#or at least make more local servers

[katiekatstudios]

I have yet to touch Deltarune (I wanna at least wait until news of a third chapter comes out so I can play them all at once), but playing Undertale I did notice some aspects of Touhou (esp in some of the music).

Rage quitting is unfortunately part of the Touhou experience. Esp if you're trying to go for a perfect like I all too often do, esp on normal difficulty. There's a practice mode, but you have to be ready to dedicate time to it if you wanna really git gud.

"#well that just gives me anxiety just looking at it" That doesn't even scratch the surface of how hard some Touhou bosses can get 🤣 But then again I've only managed to beat those games on easy so...

Nothing wrong with that, haha. Honestly though, Undertale and Deltarune are basically the only bullet hell games I play. I'm sure I've done others in the past but I can't think of any off the top of my head. I feel like I would rage quit on the spot if I kept trying over and over again with a hard Touhou boss...

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

-

It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you. 

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before. 

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him. 

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink. 

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.” 

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this. 

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need. 

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes. 

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm. 

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath. 

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers. 

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric. 

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him. 

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes. 

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together. 

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat. 

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles. 

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home. 

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him. 

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs. 

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them. 

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer. 

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail. 

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum. 

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent. 

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you. 

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe. 

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?” 

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now. 

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.” 

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend. 

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall. 

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep. 

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before. 

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down. 

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue. 

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist. 

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex. 

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor. 

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed. 

It must be the heat making you act this way. 

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple. 

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin. 

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back. 

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles. 

The heat is just—

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again. 

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat. 

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head. 

His palms are slick on your skin. 

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well. 

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest. 

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips. 

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you. 

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest. 

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed. 

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way. 

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it. 

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.  

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck…—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole. 

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out. 

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath. 

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much. 

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you. 

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress. 

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool. 

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit. 

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest. 

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though. 

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours. 

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another. 

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again. 

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

[bambi-kinos]

Sorry for taking so long on this post, I've been writing it in my head for weeks trying to figure out how to phrase everything. But umm I think Paul was in a bath tub when he was taking certain photos of John.

So the book itself is divided into sections based on location. There's a London section, a Paris section, then they go to New York and then on to Miami, etc. The London section is really interesting and the photos are very revealing IMO. I definitely recommend getting your hands on a physical copy, your local library may have it. This is something you should experience physically because uh. There's a lot of John in here. To me at least it's very obvious how deeply in love Paul was with John.

So imagine for a minute that you're Paul McCartney, and you're in London, England with your best mate.

The way that journalists are treating this set of photos makes me feel a little insane because so many of them are saying "this is John and Paul backstage!" Y'all, this is not John and Paul backstage. This is John and Paul in their hotel room. Alone.

First off let's look at this:

Here's John shaving the stubble off his face. Sunglasses still on; John had prescription sunglasses so if he's wearing these then his contacts are not in. Look at the background of this photo:

John's in the way here but that is a set of curtains in a hotel room! You can tell from the horizontal bar on top, those are to hold the black out curtains. And another thing: I think these are John and Paul's suitcases sitting on top of a wardrobe. Not entirely sure about that though since the image is so grainy.

At this point John has taken off his sunglasses, he's brushing his teeth and has washed his face. Again, look at the background:

This is a medicine cabinet, a storage feature in bathrooms to keep toiletries safe from the humidity caused by a bath and/or shower. I don't know how common these are anymore:

What I find interesting about this sequence of photos is that John first pulls a funny face for Paul:

But then something grabs his attention:

Spits out the toothpaste:

And then off John nyooms...making soft eyes at Paul no less.

Pay close attention to the background on this photo! We're seeing the hotel window from another angle, the horizontal strip at the top is the tell:

I outlined the horizontal strip on the curtain and then drew lines on the dips in the fabric so you can compare it to the OG photo:

Paul is utilizing an interesting run-and-gun style of camera shooting here, he's got John tilted and at an angle that puts John over Paul. Unconsciously signaling something? Let's move on...

According to this strip...

...this is the next photo in the sequence:

Again calling attention to more interesting details here:

John's tie is missing and his shirt is undone. And that looks like a towel in his hands. He's turning in for the night.

2. John is standing in front of a reinforced door which are common in hotels but are not common in dressing rooms:

3. This photo is itself a reflection of John's face that Paul has taken in a mirror, maybe a vanity mirror. Someone in the McLen discord server said it was too small to be a vanity mirror and I'm inclined to agree, so maybe it's a compact or hand mirror propped up on the sink.

So what does this mean? I think that John and Paul were getting ready for bed, someone knocked on the door, and John went to answer it. You'd think Paul would but for some reason he didn't. Oh and another thing...check out the four jackets in the mirror:

They're definitely hanging from something so John and Paul were looking out for the suits that night.

Next in the sequence, John is back at the sink washing up. Check out the hotel window curtain being reflected in the mirror there!

Then something kind of odd happens...John is seen coming back and re-entering the shot again? Through out Eye of the Storm Paul emphasizes a lot of duality with John, including a shot where John reflects on his own sculpted face. Paul was very interested in John doing performing the act of reflection on his own face:

But here's the really interesting bit and what makes me think Paul was naked in a bathtub when he took these last two photos:

Y'all, that's the fluffy fringe of a towel! You can tell that the threads are hanging down from it! These are very different from the clean lines of the curtain or the medicine cabinet or even the lines of their suit jackets! Paul was sitting in or on the edge of the bath tub when he took these photos of John! He wrapped a towel around his camera to protect it from getting wet! Cameras are generally made for right handed people so when Paul had his finger on the button on the right hand side. That means Paul keeping his finger on that button pushed the edge of the protective towel over the lens!

So I submit to you Paul McCartney's Eye of the Storm, where he submitted a film strip where he was staying in a hotel room with John and was most likely nude and bathing when he took John's photographs! Someone knocked on the door to get their attention while Paul was naked so John answered the door for them, while Paul followed him a little. John was enjoying having Paul right there for him too:

PLEASE get Eye of the Storm, it's such a great book and there's so much in it. Paul lets the pictures speak for themselves and wow they have one hell of a story to tell!

@perasperaadastratoday

[gor3sigil]

Trans drag performers deserve better.

Okay so since y'all seem interested, here we go.

[This is about MY experience as a “former” transmasc drag king, in my local scene. This isn't representative of the drag scene as a whole because drag is a wide, huge scene with pretty much any type of people in it. I have never done paid gig. I only performed a couple of times before deciding to stop.]

I discovered drag with RuPaul like a lot of people, and for a long time, I only knew about drag queens. It’s when I learned about an initiation to drag king happening in my town that I decided to try it. I did a bit of research before the event took place and that's how I learned that drag king is widely undocumented, compared to drag queen. A bit disheartening but I was excited to do something new and especially to get back in my local queer community after 2 years or so of “no contact” with it because trauma (see my post about my first T4T relationship to understand why).

First surprise when I got there, I was the only transmasc present as an attendee. The organiser and person who teached us is agender and go by he/him, and his at the time SO is a transmasc enby but appart from them, I was the only trans person. Most of the others were cis lesbian women. Makes sense. The initiation weekend went really well and we ended up performing in an open scene at the end. I can't count the amount of times I got misgendered by other kings during this weekend and I have to say, it pissed me off so fucking bad because I was the only one getting consistantly misgendered. But I brushed it off and had a blast.

My drag persona is more of a dragula king, really goth, and I did a lipsync performance on a Black Dresses song. I loved it and had a blast. A year or so later, we decided with other drag kings to do a little group to perform together.

Once again, I'm the only trans person.

And that's when the shitshow kinda happened. From all the drag kings present, I was also the only one who wasn't already part of a collective. So the group we had was composed of people from 2 collectives who would basically cheer each other out at every show, and it's great !! But I wasn't being integrated into the group, and I felt defeated. One of the main reasons why I didn't go to drag shows was because I was FLAT BROKE. I couldn't attend these events as they were always or in a bar so you have to at least buy a drink, or had a fee, and I couldn't afford that.

We started doing rehearsals and I set up a discord server for us all to use and organize the said rehearsals. It soon became apparent that they weren't really serious about this group, that they were more involved in their own collectives and it was HELL to have at least one rehearsal a month. But we had a show scheduled for september, and half of the kings weren't ready, didn't know their texts nor songs. I knew it was going to be bad. Also we were confirmed that the gig was going to actually happen 3 days only before, because the people who said they were going to do the visuals NEVER DID and we had to fumble something quick so the event was promoted very fucking late and we weren't sure we could even afford to do it, because not many tickets were sold.

During the rehearsals I got singled out for everything. My voice was dropping because of the T (I had started 8 months prior) and I tried to do my best with the singing parts but got told a few times that my low voice would sound “weird” amongst the sopranos. Also, one of the solo part a king was going to perform was on a very upbeat music and he said we could join IF WE WANTED.

I said I'd pass since it wasn't my style at all.

And when we got to the venue, the venue didn't have any backstage and I had my solo part just after that, so I couldn't just stand there on stage and do nothing. The others in my group KNEW IT as they had performed in this venue BEFORE but just told me “oh, too bad, improvise something” when they were the same ones who told me that taking part in the number was not mandatory.

Regarding the other artists, man, I hated everything. I got misgendered constantly IN KING LIKE - I'M A DRAG KING FFS. Even by others in my group.

When I corrected another performer, a cis gay dude, he laughed at my FACE and told me “but you're trans aren't you like, against gender or something ?”. As I was pre op and still early in my transition I was basically outing myself everytime I told my pronouns and I got so many cis performers ask me invasive questions about my sex life, or being like “yeah I have a trans friend who goes by X but I knew them as Y so it's Y to me but it's not in a disrespectful way you see”.

So yeah, I didn't have a great night. :)

The cis kings called me “girl” or “sis” because “I'm one of them” even after telling them time and time again that I wasn't comfortable with that.

And after this quite disastrous experience, the same ones who called me “girl” and me got into an argument because they wanted to change a song about forced toxic masculinity which is an INCREDIBLY POWERFUL AND BEAUTIFUL SONG into lyrics to talk about femininity. I said that we could use another song then, because there's so few cis men singers who sing about being forced into toxic masculinity and virility that I found that a bit disrespectful to take this important message and make it about women and femininity. There's plenty of songs about that that we could use.

And now guess what ? I was a MEAN MAN who wanted women to NOT TALK ABOUT THEIR ISSUES because I was a very MANLY DUDE DISGUSTING MALE.

The same people who couldn't gender me correctly and called me “sis” a WEEK BEFORE.

So yeah, I got the fuck out and gave up.

I really wish I can perform again one day, but it'll be in another scene.

So PSA: book drag kings, because they are so underrepresented it's disheartening, RESPECT trans drag performers, don't but bioessentialism in drag for the LOVE OF GOD IT'S DRAG. Like imagine being transphobic as a DRAG PERFORMER. Learn the history. And fucking do better.

[avastrasposts]

The Blind Date

Plot: Your friend Benny sets you up on a blind date with his friend.

Frankie Morales x female reader

Warnings: None what so ever, it's all fluff

Word count: 1.7k

A/N: Someone said imagine going on a blind date with Frankie, and I did! Just a little Sunday snack to serve as distraction from everything else.

“So, I’ve got this friend…” Benny snatched a beer from the fridge and handed it to you before grabbing one for himself, “and he’s single…” 

“No, no blind dates, Benny, please!” you protested as you stirred the sizzling garlic, “I’ve been on your street all but five minutes, and you want to set me up? I need to find a new favorite coffee place and a new hairdresser before I can even start thinking about dating again.” 

“It’s been like two months since you moved here, and you should only get your coffee from Beany’s on Maple. And this guy, I’ve been saving him for you…” Benny wiggled his eyebrows up and down as you shook your head, “I’ve got plenty of other female single friends asking for his number, but I’ve said no, I was saving him for someone special.” 

“More like, you’ve slept with all your other female single friends, and you’re not about to hand him sloppy seconds,” you scoffed, “I know you, Benjamin Miller, you were a slut before you settled down.” 

“Ok, we’re not discussing my former dating life here, but rather the lack of yours,” Benny retorted, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at you, “And I’ve already given him your number, so you can expect a call from a certain Francisco Morales any day now.” 

“Is this the guy you call ‘Fish’?” you asked. Over the years you’ve heard a lot about ‘Fish’, ‘Pope’ and ‘Redfly’ from Benny. Mostly he told you about his brother Will though, ‘Ironhead’ to the rest of them. 

“Yeah, that’s the one. And you should give him a chance, go out on one date at least, I know you guys will get along because you both enjoy ribbing me any chance you get,” he chuckled as you nodded along. 

“Well, in that case, I like him already.” 

Francisco Morales didn’t call you the next day, he texted, which put him back in the negatives in your book. But you’d promised Benny to go on one date with this guy, so you accepted when he asked if you’d like to meet him for dinner at a local tapas place. Now you were walking into that place, hoping the evening wouldn’t be a total bust. You’d made plans with your best friend from back home to call you in thirty minutes to give you an out if the evening went sideways. Enough time for some olives and a glass of wine and then decide if this friend of Benny’s was worth a Saturday night. 

“Oh, you’re in luck!” the hostess exclaimed as you gave her Francisco’s name, “He managed to book one of our best tables, and with the weather this nice, it’s perfect. Just follow me!”

The hostess escorted you through the restaurant and out to the patio in the back, your opinion of your blind date going up as you saw the space. It was a small patio overlooking the river and surrounded by lush greenery and tropical flowers.  A large tree strung with fairy lights illuminated a few tables, the breeze making them move and twinkle.

The hostess took you to a table at the edge of the patio, sheltered from the rest of the restaurant by the trunk of the tree and with a view of the river below. The man that was already seated stood up as you approached. 

“Here you go, miss, your server will be with you shortly,” the hostess said and slipped away as you held out your hand to the man. 

“Hi, you must be Francisco.”

“Hi, yeah, I am, but it’s usually Frankie, or Frank,” he replied, taking your hand with a shy smile, “Or maybe ‘Fish’, since you’re Benny’s friend.” 

He pulled out your chair for you, and you sat down, taking a moment to look him up and down as he moved to his own chair. He was almost as tall as Benny, and almost as wide, but there was definitely more softness to him. Both in his face, his chin covered in a short trimmed patchy beard, and in the way he moved. When Benny had a confident swagger that bordered on the obnoxious if you didn’t know him, Francisco, ‘Frankie’ you corrected yourself, had a softer brand of confidence, one that was less obvious and gave him an air of shyness that came through as he sat down and glanced over at you. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard of ‘Fish’,” you smiled, “but he introduced you as Francisco when he set me up for this.” 

“Please, don’t believe half the stories,” Frankie returned your smile, dimples appearing in his cheeks, just as the server approached. 

Once drinks and food had arrived, the rest of the evening flowed easily. Frankie wasn’t as shy as he first came across, making you almost cry with laughter as he told you stories of some of the things he and Benny had gotten up to while deployed together. You repaid him by sharing some of your favorite ‘The Miller boys get into trouble’ stories from your time growing up. Frankie told you he’d file them away for careful future use while you were silently thanking Benny for setting you up with this man, he’d been right when he said you’d get along. 

Frankie offered to drive you home, apologizing for the state of his old truck as he tossed a child’s toy in the booster seat in the back. Over dinner he’d told you about his four year old daughter, confessing that it made dating complicated, but that therapy had made him realize that he needed to prioritize himself too, if he was going to be a better dad to her. The sentiment had almost made you tear up, something in the way Frankie’s face softened when he talked about his daughter. 

The truck was old but cozy, rumbling to life as the radio came on to a typical ‘dad’ station with old rock. Frankie left the windows down as he drove through the almost empty streets across town. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting either on the stick, or on the bench seat, close enough to your leg so that his pinky brushed against the fabric of your dress. You wanted to take his hand and lace your fingers through his, feel the warmth on your skin as he hummed along to Eddie Vedder. 

The drive wasn’t long enough, you wish you lived further away, but it turned out you lived only a mile from his house. He pulled up to your place in the middle of an argument about Nirvana and Guns n’ Roses. Frankie’s eyes were bulging out of his head as you refused to admit that Appetite for Destruction was a better album than Nevermind, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he began to laugh when you stuck your tongue out to him like a petulant five year old. 

“My daughter pulls the exact move when she runs out of excuses for why she shouldn’t be going to bed,” he chuckled as the truck went silent, “Just admit it, you’re wrong and I win.” 

“Never!” you declared dramatically and began to laugh too, thumping Frankie’s shoulder as he mimicked you with a cheeky grin. You didn’t want this date to end, you couldn’t remember the last time someone made you feel this good by just hanging out with them. Frankie made you laugh, asked about your life, shared details of his own. And when he touched upon more serious subjects, the death of Redfly, his divorce, he made you want to reach out and comfort him, to soothe some of the pain that flashed across his face. 

“I had a great time,” you admitted, as Frankie walked you to the door, “I’ll never hear the end of it from Benny.” 

Frankie smiled and nodded, “Same, I had a great time too, and I know Ben’s gonna be obnoxious about it. But I’d love to see you again, it’ll be worth putting up with his smug face for that.” 

“I’d like that,” you replied, stopping as you came to your front door, “Give me a call?” 

“You can count on it,” he answered, dropping his hand that had been resting on the small of your back. He suddenly glanced down at his shoes and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, before he looked up at you again. 

“Can I…kiss you goodnight?” he asked, his voice low and warm. There was a smile there, like he knew you wouldn’t say no, not after the evening you’d just shared. 

“Yes, please,” you replied, resisting the urge to look at his mouth, lacing your fingers through his as he moved closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. 

The warmth of his palm on your cheek was easy, natural, and then his lips found yours in a heartbeat. Heat flooded your body, your free hand finding his shoulder and holding on to the solid body under his shirt. Frankie let slip a low hum, deepening the kiss as you parted your lips to his tongue. He let go of your hand and wrapped his arm around your waist instead, pulling you closer as you took hold of his shirt, bunching it up in your fist, heart pounding in your chest. 

It was over far too soon, leaving you both slightly breathless and glass eyed as Frankie loosened his hold around your waist, but still kept you close. 

“Are you free tomorrow night?” he mumbled, his eyes still on your mouth. 

“Yes,” you replied, transfixed by the way his plump bottom lip looked after being kissed, rosy and slick. You reached up and slid your thumb across it, making Frankie briefly close his eyes. They were a shade darker when he opened them again. 

“Frankie,” you asked, “do you have plans for tomorrow morning?” 

He took a couple of beats to answer, his eyes narrowing with a slight smile. 

“No, I have no plans for tomorrow morning,” he finally replied and you tore your gaze from his mouth to look into his eyes.  

“Do you want to have breakfast with me?” 

“I would love to have breakfast with you,” he mumbled as you fumbled for your keys, pushing the door open. His lips were on yours again before you’d even grabbed him, pulling him over the threshold. 

Across the street, Benny grinned and got up from his porch swing. 

Endless thanks to @i-own-loki for the lovely banner as always! Despite broken wifi and too much snow! :D

[fluffypotatey]

okay so:

the year is 2021. the month is june. the new season of hermitcraft, season 8, has just started, and everything is great! the hermits are all messing around, having fun, building insane things within the first week of the server being active, and generally having a good time. everyone's collected themselves into little factions, pranking each other, and it's all the fun, lighthearted, mostly-vanilla content hermitcraft is known for.

and then the split between minecraft versions 1.18 and 1.19 is announced. the delay of new terrain, and especially of new mobs like the warden, considerably disrupt several of the hermits' plans. but it's fine, they'll figure something out, they're professionals, and it mostly goes unnoticed.

about two weeks later, on november 9th, grian turns to mumbo jumbo in one of his episodes, and asks the famous question that would seal hermitcraft season 8's fate:

"mumbo, is the moon... big?"

suddenly, the fans panic. they search back through videos and streams, and realize that the moon had been abnormally large and stuck in a full-moon phase since october 30th. the Moon Big event has begun.

this is where the roleplay really starts. once the moon's size has been brought up, the hermits start a weird combination of scrambling to figure out why the moon's growing, and how to stop it- but also of ignoring it, hoping it won't be a problem, hoping someone else will deal with it. the moon keeps getting bigger, more hermits start realizing it's going on, and a creeping sense of dread starts to grow. but it's fine. it's fine, right? they do little plotlines like this all the time. they'll figure something out, the moon will go back to normal, and we'll laugh about it when this is all over. it's fine.

and then, blocks start flying away. just floating up out of the ground, and falling right back down! like for a moment, a square meter chunk of dirt has decided it's a ballerina and leaped out of the ground! but it's fine, right? the blocks are coming back. no lasting harm is done. they're going to fix it all... right?

the moon gets bigger. it's growing every day- local hermit weirdguy joe hills measures it every stream. the blocks start flying higher. gravity starts getting... weird, with players getting the slow falling effect at random, and being lifted off of the earth themselves. the players form cults and rituals and whatnot to try and appease the moon, convince it to leave them alone, making plans to escape. nothing works. things keep getting worse, and the moon keeps getting bigger. but it'll be fine. these storylines never leave lasting harm, or at least they never have before. they'll be fine.

and then the blocks stop coming back, just floating into the sky forever. the players have the slow falling effect more than they don't now. the moon is now so big it's visible even during the day, and fills the entire sky at night. they start planning their escapes in earnest, and say their goodbyes. some hermits jump into a void hole in the overworld (it was the centerpiece of their village). some flee to the End, some to the nether, some just fly with elytras and hope they can get far enough away in time. one brave hermit, tango, flies himself to the moon in a futile attempt to blow the whole thing up before it can crash.

but in the end, the moon crashes into the server, and everything they'd built was destroyed. and the whole time, there'd been nothing any of them could've done. season eight was over, a full six months before anyone had expected it to end, and season nine wouldn't start until about three months later. and im still not okay about it.

(here's a cool animatic of the moon's crash! honestly i dont think you need too much hermitcraft knowledge to get the gist)

(also the moon crash happened on the day before my birthday lmao.)

….

holy shit

[petrichormeraki]

Some life advice nobody told me that I’ve slowly gathered through navigating the adult world;

If you go out to eat, tip in cash. 100% of that money goes to the server if it’s a worthwhile establishment, whereas a portion of a card tip goes to the business owners.

You don’t owe your bosses anything that’s not in your contract. They will try to get more out of you than you’re paid for���don’t give it to them. Even if they try to guilt you over it.

If you can’t muster up the energy to take care of yourself, whether through work fatigue or depression, at least brush your teeth. That is the most expensive part of hygiene to fix/replace. Everything else can wait if you can’t manage it at the moment.

That said, a shower is Temporary Depression Eraser. It’s kind of incredible how well it works to help you feel better, even if it’s a lot of spoons.

Go out in the sun. It’s so dumb and small but human minds become a very not okay place to be if you don’t get your daily sunlight. Seasonally Affected Disorder is very real and stupid but it’s easily treatable. If you live in a climate without a lot of sun, they make lamps that emit the same rays to compensate.

Don’t feel bad for eating bread. Carbs are important and actually encouraged as long as it’s not the only thing you eat.

Vote in your local elections. Your voice will matter way more in those than anywhere else. They don’t tell you this because it’s true.

Don’t put stock in any bad thoughts you have after 8-9 pm. Again, so stupid but it’s a very real thing.

Kindness goes a long, long way. Even little things like ‘I like your shirt”. I promise you it makes a difference.

Eat at least one vegetable a day to keep your levels stable. The human body is a temperamental little bitch that makes everything Horrible Forever unless you eat a vegetable.

Hold landlords accountable. If you’re paying them an arm and a leg to live somewhere, they can fix your fucking boiler. It’s part of their contract as a homeowner if they’re renting to someone.

[mickyschumacher]

[RED STRING!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: spending valentine's day alone, franco thinks he fallen in love at first sight. the only problem? the connection between you too is tied with an invisible string.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, poor humour, coffee shop trope!, kind of a you belong with me vibe with the whole writing thing, lot's and lot's of yapping, very subtle red string/invisible string vibes – more fate vibes ig , technically not strangers to lovers but it is what it is, franco and reader are just the most adorable and talkative people ever, and last but not least, google translated spanish cus why not

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: franco colapinto x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.6k

𝐀/𝐍: the second fic of my series! not going to lie, this didn't turn out the way i wanted it to turn out. esp since it's technically my first franco fic but i had to pull through. maybe i'll edit this someday (or make a pt 2). 🤷🏽‍♀️ // as usual, poorly proofreaddddd

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Franco looked around him at his local coffee shop, suppressing the urge to look disgusted. It was Valentine’s Day and his favourite spot was littered with people in relationships. The ‘public display’ in PDA was truly well and alive.  

Franco, of course, as every year before this one, was spending Valentine’s alone. He wasn’t sure what it was. But none of his relationships lasted till then nor did they start around the holiday. It must’ve been some sort of curse. Because everyone else around him was happily all mushy and in love.  

Still, coffee was much needed. Especially on a day like this.   

Franco took a step forward, ordering his usual. While he preferred to have a cup of mate with someone he cherished, all the people close to him were out today. Leaving him all alone with his caffeine addiction.  

A server of the coffee shop cleared his throat, capturing Franco’s attention. “Señor, esa señora de ahí olvidó sus llaves y su café. ¿Le importaría dárselo mientras espera? Estamos un poco cortos de personal en este momento.” Sir, that lady over there forgot her keys and her coffee. Do you mind giving it to her while you wait? We are a little short-staffed right now. 

Franco nodded and smiled. “Sure. No problem.”  

He turned around with the cup of coffee and keys, trying to spot you and boy, did he. Franco almost stumbled into the person next to him. The world was slowing down for him as you played with a small child at a table.  

Franco watched quietly and carefully. He watched your hair fall around your face softly while you pulled faces with the kid, making him laugh. He could tell the kid was technically third-wheeling his parents. The child was probably feeling bored as hell.  

And then there you were. Playing with the kid, pretending to do some God-awful magic, and cracking jokes that would only ever make a child laugh.  

Franco could’ve sworn you were the most beautiful pattern of beauty he had ever seen. Your eyes sparkled as though they held the entire world in them. Your smile... a social service healing those around you, he was sure of it. Your laugh he only needed to hear once and it would play forever in head.  

He watched you bid the child goodbye, waving to the very last second. Franco couldn’t help but smile to himself as you took a seat and waited presumably for your coffee.  

He blinked, free hand searching his pockets. No marker. He turned to the cash register, spotting an idle marker pen. Smoothly, he picked up the marker and began writing on the outside of your cup as he held the lid of the marker in his mouth.  

Finishing his artwork, Franco stared at the cup and then you. If there was a God out there, now was the time to prove it to him.  

Franco took in a deep breath, pocketing the marker, and began walking over to your table. Gently, he placed down your cup of coffee and keys. “Sorry to startle you. But you forgot your keys over there with your coffee,” he murmured.  

You flickered your eyes up to him and this time Franco was a hundred percent sure – it was love at first sight.  

“Thank you,” you smiled softly, “Sorry for the hassle.” 

Franco shook his head. “Really, it’s no problem.” 

He could only pray that you had some sort of interest in him as he walked away to receive his own coffee.  

Please look at the cup, please look at the cup, please look at the cup– 

You peered at your cup, spotting all the extra ink written over it. A small smile formed as you read the writing.  

“If this coffee was as good as your smile, it’d be the best cup in town. Want to go out on a date sometime?” 

You looked up, meeting Franco’s blue eyes as he smiled, holding up his coffee as a kind gesture. Laughing softly, you mouthed, “When?” 

Franco furrowed his brows. “When what?” He mouthed back, raising his hands with a small shrug.  

You turned your cup to face him, finger tapping the word date. You raised your brows, jutting your chin to your coffee.  

Franco suppressed his wide smile, trying to maintain his composure. He opened his mouth and this time sound fell out. “How about now?” 

The corners of your mouth teetered up, begging to break into a smile. “Now?” You asked and he nodded, chest rising with hope.  

You stood up from your table, shoving your house keys in your pocket. Raising your hand, you beckoned for him to follow you as you walked out of the coffee shop. The loudness of Valentine’s moved from the store and into the streets. Balloons wavered off the streets, red and pink glittered every window of every retail outlet, and lovers were found per every inch of pavement.  

Franco walked alongside you, stretching out his hand. “Officially... I’m Franco.” 

You looked at his hand and then back at him. Grinning, you went to shake his hand only to pull back at the static shock flowing through your hands. You widened your eyes. “Sparks and all, huh Franco?” You teased, shaking his hand fully the time as you introduced yourself.  

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he commented, making your cheeks flush. 

“Please, I bet you say that to all the girls you give coffee cups to,” you retorted, taking a sip of your drink.  

Franco took in a deep breath. “Well to be honest, I’ve never asked anyone out like that before.” 

You mulled over his words. “Hmm... well, if I’m also being honest, I’ve never accepted anyone’s date like that before either. Or anyone’s for that matter.” 

Franco paused in the street, making you widen your eyes. He blinked at you blankly, seriousness clouding his eyes as he processed the new information. “No one’s asked you out on a date before?” 

You shook your head meekly, tilting your head in confusion as his mouth fell open. “I am witnessing a crime... I am witnessing a crime,” he muttered to himself. 

This was ludicrous. How had no one ever asked you out before? Franco wasn’t sure about an Almighty but he was sure that if one did exist, God carved you specifically and sent you down here on Earth to put everyone to shame.  

“I honestly can’t tell if I should be happy or sad hearing this,” Franco stated, walking back to you with a small frown. “Didn’t you have any crushes growing up?” 

Your walk down the street resumed. “A few. But I never asked them out. And neither did they.” 

Franco was beginning to wonder if he should just rip his ears. “But why not? Anyone would be lucky to be even in the same room as you let alone ask you out.” 

You smiled at Franco’s seriousness. “Thank you,” you laughed, “I guess I was scared of rejection? I don’t know... I always thought it was just a silly crush, so... and besides, I’m not really good at talking to people.” 

Franco furrowed his brows as you both turned a corner. What on earth were you talking about? “But you’re talking to me just fine. And that kid in the coffee shop? He seemed pretty happy to talk to you.” 

You hummed, taking another sip of your coffee. “Kids are easy to placate. Not easy to talk too. And as for you... I don’t know. Something about you makes it easy to do so.” 

Franco reminded himself to breathe. He knew what you meant. It felt like he had known you for a while. “Where did you grow up?” 

“Here in Pilar,” you commented. “And then I moved when I turned seven.” 

Franco’s mouth fell open while his eyes widened. “Me too! Well, not the moving part. But I was born here in Pilar too!” 

A quiet laugh escaped your mouth. “Small world, huh?” 

He nodded as a strange tingle crawled up his back. “Yeah... something like that,” he smiled, supressing his confusion. He couldn’t really explain it. But it felt like there was something beyond you being born in the place as him. As though it wasn’t just a coincidence but something fateful.  

Franco shook his head, breaking his trance upon seeing the familiar sight of his local reserve. “Oh hey, you brought us to my favourite walk!” He cheered, immediately beaming at the sight.  

You blinked at the sight of his smile.  

So pretty...  

It was strange. What was this warm feeling in your chest? So familiar and yet so new. 

“Your favourite walk?” You asked after clearing your throat. “This is my favourite walk.” 

Franco raised his brows, surprised. “Is that so?” 

“Yep,” you stated, “I used to walk it all the time before I moved. I’m happy it didn’t change much when I came back. Especially that small bridge over the river. I love that one. I used to feed the ducks over there.” 

It was just before you had moved. You came to this walk almost every day with your mother as a six-year-old, with a bag of peas, seeds, and lettuce in your small hands. With all the excitement in the world, you would rush over to the bridge, finding a small group of ducks waiting for you. And then you’d spend the next thirty minutes tirelessly waving your hands with the food you had brought for them.  

Although... now that you were going down memory lane, you were pretty sure you had a friend you did it with. You couldn’t really remember who it was though.  

“You want to go to the bridge then?” Franco queried, breaking your trance.  

You smiled and nodded. “Sure.” 

By the time you arrived to the bridge, you had finished your coffees, putting them in a nearby bin. In that time, you had both enjoyed reminiscing small parts of the walk such as the seasonal flowers, the lopsided fencepost that never seemed to get fixed even as a child, and the bird fountain that ever seemed to get quite the attention from birds as it did kids. 

It was astonishing how many things you both remembered, although you supposed Franco had been here far longer than you have.  

“Here we are!” Franco cheered, waving his hands to welcome you the bridge.  

You laughed softly at the kids nearby who seemed to be slightly startled by Franco’s loudness.  

Franco watched you smile widely, taking in the bridge once again while you walked around. It was like you were trying to commit it to memory. Or as though you were trying to place a memory over it. Whatever it was... you looked beautiful. You weren’t just placed on this earth but the earth was made for you.  

“Does it look the same?” Franco queried, walking next to you as you both leaned over the bridge, watching river water trickle down a multitude of rocks.  

“Basically,” you affirmed, eyeing the tall grass surrounding the river’s edges. “It’s grown. But so have I.” 

Franco nodded slowly. He understood what you meant. In a sense nothing had changed. The river grew with the time, changing its landscape. For you, coming back to Pilar after so long, you had also grown. Coming back here was both jarring yet nostalgic.  

Franco let out a small exhale. “Did you come here every day when you were younger?” 

You grinned. “I practically lived here. I’d come with some food and there was this kid–” 

A yelp fell from your lips as the children nearby rushed past you, yelling “Ducklings!” 

The world began to tilt with your balance, leaving you attempting to grapple the air. Out of your peripheral, you could see Franco’s eyes widen, hands instantly reaching out to grab you.  

And just like that, the world was still. 

Your chest heaved with shock as you met Franco’s blue eyes, speechless. You think he asked you if you were okay but all you could think about was his hands on your waist. All you managed to do was nod.  

Franco slowly reeled you back up, eyes fixated on the familiar pendant hanging from your neck that had escaped from your small fall.  

“What’s wrong...” You trailed off, throat closing as Franco’s finger trailed the chain of your necklace, landing on the pendant.  

Wordlessly, his hand went to his neck, taking out another necklace. But not just any ordinary necklace. The same replica as your own.  

You furrowed your brows as realisation hit you. “We know each other.” 

Franco blinked in disbelief. “You’re... You’re the girl who used to live three houses down from me!” 

“And you’re the boy who fed ducks with me!” You retorted, mouth agape. 

Talk about a small world... 

You and Franco stayed silent for couple of seconds, trying process what you were just learning. What were the odds of you and Franco had known each other before he wrote on your coffee cup this morning? Probably higher than zero but it was weird that it had happened. 

You looked back at Franco when you heard him laugh. Raising a brow, you questioned why he was so joyful all of a sudden.  

“I knew things were beginning to get a bit too familiar,” he admitted, shaking his head with a small smile. 

You tilted your head, confusion pouring onto your face. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Franco let out a small exhale, “Well I didn’t think about it too much when you said you moved. It was just strange. But then you brought us here. And then there were the ducks. And the way you looked at the place... and then the necklace.” 

A chuckle made its way past your lips. You remembered. “The one we begged our moms to buy on your birthday.” 

You smiled softly as a comfortable silence settled between the both of you. Looking at Franco briefly, you couldn’t help but think that meeting today at that coffee shop and forgetting your keys was fate. Who could’ve thought it would lead to series of coincidences such as your natural urge to bring him to this place.  

In some other strange way, your mind knew. You just had yet to piece together the puzzle.  

“You know what’s so funny though?” Franco queried, turning to face you.  

“What?” You asked. 

Franco grinned. “It’s so weird that we met today. On Valentine’s Day... because I asked you out on a date. I just remember having the biggest crush on you as kids. And now...” 

Your cheeks burned at his words. You remembered young Franco quite well. He was always so talkative, just as he was now. But around you, he seemed to forget how to speak. He’d just listen as you talked on and on.  

Right now, it seemed as those roles were reversed.  

“And now?” You queried, fingers tightening on the bridge’s railing.  

Franco stared at you for what felt like the longest second and took out the marker in his pocket. With his hand as his blank canvas, the marker began gliding on his skin. 

You waited for him, unsure of what to expect. You didn’t even really know what you wanted Franco to say. All you wanted to hear was that he wanted the same thing as you. Something more.  

Franco cleared his throat capturing his attention. A nervous smile washed over his face, clearly reaching his eyes. Slowly he turned his hand towards you, ink splotched all over it.  

“And now I wonder whether I can ask for a second date?”  

An almost relieved sigh fell from your lips, turning into a small quiet laugh. Reaching over, you grabbed the marker from him and began writing on your own hand.  

You smiled, showing your hand to him.  

“Of course! :)" 

Franco couldn’t help but grin. It was stupid but he loved it.  

It was just another thing he could now remember you by.  

Another thing that tied him to you. 

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑 

[syntheticavenger]

Nothing to see here, move along.

Let Him Loose - Two

A continuation of a little project I started here.

Dark! Ari Levinson x Female Reader / Dennis Baker x Female Reader

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, language, world building, possibly a little murder right out of the gate?

Summary | After your boyfriend’s promotion, he means to make amends with his estranged parents, including his older brother. As family wounds come to light, so do the secrets that have been buried for decades.

Sweat dots her brow, the older woman scrubbing at a stubborn stain on her favorite skillet, ignoring her husband who opens the fridge to grab a beer, wordless before the crack of the top of the bottle gets her attention. It’s been a week of nonstop cleaning, painting and redecorating, the countdown on the calendar circled in blue pen.

”Did you take out the trash like I asked?” She questions, the man giving a slight sound of what appears to be a yes. “Elvin, I asked you a question.”

”I said yes, woman,” he speaks up, the woman stopping her scrubbing at the tone of his voice. “Why on earth are you so worried about making the place look good? It’s Dennis. The boy knows home.”

”It ain’t just about him knowing about home, he’s bringing her,” she reminds him, Elvin turning around at her mention of you.

”Is he?” Elvin emphasizes, seeing his wife’s head nod emphatically. With that, he snorts, thinking of his youngest son in disbelief at the news. “Thought you were pullin’ my chain. A girl. That changes everything, don’t it?”

She scrubs away at the stain, looking at her handiwork for a moment before slipping it into the hot, soapy water, leaning over the sink with a heavy sigh.

”Can’t have this place lookin’ like a pigsty. She’s a city girl, Elvin. Lord knows she’s gonna turn up her nose at everything we have and then some so the least I can do is make sure the house looks tidy.”

Elvin shakes his head in disgust at her worrying.

”Bernadette, since when do you care what a city girl thinks about our home?”

“I don’t. But I can keep up the appearance in the meantime.”

Elvin nods at her response, realizing that his wife is much smarter than he ever gives her credit for. Scratching behind his neck, he looks on at the pristine kitchen, redone with fancy wallpaper and some spackle and paint to cover the cracks. It does look good, he has to admit to himself, Bernadette finishing up the last of the dishes.

“Does Ari know?”

She pauses for a moment, looking over her shoulder as she gives him a wink.

”He will.”

-

The clack of billiard balls are overshadowed by the raucous music, heavy conversation and servers announcing the next round of drinks while they visit their tables. Another local watering hole, nothing special about it except for the cheap beer and the waitresses who try for extra tips by showing all the skin they can get away with. One in particular hangs around, her shorts slung over on her hips when she comes by again, placing another beer in front of him.

”Never seen you before,” she hints, batting her eyelash extensions at him. “I’m Donna.”

“First time,” he answers, reaching for the beer. “Ari.”

”Ari,” she repeats, nodding her head. “I like it.”

He simply nods, giving her nothing to work with as she leans over the table, her cleavage on full display.

”What do you say you and I get a little more acquainted? I’m off in thirty minutes.”

Ari’s blue eyes lock with hers as she smiles. He leans in closer, getting a waft of her cheap body spray. It’s overpowering but it doesn’t deter him, not in the slightest.

”That could be arranged,” he begins, his curled index finger gliding down her heavily blushed cheek. “Got a little fetish though, if you don’t mind indulging me..”

She leans in closer, her teeth dragging excitedly on her thin lower lip.

”Tell me.”

”Well… I like a little chase. Gets the heart rate up.”

With a loud laugh, she leans up with a snap, tucking the tray under her arm.

”Say less. Meet you out back. I even got my running shoes on.”

Ari settles back in his seat, his stomach growling. It’s been hours since he ate. The appetizer that sits in front of him is untouched, the cheese dip congealing into something that looks like mush.

Glancing over his text messages, he smirks at the message he’s left his younger brother, left on read when Ari had mentioned he had wanted to meet her. Poor Dennis, trying to keep her a secret, only to fail and succumb to the pressure of wanting to brag about finally having a girlfriend after being teased and bullied for so long. Not that he could fault him - he would have gloated too if he’d had decades of a dry spell.

After a little business, he downs his beer, stomach still growling as he feels the aching gnaw in the pit of his gut. It’ll subside eventually. It always does one he’s sated.

The moon hides behind the clouds and for a moment, Ari takes it in, looking at his brand new watch to note the time before he takes it off and slips it into his jean pocket.

Whistling to himself, he tosses a few dollar bills on the table, cracking his neck from side to side before heading out the exit and to the back of the bar like Donna had requested.

-

Bernadette sits out on the porch, wiping her brow before fanning herself with the ornate handmade handheld fan that Ari bought her during his business trip to Guangzhou. The ice in her iced tea is melting rapidly, floating on the surface like tiny glaciers. She’s finally alone with her thoughts, Elvin gone to bed to get up early to tend to the farm. Nights like these keep her awake, thinking of her boys who used to play on the front lawn until all hours of the night until she carried them back to their beds.

It’s been years since she’s had her sons in the house, thunder rumbling overhead as she sips her drink, thinking to the future. Annabelle Tatum thought she was the only one with something to talk about, her only daughter finally getting married. The dour faced girl with pock marked skin after several bouts of acne had been extremely shy but had grown into her looks, something that Bernadette had prayed to God to forgive her for once saying out loud when the girl had come back from college.

Like most, the ones who came back never left again, just as Annabelle’s daughter. Two kids in tow now, another on the way, Annabelle gushing at the eventual new arrival every chance she got.

It isn’t like Bernadette had a rebuttal. Everyone knew she had one son that grew up to be something. Ari was a star baseball player, a swagger in his gait and a smile that lit up a room. She’d raised him well, happy to see him stick to his roots and defy the agents who came with blank checks and big dreams to make him a star. An enlistment and three tours later, the once gawky teenager with long hair and a shuffle in his step had emerged to be a mountain of a man with that same husky drawl and even longer hair, albeit much richer than his parents had ever thought he’d be.

Then there was Dennis.

Secretly, he’d always been her favorite, as sinful as that could be to have a mother love one son over another by a small margin. How could he not be with his once clear framed glasses, bruises marked on his elbows and knees from the amount of times he would get knocked down. For as long as she could remember, she always wanted her little Dennis to win, even if Elvin didn’t think he would. There was grit in his spirit, even when he’d come home, teary eyed and unwilling to talk about the fights he had lost, he’d get back up and do it all over again.

But there was a need for him to put distance between what he always knew and the great unknown. She never approved - still doesn’t now, even after all these years. Once he was given a scholarship, including the others that he had secretly applied to, there was no looking back. No amount of convincing that staying here would be safer for his psyche worked.

Bernadette swallows hard at the lump that forms in her throat when she thinks about how long he’s been gone. Christmases still aren’t the same, even when Ari comes with his fully loaded truck packed to the gills with the newest household gadgets for her to try and new furniture for them, the loss of knowing her youngest wants nothing to do with their family traditions.

While she can understand to a point, Elvin in his older age has grown tired of pretending that he can live with Dennis’ decision. As the head of the household, Elvin looks to Ari to carry on the family name, to take care of her and the farm when he eventually passes away. It’s a way of life, especially with their kind, something that she knows he’s been talking about more than usual. She isn’t ready to discuss it.

She isn’t sure if she’s ever ready to have him bring up the topic again.

But as it’s written, the law handed down a century and then some ago, there’s a ceremonial meaning to Dennis coming home. She hopes it’s because of the call, intertwined in his DNA that makes him want to return home.

Placing her drink down, she closes her eyes, the fan in her hand moving rapidly.

Yes, she thinks.

He knows where home is.

-

Ari’s boots crunch on the gravel, the first strings of dawn beginning to form, his hand plunging into his pant pocket and pulling out his watch. He looks back at the discarded clothes and smiles, reaching for his keys in his back pocket.

Dennis finally replied to his text, a simple acknowledgment with a thumbs up emoji. Never a man of words, this is all the conversation Ari will get before they meet in person, something he knows Dennis won’t want to do. Ari doesn’t mind pulling rank, especially on his younger brother.

Shrugging on his flannel and buttoning it down, the chill of the air makes everything feel still, as if any slight noise will shatter this serene moment. Opening the door to his truck, he examines his teeth in the rear view, picking out a piece of bone before flicking it out of his window.

With a few simple presses of buttons, all the windows lower, rock music playing loudly as he reverses, gravel spraying upward before he throws it into drive, accelerating and leaving the mountains behind.

He’s not hungry anymore but tiredness hovers over his eyes.

There’s a small diner on the way to his parents’ house, where the coffee is fresh and people know to keep clear of him. A healthy fear, one that he uses to his advantage when the time calls for it. No doubt in a few hours, they’ll pretend that they didn’t see him, deny that he was there.

He snaps his fingers to the beat of the music, hitting his hands on the steering wheel to the beat of the drums.

He’ll be home before dinner.

Just in time to size up Dennis’ new girl.

-

Elvin watches the truck pull up in the driveway, the music still thunderous before it abruptly shuts off, Ari flinging the door open. In the back of the truck are more gifts, Elvin finding himself shaking his head with the idea of where he will put the things he’d bought.

”Where’s Ma?” Ari questions, Elvin’s head tilting toward the house. 

”Shower. Gotta get dolled up for the prodigal son and the city girl, ya know,” Elvin quips, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. “What’s in the back?”

“Figured that we can’t have Denny back in the house without a little celebration,” Ari says, adjusting his sunglasses before slamming the door shut. “Brought some meat for Ma to cook up for tonight. Figured we could have a right feast this time.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, jealous / protective / possessive Simon, rough kissing, arguments, angst, TF141 shenanigans

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Ten of Ink & Needle

Soap, Gaz, and Price come for a visit. At a local pub, Simon notices you are sitting with a stranger. An argument ensues. Things get heated.

Chapter Nine // Chapter Eleven

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Simon leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, sighing heavily. The rolling chair groans a protest. The thing is so old it’s a miracle that it hasn’t collapsed under Simon’s weight. He’s been meaning to replace it—it’s not like he doesn’t have the money—but there are so many other things going on in Simon’s life that he keeps putting it off.

His work laptop is open on the desk in front of him, the bright glow of the screen showing him the thousands of emails sitting in his inbox. Being on the cover of UK Ink is a tremendous honor, but it’s also becoming its own sort of creeping horror. Figuring out which inquiries are genuine, and which are just people seeking attention, is taking a tremendous toll on his personal time.

Every day, more and more emails clog his inbox. It’s likely that as he starts deleting them, more will suddenly appear, popping forth from the hidden depths of whatever server it’s connected to. Plenty of the emails are straight spam with a few consisting of people sending unsolicited nudes. Those go straight into the trash folder. The only naked body Simon wants to see is yours.

Many of the emails are people seeking to book appointments with him for tattoos and piercings. While a good chunk of the emails come from citizens of England, plenty more are from people all over the world. International inquires are a good thing, but those appointments have to be booked around flights and trips. There is also no guarantee that those people will actually show, which is why Simon has started to double-book in some places, or set forth a non-refundable fee for securing a time and date.

He's only one person, and the pressure of that is starting to creep up on him. Simon is going to have to hire more people. At least one additional person at minimum. Even if all they do is answer emails all day and book appointments, Simon will take it. Sitting on this fucking chair in between clients is exhausting.

Through all of that, there are also publications (both large and small) seeking their own interviews with the masked tattoo artist knows as ‘Ghost.’ Some are local to the region while others are international, reaching an even wider audience. For each inquiry, Simon is grateful. To see his work—his art—be appreciated to such a large degree is a great point of accomplishment for him.

It's not like Simon’s work during his time with the military. That is different. That was work. That was blood and metal and dirt. Tattooing doesn’t feel like work to Simon. It is freeing. It is creative. It is the release of a muscle after a long tension.

Tattooing is a distinctive sort of freedom. A place for Simon to lose himself in, to enjoy life again, to find comfort in a craft that doesn’t involve destruction.

But Simon is also distracted. Not because he’s stressed or anxious or concerned or even from the number of emails piling in. Simon is distracted because you were in his arms last night. You were sitting at his kitchen table. You ate the food he made. He distinctly remembers your soft smile as you gazed at his sketches.

Sure, Simon was making dinner, but he was keeping an eye on you the whole time. He noticed every expression on your face as your gaze admired each sketch. He noticed the way you held every piece of paper with tenderness, as if all of them were sacred and special to you. It was after, when the two of you talked, that Simon sensed hesitation.

He questioned you about Cambridge and Evie. You were not entirely honest, not that Simon believes that you lied, but he knows there is more you haven’t told him. Whether you don’t want to tell him or are hesitant to do so is still uncertain. What Simon wants, more than anything, is for you to feel safe enough with him to tell him everything. Simon desires your sharp edges. He wants to know how he can help smooth them, to ease all the worries in your head, to remove some of those burdens.

Which is why he asked you to come to bed with him. He thought that maybe if he kissed you for a bit, you might soften, and that is all he wanted. But then he had you under him, opening for him, and Simon’s control was close to shattering like thin glass under pressure. Your fingers found him, and Simon would have given anything to stay in that bed and make you understand just how much he desires you.

The glowing screen of the laptop and the sight of you sighing in pleasure beneath him keeps colliding with each other. It keeps melding, melting together only to break apart before meeting again.

The current email opened on the laptop screen is gibberish. No matter how many times Simon attempts to read it, your face appears there instead. Then, Simon’s mind drifts off to dream of your seeking fingers, and how perfectly they wrapped around him.

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He needs to fucking focus. He will see you again, and when he does, he is going to fucking enjoy it. The two of you are taking that date. The two of you are going to get away for a while. When that happens, Simon will make you his in all ways.

Exhaling loudly, Simon drops his hand from his face to rub at the back of his neck. He rolls it slightly, popping some of the tension out of the joints. He leans forward a bit and manages to focus on the email.

Spam. Fucking spam.

Simon hits the little rubbish icon and watches the email blink out of existence. His gaze returns to the little blue number next to ‘Inbox’ and immediately shudders.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wanting nothing more than to shut the laptop and pretend they don’t exist for a while.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon spies the front door of the shop opening. He turns his head to the left to see if it’s his final customer. Instead, he’s greeted by an annoyingly overenthusiastic Scotsman.

“Lt!”

“Gotta stop calling me that, Johnny,” sighs Simon loudly, as if getting out of his chair is a major hassle. Simon comes to his full height, hands on his hips as John MacTavish bursts through the door.

On his heels are Captain John Price and Kyle Garrick.

“Simon,” nods Price in greeting.

Kyle gives Simon a little playful salute before immediately heading for Bravo. The German Shepard goes up on his back legs. Kyle seizes the dog’s front paws in his hands, the two of them doing a little dance in the middle of the shop.

The moment Simon steps away from the chair, MacTavish is on him, throwing his massive arms around Simon’s middle in a hug.

“You’re bloody crushing me, Johnny.”

MacTavish squeezes him a bit tighter in response. When he let’s go, he grabs hold of Simon’s shoulders, shaking them slightly. “Fucking look at this place.” MacTavish glances around like he’s never seen it before.

“You’ve been here,” deadpans Simon. “Hasn’t changed.”

“But it has, Lt. You’re on the cover of a magazine.” MacTavish smirks and drops his hands from Simon’s shoulders. He then promptly punches Simon lightly in his upper arm. “We’re in the presence of a celebrity.”

“Hardly,” mutters Simon, but he’s smiling behind the balaclava.

Price presents his hand, and he and Simon grasp forearms. “Good to see you, Simon. Been a while.”

“It has,” replies Simon.

Johnny leans toward Simon and cups the side of his mouth like he’s an old hen about to drop a piece of juicy gossip. When he speaks, it’s just a projected whisper that everyone can hear clearly. “Captain bought up a bunch of magazines and handed them out to everyone on base.”

“Soap,” barks Price.

MacTavish holds up his hands, and then points at Price with one finger, jabbing it in the captain’s direction. “Just proud of you,” whispers MacTavish.

Simon simply nods but he’s grinning like an idiot behind the balaclava. Price glances in Simon’s direction and shrugs apathetically, not denying or confirming.

Glancing over Price’s shoulder, Simon frowns slightly. Bravo has his front paws on Kyle’s shoulders as he aggressively scratches the dog’s sides. Bravo’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, hanging down toward the floor as the dog pants happily.

“Get down, Bravo,” sighs Simon, indicating with a quick nod of his head.

Bravo sucks his tongue back into his mouth, ears drooping slightly with disappointment. Kyle pats Bravo’s side and removes the dog’s massive paws from his shoulders, gently guiding the German Shepard back down to all fours.

On the phone, Johnny said they’d stop by on Saturday. It’s Saturday. Fairly late on a Saturday, with a final customer still expected to walk through the door, but they are here, just as promised.

Kyle strides up and clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Place looks good.”

“Hasn’t changed,” remarks Simon for a second time.

“Saw you on the cover of UK Ink,” continues Kyle. “Didn’t know until this guy started handing them out on base.” He tips his head in Price’s direction.

Price sighs heavily but says nothing.

“Big deal,” finishes Kyle.

“Congrats, Lt.” MacTavish grins and Simon cannot help but feed into their praise.

It is a big deal. This one interview, this one award, is pushing him beyond the scope of his vision. In forced retirement, Simon expected to fly under the radar, to enjoy himself while he created art. He never expected his work to be recognized internationally.

“Sign my copy yet?” asks Johnny.

Simon backtracks to his desk, picking up the copy MacTavish sent him in the post. Lifting it up, Simon brings it over to Soap, smacking him in the chest with it. Johnny whistles and holds it with both hands in reverence.

“She’s a fucking beauty, Simon.” Johnny places one hand over his heart. “You’ve honored me.”

“Piss off,” mutters Simon as Kyle expertly snatches the magazine from Johnny’s hand. He opens it up, flipping through the pages, side-stepping every attempt by Johnny to seize it back.

“Did we come at a good time?” asks Price as he and Simon watch the two idiots playfully bicker over the magazine.

Simon shrugs. “I have one more customer. Free after that.”

Price nods and grips Simon’s shoulder. “We have lots to talk about.”

There is a slight twitch in Price’s clenched jaw that puts Simon on edge. He isn’t sure if he should press Price and try to wrangle an answer out of him, or let it go and see what happens.

“Shit,” says MacTavish, drawing Price and Simon’s attention to him. “Nearly forgot.” He extends an arm to Kyle, making a “give it to me” gesture with his hand. Kyle, with a sly smirk, unzips the front of his windbreaker. Reaching inside, he presents a manila envelope.

Johnny takes it and then offers it to Simon. “Thought I’d give this to you in person. You know, instead of over the phone. Or email.”

Simon takes it, instantly feeling the heft and thickness to it. Opening the tab, Simon slides his hand inside, removing the thick stack of papers.

“It’s everything I could find on her,” continues Johnny. “Where she went to school. Social medias. Every person she’s possibly dated.”

Tucking the manila envelope under his arm, Simon starts sorting through the information. A copy of your birth certificate, school records from elementary to high school, recent phone records. There is even a list of every restaurant or fast-food place you ordered from over the last five years with a credit card.

Simon flips past another page and freezes. His head snaps up, a growl sitting in the back of his throat. “You included her fucking banking information, Johnny.”

MacTavish shrugs dismissively. “I was thorough.”

“Thorough?” mimics Simon. “Fucking hell.” Simon returns everything to the envelope and places it on his desk next to his laptop.

Simon will have to shred it all after he looks through it. But only after he takes a look. He did ask Johnny to find what out what he could. While it is a major invasion of privacy, a more primal part of Simon reassures him that he’s doing the right thing. He needs to be able to protect you, and these are just tools in his arsenal to maintain your safety.

“She’s pretty, Simon,” says Price.

“You told them?” asks Simon, turning his attention to Johnny.

The Scotsman’s cheeks redden slightly. “He bullied the information out of me.”

Kyle leans in and drapes his arm over Soap’s shoulders. “Price told him he’d put him on inventory for a month if he didn’t spill.”

“Wanted to see this beauty for myself,” grumbles Price, glancing at Simon. “Give you a hard time.” He winks. “She yours yet?”

She yours yet?

There is a double-meaning there. While Simon’s instinct is to say “yes,” he also knows that that isn’t entirely true. The two of you haven’t verbally confirmed what this thing is. Simon has only just now asked you on a proper date.

Can Simon call you his?

The possessive, protective part of him shakes its ownership of you in its fist. But Simon isn’t impulsive, at least not all the time. With you, the need to react is strong, but Simon also understands that Price is asking in a more traditional way.

Licking his lips, Simon forms an answer. “She will be.”

Price nods. “Good man.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Johnny before returning his gaze to Simon. “Mind if we stick around?”

Simon shakes his head.

“We’ll help you clean,” adds Johnny.

“Will we?” asks Kyle slowly, eyebrows rising slightly as he turns on Soap.

Johnny blatantly ignores him and keeps his gaze locked on Simon. “You call the shots. Isn’t that right, Lt?”

That’s when Simon’s final client of the evening finally walks through the door. Simon doesn’t have a chance to answer. The customer is a bit bewildered by the small crowd, but the guys know to make themselves scarce. They head over to the couch, lingering in the waiting area with Bravo, chatting quietly as Simon escorts the newcomer into the tattoo chair.

Bravo moves from Johnny to Kyle to Price to Johnny again, seeking attention as Simon sets to work. The tattoo isn’t complicated, and Simon completes in about forty-five minutes. The guy is in and out in an hour.

When the four of them are standing outside in front of the shop, Simon pushes up his balaclava and lights a cigarette. It’s warm for autumn, the leather jacket he wears already making him run a little hot.

“We’ve got an upcoming mission we want your thoughts on,” says Price. “Need somewhere quiet we can go and talk.”

An upcoming mission? That’s not entirely unusual. Price has reached out to Simon on multiple occasions post-retirement to ask him for advice or to dig around in his head. But never—never—has Price and the rest of the team showed up to talk to him a group or in person.

There’s something else going on.

Clutching the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Simon opens his mouth, exhaling smoke, intending to suggest a few places.

But before anything comes out of his mouth, Price shots him a look. “Not that fucking pub with the old folks.”

“No one will bother us,” replies Simon dryly. It’s true. It’s why he goes to Dancing Faun every Sunday. And Ben will close up for the public but stay open for just the four them. They won’t be bothered, and they will have as much time as they need.

“You might be an old man at heart, Simon, but I’m not getting harassed by older women whose husbands have been dead for years.”

Kyle bursts out laughing before promptly covering his mouth.

“Don’t like the attention, Captain?” teases Johnny.

Price points at each of them individually. “Fuck off. All of you.”

There are only a few places they could go on a Saturday night where they won’t be disturbed. Sighing, Simon rattles off a couple within walking distance. The four of them debate until Price becomes so annoyed with their continuous back-and-forth that he abruptly selects for all of them.

The walk over is quick, and the four of them enter the dimly lit pub. It’s one of only a handful of places that serves food late. It’s also on a side street away from the main road. Traffic is light, and the interior isn’t crowded. Simon is starving, and he’d appreciate a full belly with a whiskey or two before he starts talking about things he’d rather forget.

Finding a dark corner, they settle in at a four top. Kyle and Simon settle in the booth, facing the pub while Price and Johnny take the seats across from them. Simon settles into the cushioned seat, contentment sliding into his bones. He’s at peace, even if the coming conversation might be messy. He’s with people he cares about, and tomorrow, he’s off.

Tomorrow, he can go see you. Maybe. If you’re not busy. The two of you can talk about that date, maybe go for a walk and then lunch? Simon just wants to spend time with you, and tomorrow is the perfect day to do it.

Simon shifts in his seat, leaning his crossed arms on the edge of the table, glancing out across the pub. His gaze travels over every person, his old habits from the military coming to the surface. Recognizing exits and looking for suspicious behavior is as natural as breathing. But everyone around them is minding their own business. They’re either sitting by themselves or with others, not glancing Simon’s way at all.

He does one finally sweep, and that is when his gaze falls upon two people sitting at a high top together near the very back of the pub. Of the two, Simon notices the man first. He has dark hair, possibly brown but it’s difficult to say with the low light. Slightly older than Simon by a few years, and the bloke is wearing an impeccably made suit. It’s odd for a place like this. It stands out.

Simon doesn’t like the man’s demeanor either. It’s…smarmy. Pretentious. Like he not only believes that he’s better than everyone else in this establishment, but that they should all know it. The way he sits in the high-backed stool is off too. It’s relaxed and yet completely on edge.

Simon frowns, gaze panning to the woman the man is talking to.

Everything suddenly goes cold within him. Arctic. The room has become a meat freezer and Simon is just a piece of dangling meat.

Because that is you, and you’re sitting next to a man Simon doesn’t recognize.

You are here, alone with a man Simon doesn’t know.

A bright, blindingly hot sensation roars to life in Simon’s chest. It wraps around and between his ribs, seizing him in a vice-grip. Against this heat, the iciness melts off of him, dripping to the ground to pool under his boots.

“Simon?” asks Soap, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “What are you—fuck. Is that her?”

It doesn’t fucking matter who this guy might be or what he might mean to you. Simon is going to crack his fucking skull open.

“That’s her,” murmurs Simon, the low growl previously lodged in his throat coming up suddenly.

Price leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the top, glancing to where everyone else is looking. “Want me to take him out to the alley? Give him some fresh bruises?”

Simon’s hands form into fists. He starts to stand but Kyle and Soap grab onto him, shoving him back down into the booth. “Relax, Lt,” soothes Johnny. “Might be nothing.”

You haven’t noticed Simon yet. You’re too busy looking at this man—this stranger. Turned slightly to the side, your gaze wouldn’t fall across Simon unless you purposefully scanned the room. The worst part is that Simon has no idea if you’re enjoying yourself or not. There is a blankness on your face that Simon loathes.

Do want to be here? Do want to be talking to this man that Simon doesn’t know? And why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you say anything? Is there someone else Simon needs to worry about? Does he have competition?

Silently, Simon begs for you to turn in his direction, even if it’s only a bit.

This unknown variable, this stain of a man, reaches out. With red-drenched horror, Simon watches as he places that very hand on the top of your thigh.

All Simon sees is blood.

This bastard is going to lose that fucking hand. And then he’ll lose his goddamn head.

Simon bolts up out of his seat again but Kyle and Johnny are right there, grabbing onto him, wrangling him back down into his seat.

“Let me go,” snarls Simon through clenched teeth.

“You’re gonna cause a fucking scene if we do that,” hisses Kyle, shoving downward on Simon’s shoulders.

Why are you letting him touch you? Why, when just yesterday you were beneath Simon, seeking him with your fingers, begging for him, are you allowing this?

But you’re not allowing it. You didn’t give this man permission.

Within seconds of the man’s hand connecting with your thigh, your gaze turns downward, lips curling back into a disgusted snarl. You twist your body enough for his hand to fall away, and a flare of pride swells in Simon’s chest.

You didn’t want this man’s touch. Which makes Simon momentarily happy before it all comes crashing down. This man touched you. Without your consent. And that makes Simon angrier than if you had wanted it.

Simon craves blood. He needs his knuckles drenched with it. For it to sit between his teeth. To taste it on his tongue.

“Who the fuck is that?” asks Kyle.

“I don’t know,” growls Simon, wanting to take off and punch the guy right out of his fucking chair.

With the removal of his hand, the guy’s smug smile drops. He bares his teeth, starts speaking to you in a way that Simon immediately dislikes. Sure, Simon cannot hear what the man is saying to you, but from the look on his face and body language, it’s nothing nice. He is angry, and you’re clearly upset. Simon wants this to end, to go up to the guy and throttle him, to whisk you off and make you forget all this unpleasantness.

But Kyle and Johnny keep him seated. They won’t let go, which means Simon will have to literally fight them to get to you.

Small pieces of the conversation start to make its way over to the table.

“Archie.”

“Estate.”

Simon frowns, hears something that sounds like “pregnancy” and immediately rethinks everything. Does this have something to do with your friend? The husband is dead, but is this someone the husband knew? Is it a relative?

And does that matter to Simon?

No. He still plans on knocking the man’s teeth out.

Simon only catches a few additional words here and there, but then he hears three that make his blood boil.

“You fucking whore.”

Simon knows that Johnny, Kyle, and Price all hear it too because their gazes move away from Simon and to the man at the table. Soap and Kyle’s hands fall away from Simon’s arms, giving him permission.

Pushing up from his seat, Simon steps around Johnny and strides toward the high-top table. Your back is to Simon from this position, but that doesn’t matter. Simon has his sights set on this wanker who needs to learn some proper fucking manners.

The man notices Simon first, his angered expression turning away from you and switching to Simon. It slips slightly, the faintest bit of fear sliding across the man’s features as he realizes Simon is aiming for him. Simon inhales, falling effortlessly into Ghost, allowing the phantom inside himself to seek out its need for blood.

But with his removed attention comes your own turning. A wanting to know what it is he’s looking at. When your gaze falls upon Simon, Ghost deflates, softens, giving way to confusion. All the emotions passing over your face nearly stop Simon’s forward momentum.

Your own anger gives way to sudden panic, then switches quickly to irritation, further compounded by confusion. It’s likely that you didn’t expect Simon to be at the same place. And while Simon wants to turn to you and give you reassurance, he’s too fucking focused on this asshole you’re sitting with.

Simon decides not to address you. Instead, Simon turns on this thickheaded prat. “What did you fucking call her?”

The man’s lip curls. “Mind your own business.” Immediately, Simon notes the man’s accent. It speaks to social status and aristocracy.

Simon steps closer. “Repeat what you said. Out loud. Want to make sure I heard you right.”

“Simon,” you hiss, desperation leaking into your tone.

Your guest turns on you, anger flaring anew in his gaze. “You know this…man?” He says man like he wants to say animal.

“He’s—” you begin, but Simon interrupts.

“Direct your questions to me,” growls Simon, placing himself between you and this stranger.

“Simon. Please.” You tug on Simon’s leather jacket but he shrugs you off. His attention is completely on this asshole.

“Are you with him?” The man’s gaze flicks from Simon to you.

“Adam—”

“I thought we could have a civil conversation—”

“What’s civil about calling her a whore.” Simon’s voice rises slightly as the raging tide of fury boils within him like a thunderstorm.

Adam’s face grows bright red. He turns on Simon. “Do you know who I am?”

Simon could give a fuck. He could be the fucking King and Simon would still punch the piss out of him for speaking to you that way.

Price shoves himself between Simon and Adam, keeping his back to Simon, creating a barrier. “Let me help you to your car.”

Price isn’t doing this to be nice. He’s doing this so the police aren’t called.

Adam stands but isn’t nearly as tall as Price. “If you put your hands on me—”

“Deal with me or him. Your choice.”

Adam straightens his shoulders and tugs on the front of his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles.

Fucking prick.

He glances over Price’s shoulder at you. “This isn’t over. You’ll hear from the family solicitor.”

“Let’s go,” mutters Soap, caging the guy in, forcing him to move away from Simon. Kyle trails after them.

Price turns around, facing Simon directly. “We’ll stop by another day. You deal with your woman.” He squeezes Simon’s shoulder before following out after them.

Simon watches Price leave, and then he’s seeking you out, expecting you to be thankful.

But you’re not. Your anger is palpable.

Simon needs to fucking fix this. “You’re coming home with me,” is the first thing out of his mouth. It’s a command. Not an ask. And his tone is rough, nearly raspy.

Your eyes widen slightly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper.

Simon draws back, startled. “You okay with him speaking to you like that?”

You huff, and get up from your chair, collecting your coat and purse. “You don’t know anything, Simon. You have no idea who that is and why we were even talking in the first place.” Shoving past him, you start for the door.

“Fuck,” mutters Simon, following after you.

His legs are longer, and he catches up to you easily. Before you make it to the pub’s exit, Simon inserts himself in your path, blocking your attempt to flee.

“Move.”

“No.”

“You’re making a scene, Simon.”

He glances up, notices everyone looking on with varying degrees of interest. Some confused. Others concerned. Sighing, Simon reaches back and pushes open the door, stepping aside for you to exit.

Once the two of you are outside on the street, Simom grabs you by the forearm, pulling you in the opposite direction.

“Let me go,” you snap.

“We’re going to talk.”

“Fuck off, Simon.” You yank your arm out of his grip. Something is forming on the tip of your tongue. Simon sees it in the way your lip quivers. But you don’t. Instead, you sigh heavily and wave him off like you’re tired of it all.

Turning, you try to cross the street, but Simon is already snagging your arm again, yanking you away as a car zooms by.

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Then give me some fucking space.”

“No.”

You release an exasperated breath and try to circumvent him. Again, Simon steps into your path. The two of you keep moving like this down the street. Every attempt you make only puts you closer to him.

Simon is herding you on purpose, pushing you closer and closer to his flat. He wants some goddamn answers, no matter how mad you are with him. And he doesn’t understand why you’re upset in the first place.

When the two of you are outside his shop, Simon indicates the exterior door that leads to his flat.

“Get inside,” he demands.

“Don’t order me around.”

“Inside,” repeats Simon, shoving the key into the lock, opening the door, revealing the hallway that connects the shop to his flat.

You stare between him and the open doorway. Your chest is heaving, and fuck—you look so beautiful right now even though Simon can tell you’d really love to hit him.

The tips of his fingers itch to just push you inside and shut the door, but he doesn’t need to. You make the decision for him, heading inside. Simon follows, and as the door shuts, you’re already moving like a bolt of lightning, walking fast enough to create a significant amount of distance.

No. Fuck that.

With a few massive steps, Simon is on you. He grabs the front of your throat, yanks you back against his chest, pushing your face toward his. The balaclava is already up, already in place, and his lips connect with yours.

At first, Simon can sense the tension but then you melt into him as his other hand slides to your front, pressing low on your belly, pushing your ass into his groin. Your own arm slides up, drapes over his neck in such a loving way that Simon momentarily forgets all his anger.

The two of you hang like this, suspending, but you come back to reality, yanking yourself out of his grip, almost violently.

“You can’t distract me with kisses, Simon.”

“Want to test that?” asks Simon, reflexively reaching for your waist.

You allow him to touch you, to draw you back into him, but your arms are crossed over your chest defensively. “You don’t know,” you murmur. “It’s—it’s too much and you don’t know. You don’t understand, Simon.”

“Then help me understand,” he says softly.

You shake your head and there are real tears there in your eyes. Simon hates it. He wants to take them all away.

“You’re not my husband, Simon. You’re not even my boyfriend. I shouldn’t burden you with any of this.”

You will not push him away. Simon won’t allow it. The two of you are in this together, and he needs to know.

“I care about you.” Now Simon is the one shaking his head. “Don’t tell me what I can’t handle.” His hands draw upward, cradling the sides of your face. “We’re going up to my flat. You’re going to talk. I’m going to listen. Okay?”

One tear rolls off the corner of your eye, trailing downward to kiss his palm.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Okay,” you reply.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @theshrikeandcanary @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @creamwhxre @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus @josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @knight4xmas @jupiternighties @darling006 @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @carma-fanficaddict @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project

[porcelainseashore]

They Don't Make Them Like Her Anymore - VTM Bloodlines 20th Anniversary

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: I wrote this to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines and for a Gallery Noir server event by @vampemoqueen and @bigswordenergy.

Step into the shoes of our favorite sick freak, Vandal Cleaver, as he ruminates on the recent happenings in his life. Pliers and blowtorch included. Terms and conditions apply.

Content Warnings: Violence, torture, self-harm, body horror, mild gore, mild sexual content, obsessive behavior, blood bond, Hannah Glazer and Therese Voerman mentions, murder.

Hannah, Hannah… oh, Hannah. They don’t make them like her anymore, do they? It was sad actually—tragic—well no more tragic than another dead hooker found in a soulless apartment Downtown. Nothing that would make the headlines, not even worthy of a back page obituary in the local paper. Heh, I may be a sap for saying this, but she was good enough for me.

You see, they don’t make them like her anymore. No shit. The new girl? She can’t quite do the job like Hannah did, but since when were beggars choosers? Yeah, I know my place in the pecking order. At least she has the stomach for what I request of her. Doesn’t outright scream, “You fucking freak!” in my face, leaving me high and dry. I need my fix afterall, like the rest of you… Hiding dirty little secrets to dig out between your sorry sack of bones with a scalpel—do you know what a skilled hand can do with a scalpel? Have you ever run your finger across the edge of a blade? Any blade—come on, don’t lie to me now, we’re friends, aren’t we? Everyone’s done it once in their life, lost their innocence as blood blooms from the vulvic slit like a bouquet of roses. Sometimes it gushes like a torrent, depending on how deep you sliced. Shh, it’s okay to get carried away. Your secret’s safe with me.

Anyway, she does as I ask, like a good enough girl, then pukes her guts out—politely—in the bathroom next door. I know, because I hear it. Her chest concave and hollowed, heaving, organ crushing against organ as she squeezes her lungs, gagging on saliva and air. They don’t make them like her anymore, you get what I’m saying?

Earlier, I watched as the flimsy fabric of my skin peeled away, acid pink flesh melting from bone, and the charred layers curling under the blue flame like burning plastic. What remains blisters and festers. I’ve done it so many times I think all that can be salvaged from me are deadened nerves and an empty husk. I like being empty though. Sprawled out on the floor, naked and clean as a newborn while the world around me spins in circles. For a moment, everything feels attainable and unattainable. 

My queen… queen of all queens—

And just like that, it’s gone. I’m left with the chick who has a blowtorch in one hand and her nose in the other, pinching it as though the fumes are toxic. Her hands are always trembling, like an addle-brained patient, maybe because I don’t know whether I’m laughing or screaming half of the time.

My body is already mending at twice the speed when she brings out the pliers. I am a god and a shitty mistake all in one—not quite like the bitch goddess who owns me, but almost. Give it another hundred years, and I’ll be standing in this exact room, cutting myself open with my bare hands, alive and kicking to see the process. Imagine tucking my fingers under the sagging flaps, flaying skin from tissue as I pull it apart. Wet, stinking clumps of flesh and its sinewy tendons will stick between my nails, overstaying their welcome, yet impossible to scrub out. And that smell—mmm, that smell! A putrid, cloying tang of filthy pennies, assaulting my senses like a hammer to the head. I want to untangle my entrails like the wires in my brain that got crossed somewhere, just to check and see if they’re the same as everyone else.

Oh, so the new girl needs a bit of encouragement, does she? Lingering there slack-jawed and taking her sweet time. The missus—no, I mean, Hannah never needed to be told twice. Deep down, I think she even enjoyed it, the sick fuck. They don’t make them like her—

“Do it,” I hiss, saliva drooling from my lips like a rabid dog.

I hear bones snapping before the pain hits me, rattling my teeth as an excruciating jolt shoots up my arm. For a split second, I’m blinded by a searing white light. My thumb is dangling at an awkward angle and I must be howling, because the look on that girl’s face… well, what wouldn’t I give to have a picture as a keepsake? Frame it up on the wall like a goddamn Picasso.

Sometimes I feel the hairy legs of spiders skittering around my skull. It tickles like the high strings of a violin being plucked—faintly, daintily, as if it were never there. Sometimes I say things, but my words aren’t my own. And it’s happening right now. The girl before me is no longer a girl, but the queen bitch herself.

“Therese,” I weep and moan. It’s lewd and urgent like a fever prayer falling from my lips. I swear I could cum from her name alone, and I hate myself for it.

“What did you just call me?”

Therese in body and blood, spirit and flesh. Therese in all her unbearable glory. The cold metal clamps down on my trigger finger and her grin is so wicked I can only grovel and lick the dirt off her boots. She’s inside of me. When I hurt myself, she hurts too, and I enjoy it.

“Yes, please! Oh, mistress, oh fuck—”

My eyes shut as I throw my head back, mouth in the shape of an “O” that’s simply ridiculous. I try not to imagine how it looks like one of those snuff tape suckers in post-coital, or should I say, post-feast bliss. Disgusting and vile. I remember mocking them with Phil as I forced him to watch every single Death Mask film in that dingy basement of the Santa Monica Clinic.

When I come to, my balls are no longer heavy and aching, like an oppressive, shameful need. Semen trickles down my leg, pooling in my pants as though I wet myself. It smells of rotting fish and I’m trying not to cry. I wish it were the Nectar of the Gods instead.

A flash of anger rears up in my chest and I tear my eyes open. Therese—no, the new girl lies like a crumpled doll on the floor, mouth agape in that stupid “O.” Good enough like a pair of single-use gloves to dispose of in the trash without a second thought. Except, I used mine again and again. What’s the point if they break apart so easily? They don’t make them—

I yank her face towards me. The whites of her eyes loll back as I squash the fat of her cheeks within my bloodied hand, and her lips mime a fish sucking in breath.

“Tell me I’m good enough! Say it!” something that sounds more akin to a pig squealing explodes like a burst tap.

The stumps of my fingers move her mouth like a ventriloquist, but she says nothing. Blood smears across her dull skin. She doesn’t wake up. That can only mean one thing: useless. They don’t—

I let her body fall to the ground with a thud. Whipping a phone out from my back pocket, what’s left of my fingers fly over the keypad, punching in a line I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

“A special order for the mistress.”

Tears cloud my eyes as I hear my quivering breath. It’s shallow and erratic. I still can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying half of the time.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

[alvivaarts]

Internet Safety Tips for Folks Under 18! <3

I'm writing this because it was brought to my attention that at least one of my followers/readers is 11! Years! Old! How do I know this? Because they publicly announced it! AHH!!! OH NO!

This made me practically lose my mind, because holy shit, internet safety is NOT taught like it used to be!! Are there no more assemblies or class gatherings where you watch internet safety PSA videos anymore? Or learn about it in the library? Like shit!!! Anyway, here is, in the simplest terms, tips I learned when I was under 18 that have kept me not only alive, but thriving and happy on the internet.

What Information is Appropriate/Safe for Me to Share Online?

Very little! Very, VERY little! It would be easier if I told you what NOT to share online! DO NOT SHARE: -Your age/that you are a minor. -Your state, province, or country of origin. -When you are going to school/if you are starting school. -Establishments (restaurants, activity places, etc) that may or may not be in your local area. -Any medical diagnoses (mental or physical). -Any traumatic events or triggers. (We'll come back to this). -Any other details of your day-to-day schedule. -Details about your relationship with family members. -What you are/are not allowed to do. -Passwords or personal emails/phone numbers/contact points.

It's completely fine to share: -Your interests. -Fun anecdotes from your day. -Things you are excited about (not relating to your daily schedule). -What you're eating/drinking/making. -Etc.

I know it sounds cheesy, but you should make it your goal to be unidentifiable online. People do genuinely want to use this information, information about YOU for bad reasons. We already know that data brokers exist- and that there have been massive data leaks in the last few years regarding adults/18+ folks personal information. Those people usually have the agency and ability to reclaim some of that privacy and get their lives back on track. You don't. In addition to that, sharing little snippets of information about yourself from the 'do not share' category can build up over time. It might not feel like much at the time, but it can become pretty easy to identify you with even two or three of those pieces of information. We've seen no-profile having folks on TikTok be doxxed with less.

By that extent, I recommend minimizing the images you post of yourself online, especially if you cannot monitor/approve of who follows you. It can be equally as easy for strangers to figure out where you live based on images you share online, especially if those show your face and places your frequent. We can doubt that the GeoGeussr guy might not use his powers for evil, but plenty of other people absolutely can.

Who is Trustworthy Online?

Short Answer: NO ONE!

If someone you meet in a server says they're your age? No they're not! If someone says they want to be your friend and give you free things/games/etc? No they don't! If you think someone is safe enough to share something personal with online? No they're not! If someone randomly adds you for the purpose of making friends? They are not your friend! If someone says 'you're mature for your age'? No! You're! Not!

It's easy to form attachments to people online. It might be because everyone is 'anonymous' (which is also not true, no one is every truly anonymous online) that it's easier for you to imagine a stranger to be a certain way. Or you might look up to someone a lot because of the things they make or produce. These people, even if you get along with them or share interests with them, are not your friend- and will never be 100% trustworthy. (Of course, there are very rare acceptations- I don't want to be a hypocrite. Two of my very best friends are people I met online and have now met in person. When you become an adult and are able to more easily move around and escape situations -via transportation, access to your own money, not needing to rely on others/adults to assist you, then you can decide to proceed with relationships.)

Additionally, people online especially will never offer you something 'for free'. It will always have a cost- that might be your time, your personal information, or access to you via video or audio call or other personal things.

1- Never accept random phone, audio, or video calls on any social media platform. Do not accept random friend requests either. 2- It is absolutely okay to say 'no', to block people who you don't like or make you uncomfortable, even if those people get mad. Your safety comes before other people's happiness. 3- Never accept 'gifts' from online friends, especially if they are much older than you. 4- Do not click on random links sent by friends or shared on uncertified websites, especially download links. Even mod packs or pirated games can hide viruses, malware, or phishing links- things that can steal your personal information saved to your devices, or that can destroy your devices from the inside out. 5- If you feel uncomfortable or unsure of how to handle a situation, report and block the person involved, and/or contact a moderator, site-manager, or trusted IRL adult.

Online harassment and bullying is also quite scary. This can come in many forms: -People trying to steal information from you. -People shaming you for your appearance. -People shaming you for engaging in the things you enjoy. -People shaming, name calling, or ganging up on you to make fun of you. -Targeted crap-talking towards groups of people by other groups or individuals. -Being told to harm yourself, or that life would be better without you (not true!).

If this occurs to you, block and report the user/s. If you happen to know the person harassing and bullying yourself and others in real life, inform someone in real life as well. Make sure to take screen shots and save them! However, make sure you understand the difference between bullying and someone trying to correct bad behavior or help you. Both can feel very embarrassing at first, but most of the time, people trying to help improve online communities (and you!) will not be shameful, harassing, or bullying. It's okay to feel embarrassed for not understanding particular rules or community standards, but do not take that embarrassment out on others.

Managing Your Own Online Experience

This one might sting for some folks, especially adults who haven't learned it yet, but: YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN ONLINE EXPERIENCE!

We're circling back to telling people online what your traumas and triggers are. Of course, a lot of things happen offline. It can be frustrating to come online as an escape and find something that triggers you or reawakens trauma, or even things that simply discomfort you. When it comes to things that traumatize or trigger you, block the source: Block people who cross your boundaries. Report those who break site guidelines (not people who do things you don't like- who break site guidelines). Block pages that might show things that frighten you. Do not visit websites that are known for certain traumatizing/inappropriate content. Turn on SafeSearch features. You don't even have to inform these people- do not engage, just disconnect. It's not cringe to want to optimize your online experience for your own safety, happiness and comfort!

When it comes to things that make you uncomfortable: Understand the difference between things that are traumatizing/triggering, and things that make your unhappy/uncomfortable/that you personally dislike. There is a difference. While you absolutely should have a safe and comfortable online experience, it is not appropriate or safe to approach people telling them to change X Y Z thing about what they post, discuss, or share. It's not appropriate to threaten, harass, or shame others for engaging in content that you might not like personally, or even engaging versions/aspects of that media in a way you might not yourself. The easiest way to avoid it? Don't engage with it. The instant you start to comment and complain, you're potentially outing yourself as a minor, AND telling the website algorithm that you want to see MORE of this thing you dislike, simply by engaging with it. It's a double whammy. Remember that, while your happiness and safety comes first, that does not come at the expense of other's wellbeing or enjoyment, unless that wellbeing or enjoyment is an active risk of physical or genuine harm to you that you cannot otherwise block yourself.

Finally, keep in mind that Adult Spaces/18+ spaces ARE NOT DESIGNED FOR YOU, WITH YOU IN MIND, OR FOR YOUR BENEFIT! It might feel and sound very exciting and even satisfying to get into an adult space unnoticed. However, these spaces are not meant for you- they often do NOT have all of the same safety tools as other 'public' online spaces. You are also putting yourself and the adults in the community at risk: Adults who may engage with you as an adult, because it's an adult-only space, without knowing you're a minor- as well as potentially engaging with adults who won't care whether or not you're a minor. Be especially mindful if an adult has a DNI specific to minors: that person DOES NOT want to engage with you. You wouldn't want your boundaries crossed, right? Don't cross theirs!

Some general rules to monitor your own online experience: 1- Block any potential sources of trauma/triggers. However, do not report them unless the subject matter genuinely breaks website rules (these differ DRASTICALLY depending on the site. Understand them before making any reports). 2- Live and Let Die (or Ship and Let Ship). Especially in fandom spaces. It's okay for you to have a particular take on a media, character, or ship. It is not okay for you to demean or diminish others for engaging in that media, character, or ship differently than you would. It isn't a competition about who's 'right'. Just enjoy yourself! 3- Turn on SafeSearch and Private Account settings. This minimizes potential triggers/uncomfortable subject matter, and allows you to monitor who engages with your account. 4- Do not actively pursue 18+ spaces. You don't have to stay 'in the kids zone', but don't try to insert yourself in a place where you cannot control what you might encounter.

----

I think that's about it! I'm sure there'll be other folks with plenty more to add, but these are the basics. Keep them in mind and try not to let yourself learn the hard way like I (and many others) did that The Internet as not as safe and fun as you might think it is. Of course, it is- but it's also full of unfun, or even dangerous things and people. Take care of yourself!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

tamashina mina/cloudcalling on the savanna — missed opportunity

Since this event will be rerunning in the JP server this month, I wanted to share something I felt the event was lacking. (Well. Besides the things I already mentioned here—)

There’s a section of the event dedicated to exploring the markets and sampling local cuisines. I don’t take issue with this since it’s a staple of any hometown event. However, I think that it’s a shame we didn’t get any unique interactions between Leona and the NPCs in the market. Supposedly Leona isn’t well-liked or acknowledged in a positive manner by his people, so it would have been nice to see it portrayed more prominently on-screen. Maybe the vendors and other customers don’t necessarily go out of their way to insult him to his face, but maybe they’d be whispering amongst themselves or side-eyeing him (something which the other students notice) as he passes.

The framing of the purchases implies that Kifaji is the main person going around buying food for us to try. Lilia, Vil, Kalim, and Yuu/Grim also shop around for souvenirs. The NPCs are, for the most part, not directly interacting with Leona (save for that time he gets annoyed enough to get away from the group and buys some candies to eat grumpily by himself). This would have been the perfect time to overhear the vendors and customers gossiping about Leona. It would show us how his people feel about him, not just what the palace servants feel (as we saw in his post-ON flashback). It would give us a better understanding of what kinds of comments the people make about him even to this day, how that wears on him mentally and emotionally.

And what if Leona walks in on that kind of gossip??? I want to see how he’d handle it… (I don’t see him getting mad but instead reacting with a sarcastic quip or fake politeness to remove himself from the situation. Then he broods and angsts and doomposts about it later in private 💀)

While this ire obviously wouldn’t be resolved in the event itself, I think setting up this apprehension around Leona would enhance the payoff of what he does later in the event. This is especially true considering that we also had the previous year’s winners openly upset with Leona for not doing his royal duties and training them. Make it clear that Leona is on everyone’s bad side. Then when he comes through in the end and earns the respect of last year’s winners, it signals to us that—even if just a little at a time—Leona is capable of switching around the common attitude his people have toward him. It establishes a modicum of hope.

I guess maybe they didn’t want to spoil his backstory for anyone that didn’t read book 2 by the point the event ran??? But I still feel like it’s possible to write dialogue in a way that implies a dynamic or relationship without outright spilling everything. You don’t even need dialogue. Maybe just have there be a general air of discomfort as soon as the group enters the market; Vil (a celebrity who is perceptive about public opinion and how the public’s gazes linger) might notice this and ask what’s wrong, only to have Leona brush it off. (That way, we at least get the idea that Leona isn’t liked for some reason but is used to this.) It’s not like events haven’t had details that allude to main story spoilers either. For example, College Gear Ortho has appeared in multiple events such as Fairy Gala: What If and White Rabbit Fest, even though technically it is a spoiler for book 6.

bdbdbsejhfiekd I don’t know 😭 I just feel like this would have been so interesting to see more of Sunset Savanna reacting to the supposed scorned second prince… It’s sad we missed out on it.

P.S. The fact that we don’t see the public extensively react to him in a negative way makes me wonder if that negativity is the result of Leona’s own perspective twisting or exaggerating the truth. This is something I’ve already speculated on here.

[destinationtoast]

I know this is the least of our problems right now but do you think the US election results will impact ao3?

I am not a lawyer, nor a founder of AO3, nor a volunteer there, nor a fandom journalist or historian, so I'm pretty far from the best person to ask. I encourage any and all of the above to please chime in with more knowledgeable answers.

That said, I don't think the next few years will probably directly limit AO3 or its umbrella org, the OTW.* But that depends in part on members voting for board members who will uphold the organization's current principles. (Vote! Become a member if you're not already, and vote! Vote in ALL the elections you are eligible for and will be affected by!) And that doesn't mean a bunch of works won't become private, orphaned, or deleted.**

*A couple reasons for my cautious optimism: The OTW was formed with the preservation and maximalist defense of fanworks in mind. So the shifting US cultural norms and increasing purity culture can't easily change the OTW from within (as we've already been seeing in past years when some fans have disliked some content). And in spite of everything scary happening externally (and there is a whole fucking lot), the US still has far more constitutionally enshrined freedom of speech protections than most places in the world. It will take a long time to tear all that down. Some states and locales are doing a lot to try to challenge free speech, especially queer content and sexual content, and there will be more challenges. But many of those challenges will be defeated because of the First Amendment, and it'll take a lot of time and effort to push through any constitutional changes. You can donate to organizations like the ACLU and the EFF to help protect against the erosions of rights, in addition to supporting the OTW and the Internet Archive who work to preserve free speech rights and online rights. (Other suggestions of where to donate or volunteer are welcome in the notes!) Also, perhaps best of all, the OTW is a non-profit who owns their own servers, which makes it MUCH harder to change what they choose to host than if they relied on any external hosting services and/or had advertisers.

**The archive already has had a whole lot of fanworks shift from public to private due to external events, including the AO3 ban in China, and recent AI scraping of web content. I'm sure more AO3 users will choose to make their content private over the next few years out of a fear of potential personal risks of them being found, and/or due to new attempts to ban content. (Some users will also delete their works for similar reasons, though I urge people to consider orphaning them instead!) Downloading for personal use any fanworks you love is always a good idea, and even moreso at a time of great heartbreak and panic, like now.

*hugs* Hang in there, all, and continue to take comfort from AO3 & OTW as you survive the upcoming hard times.

[allicat0]

hi there! i absolutely loved ur other fan fic even tho i didn’t know the character. made my pussy throb. anywho 😊 just seeing if u are able to write a gojo x reader, perhaps him being older ( older brothers bsf, teacher, etc. ) i also would love to see some discreet public sexy time. ( classroom, movie theatre, pool… i love fucking hot tubs and pools…) thank you so much!😜✌️🎀

Our little secret

Ans: thank you so much for the support, and of course! I’m so excited to write my take on Gojo! Hope you like it!!

Summary: University au! You're working along side your thesis advisor Gojo in hopes to working closer to your ambitions for the future. But being a university student, costs are high and money is low. So to be able to keep up with your school you have a little gig on the side.

Content: MDNI, 18+, abaf reader, smut, forced proximity, dubcon, oral, penetrative sex, domination, degradation, praise, making out, rough sex, oral sex, penetrative sex, teacher/student relations, dominant Gojo, submissive reader

A/N: I apologize if not all of my historical information its 100% correct, I did do a little research for it to make as much sense as I could. I also apologize for any word vomited, grammar, or punctuation errors. I was up till 2am writing. but hope you enjoy!

You had been given the opportunity to have Satoru Gojo, head professor of the History department as your Thesis advisor. It was all still a little unreal to you, but you couldn't be more grateful. You have spent countless hours with one another, early mornings and late nights, doing your best to progress with your latest research proposal.  “The Villa of the Papyri” you said, placing your stack of papers down onto Gojos desk. “Now that surely is a pretty big project your-” He began to reply before you quickly cut him off “I understand it’s a lot, and that most of the contents inside got destroyed but there are over two thousand lost scrolls that reside inside that structure. There could be so many answers about the lost city of Herculaneum that those scrolls could contain!” Your look was genuine. . and so full of hope that he just couldn't say no. 

As weeks passed, you still had no leads. Weeks turned into, months, and months turned into a year, endlessly working alongside Gojo. Despite your research not flourishing as much as you had hoped, your relationship with your professor grew more than you expected. It didn’t feel like work, it was tolerable to be around eachother, it didn’t feel like he had some weird authority complex over you, you were comfortable, you couldn’t help but admit to yourself some feeling for your professor began to form and you wished nothing would come in between that. .until something did.

Being a university student, especially in the department you're in, funds are high and since you were usually busy researching all day, you had a hard time getting a stable job that worked around your harsh schedule. The school did pay you money to go through with this research but it was barely enough to buy you a loaf of bread and toilet paper. You needed money to survive and things were getting a little tight, so you thought working at your local club didn’t sound like a horrible idea. . as a dancer. 

Zafrio, is one of the more popular clubs in the area, but they worked well around your schedule, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays every week. The pay was beautiful, every penny you made on that stage was yours to keep, on top of that you also got your bi-weekly pay which 10% of it went through tip - out to the servers, but you weren’t complaining. On average you made at least four hundred dollars a night, but on good days you would rack up closer to a thousand. 

Tonight was your Saturday shift, the busier one out of the three. As you were getting ready backstage a familiar face walked into the club, the club was packed full of people, he made his way through the crowd, brushing past people shoulder to shoulder, getting closer to the main stage. Now he didn’t come here often but when he did, it was every Saturday at eleven, to see you and only you perform. He used having a large crowd to his advantage as he was often hidden, so you seeing him was never a concern of his. How he found out about your little side job was not intentional, he just happened to stumble into the club with some of his friends one night, and there you were working. Gojo was beyond intrigued, so ever since that day he’d been coming to watch you perform, he didn’t know why he came back, but all he knew was that he started thinking of you in ways he’d never dare think of before. 

Your stage name gets called and there you are, walking out onto the stage over to the pole, beginning your number for the whole club. Cheers filled your ears, watching the money fall onto the stage, the serotonin that pumped through your body was unbelievable and he watched, every. Last. second. His eyes never leaving you or your body. The way your hips sway to the music, it was like he was in a trance. 

As you finish your number your eyes fall out to the crowd, adjusting from the bright stage lights shining up at you. You start to strut off and out the corner of your eye, you see. . no it couldn’t be. What was he doing here?? Your heart rate began to pick up. What was your professor doing here?! You quickly rushed the rest of the off stage. Did he just see you perform? Your mind was rushing at a million miles a second. 

You arrived backstage and looked in the mirror, your mind began to spiral and your heart picked up its pace, that was totally him, there was no denying it. “Is everything alright?” one of your fellow dancers came over to see if you were okay as they noticed you were panicking. “Yah.  .yah i'm fine” you said to put your clothes on and packed all your belongings. “Something came up and I really need to go, please let the boss know I’m sorry.” You knew all of the money you got from that dance would be taken care of by your boss, and were quick to leave, walking out to your car and heading home. 

Monday finally rolled around and you were on your way to Gojos' office to start work. If it were any other day you would be eager to get back to work after a weekend break, but today wasn’t any other day. The events of Saturday night still loomed in the back of your mind, you didn’t want to admit it but you were scared to face Gojo, how were you supposed to just act normal after that night?!

You opened the door to the office and plastered a smile onto your face and there he was sitting at his desk. “Good morning professor.” you said, making your way into the room, closing the door behind you. “Good morning, how was your weekend?” he asked, his eyebrow slightly arching with the question. You felt a lump form in your throat forcing it down before speaking. “Ah, it was quite relaxing,” you said trying to cut the conversation. “I'm surprised, you spend your weekends working do you not?” his head tilted ever so slightly, a smirk forming in the corner of his lips. He knew what he was doing and he knew you saw him that night. 

You froze in place for just a moment, “i'm not sure I know what you mean” Gojo looked at you right in your eyes, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his knees. “I think you and I both know what I mean” your breath hitched, there was no going back, there was no avoiding this. You watched as Gojo sat up from his chair and made his way around his desk. Leaning against this chair and resting his ass against it he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well. . am I wrong?” This was it, your career was over, there was no way you would be able to recover from something like this, you knew the risks and yet you still took the chance, now look where it got you. 

You could feel yourself trying to choke but in the coming years, you were trying your best to keep yourself together. “Now you know there's no reason to lie to me. .” Gojo pushed himself off the desk and made his way towards you, your eyes never leaving him. He walked behind you, leaving your sight, but you could feel him looming over you. “Professor look, moneys been low and.” his hot breath suddenly hit against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” His words were soft. 

Your shoulders tensed as he placed his hands on them “Is this okay? Can I touch you here?” Gojo let out softly once more, you simply nodded your head being speechless. His hands began travelling down stopping right at your hips. “You know. .I have a confession of my own. Ever since I found out about your secret endeavours. . I haven’t been able to stop going back. . I can’t stop thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t.” He choked out, Gojo was doing his absolute best to keep himself at bay. 

“Really?” you said, sounding surprised, his words were making your stomach flutter. As much as you wanted to deny this as wrong and unprofessional there was a recurring curious thought that wanted to find out more, what exactly was he thinking. “The thought drives me crazy” the hold he had on your hips gets tighter, but you move away from his grip, turning around to face him. His eyes were drawing you in like never before, you couldn’t describe it, but his gaze was full of pure lust. 

You bit down on your lips, you were unsure what to do, act professional or. . no what were you thinking! “Darling,” Gojo said, snapping you out of your thoughts. His hands coming up and cupping your face, his thumb trailing softly against your cheek. “Gojo I. .” You stood there speechless. “This is unprofessional.” You try to centre your thoughts “I think we’re long past that.” he said his hand never leaving your cheek. His face leaned down his lips inches from yours “if you want me to stop then tell me, I want you to be okay with this” you looked up at him through your lashes nodding your head ever so slightly. “Please. .don’t stop” you let out quietly just enough for him to hear you. 

Next thing you know you felt Gojo’s lips press against yours, lips moulding with one another. His kiss was delicate, but carried so much passion and lust behind every movement. Your mind continued to spiral at every given minute, but you didn’t want to stop, you wanted more. Gojo’s hands travelled down before taking your ass in his hands giving it a squeeze as he continued to kiss you. 

His tongue slipped past your lips and moved with yours, but it didn’t last long as he was quick to pull away to catch a breath. His head moved to your neck planting firm kisses against your neck as his hands made their way up your shirt, cupping your breast in the process massaging them as he continued to place his markings down your neck. “You’re fucking gorgeous” his voice was breathy, against your skin.

Gojo guided you over to his desk, turning you around to your back facing him. His hands lingered at the hem of your pants, thinking for a moment before he pulled both your pants and underwear down revealing your slick pussy. Gojo went down onto his knees to get a better view, his hand trailing up and down pushing in between your folds, slowly sticking his middle and ring finger deep into your pussy, causing a moan to escape your lips. “What if someone hears us?” you asked nervously. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you slowly watching how your pussy swallowed his fingers “let them” he said. 

The speed of his fingers began to pick up the pace causing soft moans to escape through the seam of your lips. Gojo pulled his fingers out of you, spreading your legs open enough to lodge his head in between your thighs, dragging his tongue against your pussy. As you lay there leaning over his desk, gasping for breath, Gojo tasted every inch of you, savouring the sweetness of your flesh, he knew exactly where to touch, how to caress, driving you further into the realm of ecstasy. Your hips would involuntarily push back into him as he lapped his tongue over your clit, exploring every curve and crevice, bringing you to the edge of climax. It was almost painful, the anticipation and desire building within you, but you wouldn't trade this exquisite torture for anything else. 

As you were nearing release Gojo pulled away standing up, quickly unbuckling his pants to unveil his already hard twitching cock eager to pound into you. He held the base of his cock, dragging the tip in between your wet folds, before slowly pushing himself into you, causing a groan to escape from the back of his throat. His hands grabbing onto your hips, he began to slowly move his hips watching your pussy swallow his cock. “You feel so fucking good” he said as he began to pick up the pace. Your hand moved up to your mouth blocking out the moans leaving your lips, doing your very best to stay quiet enough so others wouldn’t hear your lewd sounds. Gojo’s thrusts became rough, his hand releasing your hip entangling his fingers through your hair tugging on it as he pounded into you. “You’re such a good girl, taking me so well”. 

As Gojo continued to thrust deep into you, you felt yourself coming closer to the edge once again, the knot building up in your stomach from him constantly hitting your G-spot. Your free hand moved down in between your legs and moved rapidly against your clit. “ you gonna cum on my cock baby?” He asked you, smirking down at you, how he enjoyed the sight. You let out a moan as your legs do their best to hold themselves up through your orgasm, Gojo was close, you could feel his cock pulsating inside of you. His thrust was becoming sloppy and out of rhythm. With a few more thrusts he quickly pulled out of you, his hot cum hitting against your back “fuck” he said out of breath looking down at the mess he made, but god it was fucking hot.

His body pressed up against your own, planting a soft kiss against your shoulder. Moving the hair away from your neck and planting them slowly against your neck as well, he let out a light groan, the vibration of his hot breath against your skin made you shiver. “Let's get you cleaned up baby” Gojo said, going back to his cocky smug voice once again. “Oh and. .lets keep this our little secret alright?”

@allicat0 signing off. .

[phoenixyfriend]

Soka Takes a Terrorist: Chapter One

The latest fic in Anakin and the Jedi Babies. Three chapters total.

Sokanth Skywalker makes a friend, all on her own! He is in Death Watch. She's going to save him, just you wait!

Read on AO3

About two thirds of this fic were written by hand on the train while in Japan.

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Most planets have their own, smaller ‘nets. Sometimes, they extend to the whole sector, if it makes sense to do so. Sure, there’s the ‘galactic’ holonet, but it really just makes more sense to have a faster, local holonet, too.

Mandalore has been trying to consolidate fragmented ‘nets for ages. Some of that has gone better than… well…

Skyguy’s been helping, at least?

Soka knows some of the issues. Krownest has environmental restrictions regarding the weather, something about constructing infrastructure to withstand low temperatures, which can impact servers and wiring. Concord Dawn is prone to geologic instability, so burying transmission cables isn’t an option given the earthquake risk. Kalevala is getting on okay, making good progress, and so is the moon Concordia; that’s why they’ve been offered up as hosting for the hyper-relays. Manda’yaim itself is stuck trying to decide on the best way to protect transmission lines from sandstorms, which could uncover lines buried at a standard depth, and burying them deeper would make them harder to access for maintenance. It is where a lot of the ‘host’ servers and stuff are going, mostly in their own separate domes a few kilometers out in the desert.

And that’s all before the politics and coding and other non-infrastructure, non-environmental-y bits.

“I don’t understand why you’re even involved,” Ben complains, “you’re a droidhead, not a slicer. Aren’t there other things more in line with your specialties?”

Skyguy gets that look on his face, the one where he’s not sure how to think or feel about one of them referencing, or forgetting, something from the Before.

“Well,” he says, “a lot of the maintenance and repairs are going to be done by droids, and I’ve got a decent experience in weather-proofing to boot, especially in deserts. Besides, I need something to fill the time.”

Because Mereel’s been weird about Skyguy since the Jedi visit.

“Can I help?” Soka pipes up.

“Probably a bit out of your skill range,” he says, a touch apologetic.

“But I want to be involved,” she whines.

(And she is not embarrassed to admit that.)

He laughs, and rubs at her head between the montrals, just like when he ruffles Ben’s hair. “Fine, how about I get you some specs on what we’ve already got hooked in, and you can do some beta-testing?”

“Works for me!” she half-cheers. “Ben, what about you?”

“I’ll pass, thank you very much,” he says, “but let me know if you find you need some help with the diplomacy.”

“Not my department,” Skyguy says, “but sure.”

Continue on AO3