyes flicked up, meeting Falerin’s gaze from under his eyelashes as he slicked up the half-drow’s fingers. “Help me?”

Fal let out a shuddering breath. “Always.” His eyes were riveted to Astarion’s face as he reached around him. His fingertips grazed over his skin as they found their mark, and he slowly pushed one into him. His breath caught as Astarion shuddered, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones.

“Fuck,” Astarion breathed. “Keep going.” He pushed forward, hungrily meeting Falerin’s mouth as the other man slowly pumped in and out, gently adding a second finger before starting to stretch him. Blunt teeth caught Fal’s lower lip, carefully tugging at it as he swallowed down a moan. Astarion nodded as he released him, tossing his curls back out of his face. “Yes, perfect. Perfect.”

Falerin’s mouth twitched, opting to slip in one more finger before pulling out. Astarion’s eyes widened, and a sharp groan was just barely muffled by clenched teeth. He panted, lips turning up. “You’re a bastard,” he said. “Gods, I love you.”

Falerin let out a breathy laugh, finally pulling out. His free hand went to Astarion’s cheek, eyes flicking over his face for a moment. “Bite me,” he said, voice low and rough. “Right as you’re about to come.”

Astarion’s brows drew together, and Falerin could see the struggle in his face before he shook his head. “You’re…you’re not…”

“I’m fine, and I want it. I miss it, Astarion. Please.”

Astarion swallowed, an argument starting to bubble up on his lips. But then Falerin’s hand snuck down to his cock before he could say a word, nearly making him yelp as he gave him a firm stroke. 

“Fuck, fine! Fine.” He pushed Falerin’s hand away. “Quit that or I’ll finish before I can.” He pushed himself up on his knees, reaching behind him for Falerin’s cock. His gaze ticked down as he managed to stroke it without so much as glancing back, lips curving smugly as Falerin’s head fell back. Unlike Astarion, he didn’t so much as try to hold back his moan, hands going to grip Astarion’s hips for dear life.

“You always make the most beautiful noises, you know that?” Astarion purred. “I’ve always liked that about you.” Slowly, teasingly, he sank down onto Falerin, tossing his head back with a luxurious groan as he took him. He took a few breaths as he pushed himself down flush against Fal’s hips, then reached forward to grip his shoulders as he rolled his hips. He dove down to meet Falerin’s lips as he began to ride in earnest, a full-body shudder coursing through him as Fal’s hand circled his cock, lazily moving in time with his hips. 

 There’s no lasting like this, that much was clear. Their kisses were all teeth and tongue, Astarion just barely able to keep his fangs from digging into Falerin’s skin too early. His hips quickened, and Falerin’s hand tightened, and they weren’t so much kissing anymore as they were sharing breaths, gasping in the other’s sighs.

As they reached a fever pitch, a familiar ache settled in Astarion’s jaw. It’d been so long since he’d tasted Falerin, and he’d never truly been able to get rid of that need, that desire to sink his teeth into his throat. For a flitting moment, he thought about being the bigger person and refusing. But he had permission, and gods, his mouth was already watering.

Falerin’s breath hitched–that was his tell. His hand tightened on Astarion’s cock, and there went the last of the vampire’s self control. A growl escaped him, deep in his throat, and his head dove to Falerin’s neck, teeth burying deep into his flesh.

Oh, this was heaven.

Again, he never had fully gotten rid of his craving for Fal’s blood, even as he’d exercised restraint. But now, as it flooded hot and thick over his tongue, it was all he could do to keep from draining him dry. 

The taste alone was enough to send white-hot pleasure through him, and he couldn’t even take a pull before falling over the edge, finish painting Falerin’s stomach as he groaned against his neck. Fal followed in short order, shuddering almost violently beneath him as he tumbled, but Astarion didn’t dare loosen his bite. Not yet. 

As they both came down, breathing hard, he finally took a drink. Just two swallows, mostly from muscle memory. But even so, gods. What a difference it made. He carefully dislodged his fangs, tongue dragging over the wound to catch every drop of blood. His head felt the clearest it had in ages, and like so many times before, he was happy. 

Well, happier. Wasn’t that nice?

Carefully, Astarion lifted his hips to gently let Falerin slide out of him, then he rolled off of him to  collapse onto the mattress, one arm splayed over the half-drow’s chest. After a few moments of catching his breath, Falerin rolled to pull Astarion flush against him, curling around his body and resting his lips against his hair.

“I love you,” he mumbled. 

“Surely not just because I let you come inside me?”

“Don’t you dare suggest that.”

Astarion let out a breathy laugh, then turned around to face Falerin, legs tangled and eyes bright as he cupped his face and leaned in for a kiss. He tasted of iron and salt, but Falerin didn’t complain in the least as he returned it. 

Sated in every which way, Astarion tucked himself up against Falerin, letting out a sigh as he started to slip into trance. Just as he was edging close, though, Falerin shifted.

“You can play the flute, can’t you, love?” he mumbled. It took Astarion a long moment to untangle that as not gibberish.

“Is that an innuendo?”

“No, I’m genuinely asking.”

Astarion made a face, shifting a bit. “I…can, yes.”

“Any reason you learned?”

Astarion blinked, and he shifted back to look at Falerin. “Is this the time to ask about my musical experience?”

Fal gave him a sleepy smile in reply, and he leaned in to kiss his nose. “It’s for tomorrow. I’ll explain later.”

Astarion let out a sigh, eyes rolling upward. “I…wanted to be a bard,” he muttered, almost too quickly to be heard. But Fal caught it, and his smile widened.

“Oh, that’s adorable.”

“Shut up. It was a ridiculous daydream from when I was very young. Now, why are you prying?”

Falerin shut his eyes. “We’ll have to get past the crossroad guardian, and the best way to do that is with music. I mean, or riddles if you have any.” He peeked his dark eye open, and Astarion shook his head. “Yeah, music’s the safer bet. But when we go, I want you to remember how you felt when you first decided to be a bard.”

“Why?”

“Because skill’s one thing, but heart’s more valuable to them.” Falerin leaned in to kiss him with that. “And I know you have more than enough of that to cross over, even if you don’t want anyone else to know.”

Astarion looked over him for a moment, then gave a sigh. “Then I’ll be sure to warm up before we go,” he said, then tucked himself up against Falerin again. “But in a bit. I want to enjoy our little death before we go off to what could be our big one.”

Falerin smiled, pulling the vampire into his arms. “And you won’t get a single argument from me.”

[Next Chapter]

[11queensupreme11]

Oh my god 😨 I didn’t send the citrus scale in the last one 😭😭

This is the scale by the way

Urm what you wrote was a nice old Lime.

Also I was like dying to ask you if your seen the game what in Hell is bad like it got me giggling and twirling my hair

NO DONT WORRY! i saw your previous ask, you did send this image!!!

i remember the good ol' days where people used to label their smut as "lemon" or "lime" 😔

i know that lime was like.... "yes there's sexual stuff going on, but no fucking yet" and lemon was "yes there's fucking"

nowadays people just use "smut" as an umbrella term for it. i always saw "smut" as equal to a lemon, so i would get confused whenever i read an nsfw oneshot on tumblr and something like masturbation and humping was considered smut when i always say it as "lime" (i'm old 😭😭)

i know you said that chapter 17 wasn't considered smut cuz it wasn't a full on lemon, but ppl these days just use "smut" as a general term so im just gonna stick with that since a majority of ppl seem used to that now

ALSO YES I KNOW ABOUT THE GAME! i found out about it on twitter! ive never played tho..... (but it definitely seems right up my alley)

[princesscolumbia]

Pride Month - Day 2

For this one, we're getting a bit spicy for my first major breakout hit of the MLP community...which was an authorized spin-off of someone else's work entirely. 😅

So to get to my stuff, you gotta start here:

Bad Decisions Make Better Stories

Sunset Shimmer's Very Respectable Class Reuinion

From there, the narrative splits between Sporktacles' Sunset Shimmer's Sexy Sapphic Sacrilege Surprise and my own entry:

It started out innocently enough; Canterlot High's boldest and brightest working on a special Senior Project as one last feather in their cap and improving relations between the human and pony worlds. "Relations" wasn't supposed to be quite this literal, though, and that everyone ended up where they were in her office with the best of intentions only brought to mind the old phrase, "The road to Hell..."

It's raunchy, it's lewd, it's suggestive, it implies SO much without ever being explicit, and I wrote it in about 20 minutes late one night when I was supposed to be asleep and getting ready for work the next day. Imagine my surprise when Sporktacles suggested I post it as a sequel!

Also imagine my surprise when someone wrote a sequel to my sequel:

Sunset Shimmer has been here before and will be here again. It's almost becoming a habit. The mind altering substances and carnal relations during an event in Equestria got out of hand, and now Celestia is extremely pissed off at her. But this time it's Principal Celestia, and maybe that will make all the difference. Maybe this time she can come out on top. Sure, she's in the principal's office with her six closest friends and their inter-dimensional duplicates, sure this time there were five people, three humans and two ponies, left pregnant, sure all of these bombs are being dropped one week away from graduation, but this time is Sunset Shimmers moment to shine.

Written by chris the cynic and fully authorized by both me and Sporktacles, this entry is far less 'naughty' than any other entry in the series but still fits in nicely with the theme.

Getting back to "Consequences" for a moment; there was a comment left on the story very shortly after I published it out, Noctis Prism left the following comment:

Discord probably wants to adopt Sunset at this point.

And that kinda lodged in my brain, like a horse keeping me in college, and a year later this fell out:

In which a certain draconaquus discovers that there is, indeed, a point at which it is possible to take chaos too far.

Once again raunchy, once again edging (heh) so close to explicit the old citrus scale would have this in the "limon" category, it nonetheless was wildly popular and rocketted up into the feature box within 24 hours of being published.

(Oh, if you're not familiar with FiMFiction.net, it has a 'Feature Box' where noteable stories pop up. It's algorithmically generated and the secret sauce has been explained but still remains somewhat opaque how you get there. You have to have a certain number of new readers with a certain number of "thumbs up" and a certain number of "added to shelf" actions happen to your story in a certain time period, and if that doesn't happen within 24 hours, your story is likely to never see the feature box. I've had 7 of my 11 stories on FiMFiction hit the feature box. It's glorious when it happens!)

Naturally, you should go check out Sunset Shimmer's Sexy Sapphic Sacrilege Surprise to finish out the hextet that makes up the DSP-verse stories once you're done with "Whom Gods Deflower..." and be sure to follow Sporktacles on FimFiction.net!

(Oh, and go read Rainbow Dash Wants to Spank the Monkey, it has nothing to do with the DSP-verse, but is FUNNY AS HELL!!!)

Whither AO3

Oh, you betcha!

DSP-verse Series on AO3

[forethoughtforgot]

Oh my god I completely forgot there are people out there who don’t know the citrus scale.

Well, everyone needs to see this.

(x)

[monstermonii]

Shanks: [Sporting his usual open V shirt]

My pussy and my last 2 brain cells:

[shima-draws]

Some pals and I started a thing called Sin Sunday lmao and I drew more smut today combined than I ever have in my entire life

[c-is-for-circinate]

Wait, isn't "anti" stuff more like "anti-pedophilia" and stuff? Like, you have a point about anti-porn attitudes, but from what I've heard just "anti" on its own means against stuff like kid porn and incest porn and legitimately f*cked up sh*t like that.

Okay!  So this, I think, is actually a great example of what I was talking about, and a really useful thing to understand.  (CW rape, child abuse, etc)

Smarter people than me have written much better essays about why policing thoughtcrimes is a bad road to go down, and I will probably reblog some of them next time they cross my dash for more context.  What I want to talk about is the trigger mechanism, the ‘oh, this looks like danger!!!’ immune response in how we look at different kinds of porn, and how that applies to anti culture.

Here’s the thing: I am anti-pedophilia.  I think that, for most people, that’s a stance that largely goes without saying!  Adults who prey on children are bad.  I’m also against incest; relatives who prey on their family members are bad.  Above all I oppose rape.  Sexual predation of any kind is bad.  In fact, I’d say that’s the most important item on the list.  There is plenty of room to argue about where the lines are between ‘adult’ and ‘child’ and how teenagers fit in the middle, and there’s plenty of room to get historical about the lines between ethically terrible incest, distasteful-but-bearable “aristocratic inbreeding” between distant cousins, and the kind of consanguinity that tends to develop in a small town where everyone’s vaguely related to everyone else by now anyway.  The core of the issue is consent, and it has always been consent.  Pedophilia and incest are horrific because they are rape scenarios where the abuser has far more power and their victim far fewer resources to cope, both practically and emotionally; because harm to children is, to us as a culture, worse than harm to adults, for a lot of very valid reasons; and because they constitute betrayal of trust the victim should have been able to put in their abuser as well as rape--but they are all rape scenarios, and that’s why they’re awful. 

These things are bad.  It is good for us to have a social immune response system that recognizes these things when they’re happening and insists we step in.  That is a good thing to develop!  It helps us, as a society.  It can help the people being victimized.  It’s the same reason educators and childcare workers in the US are all mandated reporters, why we do background checks on people working near kids.  These things happen, and they’re terrible, and it’s good that we try to be aware and prepared for them.  (Though obviously studies show we’re a lot less good at protecting the vulnerable than we’d like to pretend we are.)

The question is: why does that same social immune response trigger, and trigger so angrily, in response to fiction?

Anti culture is fundamentally an expression of that social immune response.  Specifically, it’s that social immune response when it is set off by a situation that, while it has some similarities to the very bad real-life crime of sexual predation including pedophilia and incest, is in and of itself harmless.

If you’re instinct is to flare up in anger or dismissiveness because I’m calling these things harmless, I want to ask you to just take a deep breath and bear with me for a bit longer.  What you’re feeling right now is an allergic reaction.

Humans tell and read and listen to stories about “legitimately fucked up shit” all the time.  It’s part of the human condition.  It’s part of how we process those things happening, not just to use, but to other people in the world around us.  It’s part of how we process completely unrelated fucked-up shit, playing with fears and furies and insecurities that we all have, through so may layers of fiction that we don’t even recognize them any more, playing with power dynamics in metaphor and making characters suffer for fun.  Aside from the fact that literally all stories do this to some extent or another; aside from the fact that drawing lines between ‘ok that’s good storytelling’ and ‘that’s too fucked-up to write about’ is arbitrary, subjective, and dangerous in its own right; aside from all of that, these stories are stories.  All of them. 

Even the ones about rape, about incest, about pedophilia.  They’re words on a page.  No real children were harmed, touched, or even glanced at in the making of this work of fiction.  This story, pornographic though it may be, is part of a conversation between consenting adults.  (And if a teenager lies about their age to consent, that is a different problem altogether.)

Stories in and of themselves, no matter what they’re about, are no more dangerous than a crate full of oranges.  Which is to say: utterly harmless, unless all you have to eat is oranges, all day every day, and you find yourself dying slowly of nutrient deficiency--which is why representation matters.  Or unless someone wields one deliberately, violently, as a tool to cause harm, and someone gets acid in their eye--which is the fault of the person holding the orange. And unless you happen to be allergic to citrus.

The key here is this twofold understanding:  First, the thing that hurts you can also have value to others.  Real, legitimate value.  Whether you’ve undergone trauma and certain story elements are straight-up PTSD triggers or you just don’t like orange juice, that story, those tropes, that crate of oranges may be somewhere between icky and fundamentally abhorrent--but we understand that that is still your reaction.  Even if you don’t understand how anybody could ever enjoy it; even if every single person you surround yourself with is as sensitive and disgusted and itchy about this thing that makes your eyes hurt and your throat stop working as you; that doesn’t make it true for everyone.  That doesn’t make oranges poisonous.  No real children were involved in the writing of this story.  It is words on a page.

But, secondly: the thing that has value to others can also hurt you.  Just because a story isn’t inherently poison doesn’t mean it can’t cause you, personally, pain.  That’s what a PTSD trigger is: an allergic reaction, psychological anaphylaxis, a brain that’s trying so hard to protect its own from a threat that isn’t actually present (but was once, and the brain is trained to respond) that it causes far more harm and misery than the trigger itself possibly could.  And no, it’s not just people with PTSD who sometimes get hurt by stories.  There are many, many ways a story can poke the part of your brain that says, this is Bad, I don’t like this, I don’t want to be here.  The story is still, always, every time, pixels on a screen and ink on paper.  The story causes no physical harm.  But it can poke your brain into misery, it can stir up your emotions, it can make you want to cringe and run away.  It can make you want to scream and fight and go after the author who brought this thing into existence.  It can make you hurt.

This is an allergic reaction.  This is your brain and body, your reflexes and instincts, trying to protect you from something that isn’t really happening.  And just like a literal allergic reaction, it can do actual harm to you if it gets set off.  This is real.  The fact that stories can upset you to the point of pain and mental/emotional injury is real, even though it’s coming from your own brain and not the story itself.  There are stories you shouldn’t read.  There are stories I shouldn’t read, regret reading, will never read, because they hurt me.  That doesn’t mean they’re the same stories that would hurt you.  That doesn’t mean they don’t have value.

And, finally:

If getting upset about stories is fundamentally an individual person’s allergic reaction, their brain freaking out and firing off painful survival instincts in the face of a thing that isn’t, in and of itself, a threat?  Then the anti movement is a cultural allergic reaction.

Fandom as a whole has a pretty active immune system, which doesn’t mean we have a good immune system.  We try very hard to be aware of all the viruses and -isms and abuse and manipulation and cruelty, both systematic and individual, that exists around and within our community.  We’re primed and ready to shout about things at all times.  The anti movement is that system, that culture, screaming and shouting and fighting at a harmless thing on a grand scale.  It wants to stop that thing, that scary awful thing that trips all of its well-primed danger sensors, at all costs.  It’ll swell up and block off our airways (our archives) if it has to.  It’ll turn on the body it came from.  It’s scared and protective and trying to fight, and it’s ready to fight and destroy itself.

Luckily, fans and fanfic and fandom and fan culture are a lot bigger and older than they often get credit for, and it’s not like these cultural allergies are anything new.  We could talk about shippers and slashers in the X-Files fandom in the 90s.  We could talk about the birth of fandom in the days of Star Trek.  We could talk about censorship and book burning going back centuries.  We survived that and we’ll survive this, too.

But god, does the anti movement my throat and eyes itch.  Man is it irritating, and sometimes a little suffocating, to realize how many stories just aren’t getting told out of fear of what the antis will say.  And that’s the real danger, I think.  What are we losing that would have so much value to someone?  What are we missing out?

[noonewouldlisten25]

Have

Have I truely lived long enough to see the return of the citrus scale

Fic Trope Friday → The Citrus Scale

[IMAGE  ID: An infographic with information about The Citrus Scale.

ORANGE: The equivalent to a G or PG MPAA rating. Little to no romantic or sexual content. Might include dry kisses, handholding, or cuddling. No sexual or anatomical language.

LIME: Equivalent to a PG-13 MPAA rating. Some romantic or sexual content. Might include clothed rubbing, heavy making out, or lightly described PiV/PiA/PiO sex. Little sexual or anatomical language.

LEMON: Equivalent to an R or NC-17 MPAA rating. Explicit romantic and/or sexual content. Can include any level of graphic sexual activity. PiV/PiA/PiO sex expected. Graphic sexual and/or anatomical language.

GRAPEFRUIT: Equivalent to NC-17 MPAA rating. Explicit, kinky sexual content. Necessarily includes graphic sexual activity. May be anatomically incorrect or fantastical. Graphic sexual and/or anatomical language. Graphic kink.

/END ID.]

[straighttohellbuddy]

if you were church i'd get on my knees {Wilbur Soot}

Summary: Reader co-hosts one of Wilbur's 100 Players streams.

Request: you asked for requests- you shall receive. cc!wilbur x reader fluff in which one of them accidentally confesses their crush on the other somehow? idk, im just starved for wilbur content. either way tysm and have a wonderful day!

A/N: 2996 words. I fully intended on going to sleep but I saw this at 2am and said What If I Write 3k in 2 and a half hours? Is this good? not sure. it's 4am. but also i love this. they're so chaotic. unedited. i hope you have a wonderful day too!! i'm worried this is ooc. anyways.

Warnings: swearing, blasphemy (yes that's a warning lmfao)

Citrus Scale: 🧡 ORANGE 🧡

"- I should have made sure my seat was at the right height before we started," is the first thing the chat hears when Wilbur finally turns on his webcam for his latest stream.

[100 Players Ruled By A Clueless God ft. Y/N] was the title, and the viewers are greeted by the image of you, half in frame and fiddling with the height of your chair as Wilbur gives you a bewildered little smile.

"It's at a fine height, you don't need to -" he's trying not to laugh, tone all kinds of fond and amused, and he casts a glance to his monitor for the moment.

"I do!" You insist, "it's off, I need to be at the right -" but when you look up, eyes wide and serious, your gaze locks with his, "why are you looking at me like that?" Tone suddenly soft, your seriousness melts to something almost flustered, before you catch sight of his chat going off out of the corner of your eye, and you look to the screen, "wait are we live?" And there's that hard edge to your voice again, that seriousness that seems to now border on embarrassment at the realisation that you have an audience.

"Yes, we are," he snorts, turning back to the monitor, greeting the chat, asking how everyone was doing, while you proceeded to go back to trying to find the right height for your chair.

"What is- Y/N explain to me what is wrong with your chair? Why is the height bothering you so much?" Finally, after hearing the chair move up and down at miniscule increments for arguably longer than necessary, he turns back to you, eyebrows raised.

Chat was alternating between asking who in the hell was in his stream, and just spamming your name, but you saw none of this, choosing instead to raise your chair to the fullest height, which put your head out of frame.

"This makes me feel more like a God but I'm out of shot," you huffed, playing at being terribly put upon, "I need to be taller than you here -"

"You don't," Wilbur sighed, "and anyways, I'm your co-God, we can be the same height, it's okay," he tried to insist, though he was still smiling at your antics, reaching beneath his own chair for the lever to lower it, sinking down to the lower half of the video frame, the difference between you two almost comical now, "better?"

Lowering yourself back into frame wearing a cheery grin, you were pleased for all of five seconds before insisting that it now felt wrong, tugging on his arm, insisting that he raise himself up again.

"This bit has been going on for five minutes, do you want to introduce yourself already or do you want me to?" He asked, finally, as you pulled your chair closer to fit into the webcam's frame better.

"Oh they remember me!" You coo with delight upon seeing your name in chat, expression bright and fond as you waved at the camera, "hello to all of Wilbur's dear viewers! I'm the only person willing to come to his office at nine at night to make content!" This, of course, startles a laugh from your companion, who's ducks out of frame while laughing, "it's deeply sketchy," you continue, just as animatedly as before, "I think we're the only ones in the building, so please know that if I don't get home safe, Wilbur has either failed to prevent my murder, or he has murdered me!" And then, finally, "oh, and I'm Y/N!"

"I am already regretting this," Wilbur announces, returning as his laughter dies down, though he's still beaming from ear to ear as he watches you reading the chat -

"Not the kind of content I expected from you guys alone at nine pm..." you read from the chat under your breath before trailing off, and while Wilbur's already reprimanding his chat for the implication, asking them to not be weird, you lean back, eyes glazing over momentarily as you seem deep in contemplation.

Only after a few minutes of speaking to his chat and reading donos does Wilbur turn back to you, asking if you're alright, to which you finally snap from your thoughts.

"Wil, you'd subscribe to my OnlyFans to support me if I had one, right?"

Evidentially it's not the question he's expecting, since it takes him a few moments to process, then respond, though his tone remains light and conversational.

"Of course, and I'm sure you'd do the same for me," he says, despite going pink around the ears.

"Naturally," you agree, before, again, seeming to realise that you have an audience, "not that I have one-" you clarified, sitting forward again, "neither of us do, as far as I'm aware," your smile turns sly as you prop your chin up on your hand, gaze drifting to Wilbur, who looks like he deeply regrets every decision leading to this moment.

"Why- Y/N why would you say that? No, I don't have an OnlyFans," he had to clarify for himself, sighing deeply, and though you opened your mouth, teasing retort clearly on the tip of your tongue, he shoots you a warning look, telling you that he's really not interested in being banned from Twitch today. Closing your mouth quietly, you hold up your hands in surrender.

Of course you know you only get away with it because you've known him for arguably far too long. As a long-time friend and member of the British commentary crew, it was inevitable that you would be pulled into his orbit. His chaotic nature matched your own quiet well, though it seemed that you could pull each other back from being too much, just as often as you could egg each other on.

While at first you had found yourself admiring him for his work ethic and content, it had developed into a strong friendship, and that friendship had quietly evolved for you; you'd never risk your friendship by admitting that you'd developed feelings, you'd rather just enjoy what you had with him as one of your best friends, and hoped your feelings would eventually fade away. So far they most definitely hadn't, but you'd learned to deal with them a long time ago.

You'd been something of a streamer for a few years, mostly to amuse yourself when writing, researching, and editing your main channel videos was getting to be too much, and you were always more than pleased when any of your friends would invite you to be a part of their streams or videos too. Usually it was flash games, or popular, competitive games, and somehow you'd steered clear of Minecraft.

"Don't get me wrong, I've watched a lot of other people play it," you clarified as you and Wilbur were switching seats so you could sit properly in front of his laptop, "I watched you play it a lot -" you say before you can stop yourself.

"You do?" He sounds genuinely touched and surprised by your admission, before clearing his throat, "I mean, I would hope you do."

"Yeah man, your videos are good, you know I think your videos are good," you double down, looking at the laptop keyboard and trying not to look at the little corner of the screen where you can see his smile growing wider as he watches you. You flex your fingers and hope chat can't tell what you're thinking, "what buttons do I press? WASD?"

"God, you're so cute," his voice is so syrupy it's almost comical, and you hang your head so the camera doesn't catch how hard you're trying to repress your smile; he can't just say shit like that!

It's not uncommon for the two of you to flirt and tease each other, which was probably part of the reason your feelings for him weren't able to go away, but sometimes it still caught you off guard.

"Can you not simp for me for like five minutes while you teach me how to play?" You ask, raising your gaze again to the screen where the world he'd built in Minecraft stretches out. You'd managed to school your expression into something of a smirk, looking over your shoulder at him, to which his grin only got wider.

"Only five minutes? I'll try my hardest," and he moves closer to you, probably to get closer to the screen, but with the two of you shoulder to shoulder, his voice warm and kind as he talks you through the basics, you can feel your heart beating hard against your ribs.

Chat is eating your interactions up, and you're not sure whether to ignore them, or feed them more.

The purpose of the stream, like most of Wilbur's 100 player streams, is chaos; this time, the community must come together and create a religion out of you, while you barely know what you're doing, with only Wilbur in your ear to guide you.

"Do I have lightning?" You ask, less than five minutes into the players having arrived.

"You have a flint" Wilbur offers as an alternative, his chin practically perched on your shoulder.

"And slash-kill," you recall, and he chokes on a laugh.

"I thought you meant to start fires in like, a biblical way or something."

"No, I need to smite people," you said with as much seriousness as you could manage.

"Not a particularly benevolent God, I see," you can hear his smile in his words, the very sound warming your own heart, your composure cracking with a grin of your own.

"I'm benevolent if they're good little disciples, but - look, there!" You spotted something in the game, a large 'A' being built in a circle at the top of a little wooden hut. The hut itself read that it was for Atheists, to which you huffed that they were foolish for building an anarchy symbol, and then asked Wilbur how to give yourself a bucket of lava, before declaring that it was time to prove that this world had a God.

Wilbur's pressing his laughter to your shoulder blade, the sound filling the little office, the movement shaking you as you try to keep going, keep your commentary running, though you can't stop yourself from grinning from ear to ear, delighting in the fact that you could amuse him.

"They're building me a statue," you say with faint pride, not long after, and Wilbur hums thoughtfully, tipping his head to rest it against yours. It's a quiet moment, if only because the gentle contact had all the thoughts leaving your head.

"Is this giving you a God Complex?" He asked idly in response, and matching his tone, you'd responded.

"Maybe."

With that, he sits forward, breaking the contact between you and gently pushing your hands out of the way of the keyboard and mouse. Making his way to the statue in game, and pouring lava on it, despite your vocal protests, he wears a shit-eating grin as he types in the game's chat 'new god is wilbur soot'.

"You don't need a God Complex," he reasoned, sitting back, out of your space for the moment, though you rounded on him instead of going straight back to the game.

"And you do?"

But his grin just grew wider, and so you pushed yourself back from the desk, partially out of frame, gesturing for him to step up.

"Mum said it's my turn on the God Complex," he snorted hands coming to rest on the keyboard. You shuffled back in beside him, crowding him to see the screen, no longer worried about the clips that would arise, just glad to be close to him.

"I didn't like their statue of you," he muttered as he surveyed the land.

"Jealous?" You asked, and his answer comes so immediately you're not even sure he knows what he's saying.

"It didn't do you justice."

"You're biased," your voice is gentle and fond, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, glad that all he can see of your smile is in the little window in the corner of his stream. You're feeling too sappy by half right now; the room is warm and comfortable, and the sounds of the game and of his commentary are a familiar comfort.

"I am," he agreed easily, "but you're also just objectively leagues more attractive than Minecraft can depict, I think it's fair to say that."

You probably shouldn't be smiling as hard as you should be at that, and you turn to press your grin to his shoulder, which only serves to make him laugh.

"That's what gets you flustered? That I think you're hotter in real life than depicted by a block effigy in Minecraft?"

"What can I say, you really know the way to my heart," you're trying to make your tone sound sarcastic, mostly because you feel kind of foolish knowing he's right, "you tell me I'm prettier than that player skin you have for me and I'll kiss you right now."

"Now that one's a tough one," he muses, tone light and joking, and you turn to see him looking at himself in third person in the game, in the skin he'd added for you.

"You dick," you mutter with a grin, nervous heartbeat calming down somewhat.

"Hey, I never gave the final verdict," he counters, "what's wrong, too chicken to follow through?"

"This really did give you a God Complex, didn't it?" You hear yourself mutter, looking at him in the little window of the stream, and not at chat losing it goddamn mind, "I'm not playing chicken with you on stream, that sounds like a terrible idea."

"You're right," he muses, though his humble tone sounds distinctly like a ruse to someone like you who has known him for so long, "that's what we play on your other website." And there's that grin again, cheeky and knowing, the implication of it all having you sit up, expression playing outrage.

"How come you're allowed to reference OnlyFans but I'm not!?"

"It's my channel," he's wearing a grin that's all teeth, "and I didn't say OnlyFans, you did; I could have been talking about YouTube," his grin grew wider, "get your mind out of the gutter, Y/N."

With that, you huffed through your nose, nudging him out of the way declaring that it was your turn on the God Complex. Wilbur, for his part, was laughing too hard to stop you.

Your little crush on him has never been more irritating... but you can't help yourself.

"So, you never did tell me if I was hotter than the skin," you pointed out, and his laughter quickly died down.

"Well of course you are," leaves him before he'd even had time to think, and in anticipation of this, you'd steeled your nerves, and you lean over to peck him on the cheek quickly.

"I'm not a chicken," you told his decisively as you turned back to the game, and after a beat, he shifted himself out of frame. After a few minutes of silence, you finally turn, and see him bright red and looking at the screen intently.

"You okay?" You ask, tentative and quietly apologetic. He waves you off, giving a thumbs up, and at that you finally muted the microphone, "we're muted, dude, seriously, are you okay? I'm sorry, I should have -"

"No, I'm fine, seriously, I just- I just keep remembering that there's about eighty-four thousand people watching," he says, and you go to apologise again, "no, you're fine I promise, I just... it's very difficult to not kiss the hell out of you already and I--" and then he finally meets your gaze, realising what he's just said, voice faltering, "I should be fine," he says awkwardly, "I just need a minute to bang my head against a wall and pretend I never said that out loud."

"We need to talk about this after the stream," you told him seriously, heart suddenly thundering with vindication, though you were doing all you could to keep your cool.

"No, we really don't; I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything -" he tries, though you look back to the stream, holding back a placating finger to the webcam, as if asking them to wait. Then you stand, crossing to him.

"Would kissing the hell out of you now help you get back on stream?" You asked, glad to no longer have to be coy or joking in your affection.

"What? Yes? Really? Really?" And as you leaned in, he pulled you closer, "oh, we really are going to have to talk about this after," but at least this time when he says it, he sounds delighted by the prospect.

When the two of you are back in front of the stream, but before the mic is unmuted, you carefully ask what he wants to tell them happened; he shrugs.

"I'll say you had cooties or something."

"I cannot believe I have feelings for you sometimes," it feels like a weight off your shoulders finally admitting that out loud, despite your exasperated tone, and it seems that Wilbur enjoys hearing it, judging by his beaming grin. He has to push himself out of frame again.

"That's the kind of thing you can't just say out loud"

"Oh fuck," you realise, hiding your own grin behind your hand, glancing at the camera before your gaze turns back to him, "I'm gonna be real with you, man, I've wanted this for a long time so all our teasing and flirting now is just gonna make me all sappy and make you all red, isn't it?"

Wilbur makes the executive decision to end the stream so you can both hopefully save face, not that either of you really expect it to work. Unsurprisingly, you're both trending on Twitter within the hour for your confusing and chaotic stream with it's abrupt and mysterious end.

Unsurprisingly, neither of you care.

[lluvguts]

Cool Blue ; Chapter Seven

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

frightened by my feelings

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

☽ a/n: i'm so sorry for the long wait! i've been in a mood.

☽ warnings: internalized homophobia

☽ fic masterlist

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

Alberto broke away from Giulia's hand clasped in his own and listened to their steps (his silent, always barefoot but Giulia's sandals slapped the boards unpleasantly) up the rickety staircase to the hallway. Mismatched pairs of socks and a few pencil shavings led them off in a distinct line to Alberto's room, ending at his door, a sign to anyone else in the house that Alberto had been rummaging through the downstairs cupboards at night; whereas Giulia's room opposite his, clean when she wanted it to be, teeming with school books and Machi's homemade cat toys and plant life, had no such trail.

"You know, come to think of it, this makes much more sense now," Giulia mused, her eyes fixed on her toes as Alberto abruptly stopped them at the doorway to his room.

Alberto felt a headache start to blossom beneath his eyelids, above his browbone. A throb with no rhythm but all the more pain to make up for it. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the steadying weight of the doorframe pressing on his shoulder as he leaned on it. Giulia knew, but she...also didn't. A tiny fleck marked the frame and only became apparent in his blurry vision, just a chip on the wood. Stripped of paint and sticking out against the cream walls in an ugly slash.

He trailed his thumb along the divot, feeling the splinters biting underneath his calloused hand. Giulia was still talking, ignoring his silence. The tension only grew the longer Alberto hovered at the door, refusing to open it and let all of those things come seeping out, with Giulia's smug remarks making the pain reach a high point.

"...I'm not nearly as obvious about, uh, my thing as you are. I don't go painting pictures of him--which I'm almost positive you do, by the way. Oh! And Papa's camera? You took photos, too? Santa mozzarella, Alberto, this is just like a soap opera--"

Alberto's thumbnail dug into the wood. "Yeah, okay Giulia, we get it. You're such a genius or whatever for knowing my secrets, alright? Will you ever shut up?"

Giulia blinked, losing some of that teasing glint in her eyes, but only for a moment. She stood up straighter and examined Alberto's pained expression and his half-stance, shouldered up on the wallpaper so he didn't faint from fear. She yanked his forearm away from the divot in the doorframe and pulled it forward, propelling them into Alberto's room without any other notice.

"Wait! Giulia! It's-It's very messy in here! I wouldn't want you having a heart attack or something..." Alberto rambled, flinging free of her grip once again to run ahead of her.

Always in the lead, scrambling to kick his discarded bath towel under the bed, and the rush of feelings that surged with it. The photos. The pictures were still on the dresser, and Giulia was standing by the bed, so that saved him at least a few agonizing minutes. While she grimaced at his crumpled sheets, pinching her nose and complaining of the fish smell, Alberto shied away from her gaze, laughing nervously and edged closer to the dresser.

"Honestly, Alberto," Giulia picked up his comforter, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and it flew from her fingers. "Haven't you heard of airing out your bedroom? The window is literally right here."

He glanced over Giulia's shoulder at the harbor beyond, thinking she should be at work. They should both be at work, or working, or doing at least something. "Don't like it."

"Don't like the window?" A piece of dirty laundry, another item under close sibling scrutiny, was dropped from her hands. Giulia turned from the wall and smirked unconvincingly at Alberto's palms outstretched along the top of the dresser, practically leaning on it for dear life.

He tried to clear his throat, but it was dry. Everything in his room was dry. The towel from the night before was cast under his bed, stiff as old citrus. The empty glass behind him, the tiny ring of water that clung to the bottom now dried up. Definitely what had happened hours before had nothing to do with what was already drying inches below his belt. God, he needed a shower to scrub off the memories. No, sear them off his skin.

Stop. Don't think of that.

"No! I, uh--" Alberto closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again, that headache never seeming to go away. "I don't...like...the boats."

That was mostly true. He just didn't like some boats in particular, the ones that hunted down sea monsters and pried the scales from their bodies as if they were gold flecks. He didn't mind giving up the salty nighttime breeze for peace of mind. What he didn't want to sacrifice, however, was the lingering (stifling) smell of Luca's scales clinging to his bedsheets and in the bathroom, with the door constantly open, a heady ocean candle that was never snuffed out.

"Pfft! You liar, you basically live on a boat you work so much. What about it could you possibly not like?" She tried a new tactic, no longer rooting through article after offensive article of boyish mess, and instead picked apart the uneasy smile in Alberto's upturned lips, evident in the sweat along his temple.

Her dark eyes roamed over Alberto, looking up at the wall then back down to his sprawled arms and aching shoulders, realization dawning. "You're...stalling! Hah! Think changing the subject will do you any good when you're around me, eh?"

Giulia marched over to Alberto, who even hunched back to conceal the contents of the dresser was taller by a few inches.

"You're hiding something, aren't you?" Giulia whispered, her voice once dripping with an easygoing slyness that only came with being siblings. But now, she steeled her eyes over Alberto's shoulder, freckled and tanned and nicked with fishing scars, searching but said nothing else.

Alberto slid his tongue along the rough roof of his mouth, tasting salt. He winced at Giulia's tender fingertips brushing over the top of his shoulders to reach for something outside of his vision, but by the feather-light intake of breath that Giulia did a poor job at hiding, he knew exactly what she had found. One photo turned to two, then three, and soon Giulia was thumbing through all of them like the old card deck they always managed to misplace on late nights.

"Luca," Giulia murmured softly, the polaroids pinched between her shaking fingers. She said his name, and the grapefruit that Massimo had held in his bare hand came to mind, suddenly. His name sounded sweet as she said it, peeling back the shocking rinds to a much more bitter discovery, the picture wrapped in a thin little fruit membrane that Giulia had torn apart and dove in hands first to pick out the seeds. She said his name, and Alberto bit his tongue, waiting, waiting. The salty tang was met with the quick release of blood as he chewed on his lip, not caring for the sting but more so for the way the air in the room stood still.

Giulia was sitting on the bed now, and Alberto was still sprawled out along the dresser, feeling time rush back in to greet him. The window was still closed. The bath towel peeked out from hard bedframe, sage fabric frozen in place, silently screaming if Alberto could guess. All of the warmth in the room flooded to Alberto's face, his flushed cheeks burning so hot he covered them with clammy palms. This wasn't happening...

The dizziness in his brain had subsided, at least for now. Pushed to the side. "I...uh...I think I can--You aren't afraid, are you?"

Giulia opened her mouth, speaking silent demands. The pictures were still in her hands. Though she was shaking and casting their glossy film over Alberto's pleading eyes. He took a step to her, and she held up a hand--the one that wasn't clutching the polaroids. Holding Luca. Così bello, Luca.

"Take me to him."

"Huh?" Alberto skittered back, eyeing the photos but afraid to take them from her hands, gently thumbing through them again like she was seeing the glossy scales and bright eyes for the first time. "I don't know...uh, I don't know what you're asking, Giulia," Alberto breathed, itching to take the stack of photos. Giulia sensed her brother's restlessness and stood up to place them into his trembling hands. They fit perfectly into his palms, and he carded through the five with a fond smile he quickly abandoned when realization hit him and Giulia was, there.

"Saying they were just a myth, Alberto?" Giulia brought all of the photos together carefully, choosing not to see Alberto's eyebrows shooting up into his head of curls but at the rows and neat edges she'd made. "But oh, wow, Luca. So...much different that what Papa says about sea monsters. He's so..."

Alberto's heart sped up. "Beautiful?" Was he even allowed to say that? What would she think?

Giulia nodded, flashing an appreciate grin but still indecisive.

"That's okay, Alberto," She wrapped her hands over Alberto's, a pillar to his crumbling resolve, and put her chin against his collarbone to still him. She sighed, a rumbling breath into his ribcage, and he felt his chest lighten. "It's okay to think he's beautiful."

Alberto didn't think he could get a word out, with his sister's hair inches from his nose, filling his head with soothing, sleepy smells. She had stuck a stem of lavender from the vase in the kitchen behind her ear.

No it's not.

"Shhh, fratello. Just don't think for a moment, si?" Giulia took the photos again and put them in her pants pocket, then wrapped her assuring arms around Alberto's neck as he let out a soundless cry. "You're okay."

Alberto buried the bridge of his sunburnt nose into Giulia's hair, the tiny periwinkle flower buds tickling his cheekbone.

"The lavanda in the vase, you bought that? It...was for him, wasn't it?" Giulia murmured to distract, petting the side of his neck to calm him down.

"...He couldn't keep it. The petals would float to the surface." His words came out sniffled and ugly-sounding, making him cringe but also hold in a laugh imagining Luca bringing a bouquet of flowers underwater just to see them all rush past his wide eyes to the surf above.

Giulia snorted and laughed against his chest, and soon Alberto was chuckling softly along with her. "Let's go see il tuo cuore, okay?"

"You're serious?" Alberto readjusted the lavender stem in her hair. "Giulia, this is like the total opposite of how I thought this would go."

She took his hand tenderly and went to the door, but not without a whiplash turn of her head, cocking one eyebrow in defiance. "What, did you expect me to reach for the nearest harpoon? Like everyone else in this town? I don't think so." She tapped her forehead, smirking. "Open mind, dummy."

Alberto squeezed her pinky finger. "Okay, you were so sweet a second ago. What happened?"

"Lots of things, big guy," Giulia clicked her tongue and pulled Alberto's hand closer. "But that vase on the dining room table, those flowers. That's how I knew. If it were a girl, you would have listened to Papa's advice for roses. But you got lavender."

Alberto sighed, fighting the impulse to tug his hand away and retreat fearfully back to his room. "If you think it's such a stupid idea, we can make tea with them. Papa got a new kettle at the market."

Giulia gave him a side glance again. "And what about Luca?"

"Fine, no tea then." Alberto stumbled on his words, choking on them almost. Would Luca...even be there? After what had happened...

He blushed and stopped, inches above Giulia's head when he stood one step higher than her, looking directly into the kitchen on his right where the vase was. Evening light spilled in the window by the sink the Marcovaldos refused to close, bathing the ornate, bottle green glass in moody flashes of color on the patched up tablecloth. A sliver of a grapefruit rind sat, hard and darkened next to the reflection of lavender stems, from Massimo's talk. Alberto swallowed the immediate flush of nausea, hating the way he could almost taste the embarrassment and worry on his tongue, inside his pores.

It was going to get dark soon.

[asticot]

oh my god we're gonna have to bring back the citrus scale

[bagelbucket]

holy shit we're back on the citrus scale?

NSFW will be tagged as #lemon sorta NSFW is #Lime Weird fet shit/ extreme NSFW is #orange reblog to spread awareness that we’re back on the citrus scale

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

hiii 5 30 and 32 for harrison pls (my king <3)

5. Your oc has to make something for an art exhibition. What would they make? How terrible is it? Would they enjoy making it?

on one hand Harrison would do something like splat paint on a canvas OR have y’all seen the episode of suite life on deck when zack sneezes jelly on a canvas and all the rich white people are like yessss we love itttttt THAT would be the art he makes! (yes i’m watching shows from the 2000s ok it’s breakdown time) ON THE OTHER HAND harrison is actually a visual artist lol (I always forget this because it seems so out of character but it’s been canon since book 1!) SO! if anybody follows SLEW on YouTube, that’s totally how his art would look! Either way he’d love making it! he would draw Lonan yes I said it (I have a few scenes I cut out from Feeding Habits where he actually does this which I’ll put under the cut)!

30. What topics does your oc know the most about? Are these obvious or would these be surprising to others?

Harrison knows a lot about building things and taking them apart etc though I can never do that justice for him because I am incompetent at both :) that is definitely expected he just has that vibe (is it because he wears flannel?? maybe??) like I said he is also a visual artist so I would assume??? knows a lot about art history?? I don’t enjoy art history because I have no attention span but I think he would love that and know tons of little facts and that would totally be surprising to others! again I probably don’t do him justice in that field because I was the worst at art history!

32. What five ingredients would you throw into a cauldron to make a potion based on your oc? How would you cook/mix them? What would the potion do?

The 5 ingredients would be 1) WAFFLES (loves them, would die for them), 2) pasteis de nata (LOVES these I cannot blame him) 3) coffee (he has no blood it’s just coffee) 4) cinnamon (i just re-read book 6 of fostered and the amount of times reeve compares harrison to cinnamon?? yall i’m no longer calling it cinnamon i’ll be calling it harrison) and 5) hot sauce (because he’s SPICY). Because Harrison is chaotic I would put it all in a blender and make a smoothie :) The potion would make you ~happy and ~relaxed and just generally chill and in love even if that’s with yourself (the only vibes harrison wants)!

This is the first Harrison Drawing Lonan moment which is from a subplot that no longer exists!

In his room, he scales his bed and tacks sketches to the ceiling with dashes of masking tape. He is so fast, if anyone sees him do this, they will question their sanity, and by the time he’s done and all the pieces are up, he’s in the centre of a black hole, and the black hole is a single face of charcoal, and the face has got hair that carves his forehead like raven wings, his eyes swathes of cyan pastel, his body staining Harrison’s hands irreparably and hours later, Harrison lies on his sheetless bed like the next star waiting to be vacuumed into the mouth of his muse.

(why am i fangirling over my own writing it’s so CUTE i cannot harrison loves lonan so much oh my he really does!!)

This is a random flashback that never really went anywhere?? but apparently it’s an entire scene oops! maybe I’ll put it somewhere if it fits!

Lonan’s eyes in monochrome still look like the ocean. He’s vivid in charcoal, a good model, slushing the rind off a mandarin.

They sit knee-to-knee on the jute mat by the hearth. Fire icebergs Lonan’s retinas and embers pinch his hair.

Harrison scrawls onto a scrap advertisement for a washing machine set, Lonan’s jaw melding with its Best Offer: $599 Two Piece. He is firelit and juddering with heat. He is peeling the mandarin like its his own work of art, each removal tear of skin nearly a fresco, ready for auction. He is the only thing Harrison is interested in studying.

Harrison finishes a flare of Lonan’s hair. From above the notebook he watches, aware he is noticed, so unashamed in his staring. Tonight, Lonan is his raven with the ocean in his eyes, his muscle memory, his magnum opus. At one point, Harrison no longer looks up to check his reference; he remembers exactly where every slot of him goes.

On Harrison’s last lick of hair, Lonan has finished peeling the mandarin. The segments sit, unpaired like jewels. A line of juice dribbles off his palm. It is only inevitable that they lean toward each other, charcoal and citrus, and Lonan looks at the portrait and Harrison feeds off that fruit with fervor.

“It’s missing something,” Lonan says, their bodies criss-crossed as Lonan examines the portrait and Harrison eats the mandarin. When Lonan gestures for the pencil, Harrison nudges it to him.

Lonan retrieves it and leans over Harrison so their hands morph. The pencil makes contact once more with the paper, and together they pull lines against the paper, curve up, hook down, hatch. They move in singularity, their fingerprints one fingerprint, their palms one palm. Harrison tastes mandarin, so Lonan does too. Lonan stamps charcoal onto his ring finger, so Harrison does too.

By the time they’re finished, the portrait has become two. Lonan’s right charcoal eye becomes the left charcoal eye of another face, Harrison’s, their faces combined into monochrome together.

It is inevitable, not choice, when their single hand tears the portrait from the book and reels it into the wall of flame. It is inevitable, not choice, to simultaneously feel a jilt of joy for at last burning together.

did harrison just call lonan his magnum opus oh my GOD so cute okay i’m going to go bye!!

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

About Me!

Name/nickname: Duck

Age: 29 years old

Gender: cis female

Pronouns: she/her but really anything is fine!

Sexuality: bisexual

Timezone: EST

Where else to find my writing: On Archive of Our Own (AO3) under the same name is the only other place I post my works. If you see them posted elsewhere please let me know.

Fandoms/what I reblog and post: 18+ writing and other content, horror movie and slasher content, monster lover/fucker content, Star Wars, Marvel, etc, and general nonsense.

The Citrus Scale

Ask Box: My ask box is always open for pretty much whatever. As are my DM’s! I might not reply right away because I’m only a very anxious human but I will do my best to answer. Though I reserve the right to delete asks/messages that are hateful or inappropriate. As for writing requests, that is in the bio at the top oh my page but feel free to ask if you’re still unsure!

This or That: 1  2  3  4  5  6

Cookies or cake? Lemonade or sweet tea? Summer or Winter? Flip flops or sneakers? Puppies and kittens? Silk or fleece? Vanilla or cinnamon? Early bird or night owl? Leggings or jeans?

regency era or victorian era? tailcoat or hooded cloak? flintlock pistol or broadsword? scarab beetle or luna moth? bog phantom or cemetery spirit? lighthouse or candelabra? paper cut or tender bruise? the quiet before or after a storm?

old vinyls or old books? fairies or mermaids? disney or ghibli films? croissants or baguettes? love letters or mixtapes? little women or pride and prejudice? art history or astrology? lorde or taylor swift? spring or winter? vanilla or lavender?

bouquet of flowers or cactus? horror or thriller? yellow or blue? whispers or shouts? gods or God? dreaming or daydreaming? melody or lyrics? poets or singers? juice or cocktails? burgers or pizza? white lies or stinging truths? ballet or broadway?

blackberries or raspberries? honey and milk? toast or croissants? windows open or closed? snowflakes or sunbeams? greenhouse or garden? flowers or seashells? reading books or painting with oil colours?

Libra: Pale Blue or Pastel Pink? Sapphire or Jade? Cabbage Rose or Primrose? Mint or Marjoram? Interior Design or Fashion? Light Kisses or Hand Holding? Yellow Roses or Daisies? Swans or Lovebirds? Strawberries or Cherries? Harp or Violin? Badminton or Volleyball? Air Manipulation/Bending or Finding a (friendly) genie? Scales or Feathers? Doves or Songbirds? Enhanced vision or Love potions and curses? Pinot Gris or Complex cocktail? Singing or Whistling? Force field powers or Magic lanterns and charms? Sagittarius or Leo?

[jackielikestea]

Look at me, looking at you!

Fitzroy Maplecourt knew he was attractive.

It was a simple fact. He was blessed with a bod that most people worked their whole life for, he has pretty face, heck he is now 6’4! He understands why people turn heads when he walks into the room.

So excuse him for not understanding why Argo Keen seems to be totally blind to his good looks.

At first it’s not like Fitzroy wanted his attention, but Argo didn’t even check him out when he walked into their room that first day and that was fine Fitzroy had been off putting to say the least. He had assumed that once he apologized and Argo got to know him better that, that would change, but no Argo still didn’t look at him.

Then the whole mess with the centaurs had happen. Argo and Fitzroy had bonded over planing to steal the apple. Argo reading to and pleading with his unconscious body, fighting along side him and the firbolg, and then coming back to the school to find Gray and his plans for war.

Argo had open up about some sort of secret society (he’s probably just in some sort of rouge club honestly), then he told them about the Commodore and his mother. A whole new level of trust had been established. Or at least to Fitzroy that’s all it was.

So yeah, maybe now Fitzroy wouldn’t be too upset if he caught the genasi staring at him just a little. It would only be fair since Fitzroy was staring a whole lot.

I mean how could he not. Argo was damn fit. He was lean, graceful, has a great face, forearms that seem to be define no matter how loose his shirts were. He also seem to have a bit of a issue wearing shirts once they were in their room. Which had been the cause of Fitzroy’s wondering eyes many times.

Including now where they weren’t even in their rooms they were outside training. Buckminster and Argo were practicing with their swords. When Fitzroy offered to practice with Argo, Buckminster had swooped in and put his arm around Argo. “Let us rouges practice together.” Buckminster said as he pulled Argo away.

So Fitzroy sat to the side with a few of the other students who weren’t practicing. Watching by himself, Firbolg was in detention for making fart noises in morning meeting.

Argo turned quickly and his scales caught the sun, his hair swinging after him. His back was now turn toward Fitzroy who could see those two dimples peaking out from the small of his back. Muscles move as he swung his sword. By the Gods. Fitzroy could feel his face heat up.

“Hot isn’t?” A female voice asked.

Fitzroy jumped slightly turning to look at Rainer.

“Rainer! Um yes, I guess it is quite warm.” He told her as he glanced back at Argo.

Rainer smiled her bright smile and shot him a look as she giggled.

“I don’t know what your talking about.” Fitzroy muttered.

“Oh come on Fitzroy, you have to admit Argo is hot, All that sailing and pulling rope. Did his body a whole lot of good.”

Fitzroy ears darken. “I don’t have to admit anything.”

“Hey Argo can you come here for like a minute?!” She called over to him.

“Wait! What are you doing!” Fitzroy asked in a panic.

Argo disengaged and walked over to where Fitzroy and Rainer were. His long ponytail loose from the effort and pieces were framing in his face. On his way over he picked up his shirt from the ground.

“Hello Rainer, what can I do for you?” Argo asked as he pulled his hair from his ponytail only to retie it as a bun. Was he trying to kill Fitzroy?

“Do genasi sweat like humans?” She asked innocently as if Fitzroy wasn’t trying to not die as he stared at Argo’s arms as he tied his bun.

Argo looked confused. “Well it depends, if I’m around a lot of heat I will, but I don’t usually to need too keep cool.”

“Hm interesting.” Rainer said and Argo smiled.

“Hey Fitz, can you hold on to my shirt? I don’t want Buckminster using it as a way to trip me up.” Argo asked as he held out his shirt.

“Argo, my beloved CCO, I don’t usually..” Fitzroy started before Rainer slapped her hand over his mouth.

“He will.” She said eagerly.

Argo smiled brightly. “Fantastic.” Then tossed his shirt at Fitzroy, who caught it on reflex.

Before Fitzroy could continue to comment Argo turned and walked back over to Buckminster, and the words died on his lips as he took in Argo as he left.

He could smell the shirt from where it was in his lap, citrus and the sea.

“Soooo.” Rainer said.

“Oh shh you.” Fitzroy replied.

As Argo made his way over to Buckminster, he smirked.

“You know Fitzroy hasn’t taken his eyes off your back since you turned around.” Buckminster said as he got into position.

“Oh I’m very aware.” Argo grinned. “Let him look.”

—-

Author’s note

Did I know where I was going with this,

No. But here we are.