#these were actually really really hard to answer

[mystery-twin-mystery-bags]

NEW STAN-CO AD JUST DROPPED!

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Shop | Kofi All proceeds go to aid for Gaza.

Art by @gin-juice-tonic

Image Description:

Image 1: Stan Pines, in his Mr. Mystery attire, stands in front of a yellow background with favorite red and orange question marks. He is smiling at the camera and holding cash and credit card. He says, "Hey folks, were YOU given the best gift of all these past few holi-days? The gift of spending power? You know what I'm talking about. Some cold hard cash? Or maybe one of those checkout aisle gift card things that look like credit cards?"

Image 2: Stan is still smiling at the camera, holding up a finger. "If you answered 'yes' to one or more of those questions, I've got some friendly advice for you. You're gonna want to USE that spending power on something that'll really impress. Something that'll make your unspecified designated gift-giver say 'They spent that money we gave them so good! We should give them more money!'"

Image 3: Close up on Stan grabbing a Mystery Twin Mystery Bag, which is a navy blue pouch with Dipper and Mabels's zodiac symbols in the Palestinian flag colors. Stan says, "And I've got just the thing you need to buy to make that happen!"

Image 4: Stan pulls out a key chain of himself and points at it while smiling; the keychain mirrors him. "A keychain of ME!* Nothing says 'Financially Savvy' like your old pal Granule Stan. *Keychain depicted here not representative of any of the actual keychains being sold. The real ones are much nicer.

Image 5: Stan stands looking proud of himself, tugging on the collar of his suit. "Buying one of our Mystery Twin Mystery Bags will have your gift givers dipping right into their retirement funds to pensions just to get more money to hand out to ya, guaranteed! Or my name's not Stanford F. Pines."

[haveihitanerve]

It was a lesson that was, as most lesson were in Gotham, learned the hard way.

"Down!" Bruce bellowed. Dick moved. But not fast enough. He looked. He didn't flinch. He hesitated, he didn't act. He doubted. He should have trusted.

Something slammed into his side, hard and small and painful, ripping apart his muscles and shredding tendons. That was the day he learned what getting shot felt like.

He sacked to the floor, finally, hands pawing uselessly at his side as he wailed in pain.

Bruce was at his side in an instant, and they got home so fast it was most definitely illegal. It never happened again.

"Drop!" Bruce called. Dick hit the floor. He was up a second later, the sharp stinging smell of gunpowder still in the air. But the bullet had disappeared. Missed. Speared into the wall.

"On your left!" Green Lantern cried, swinging his arm around, the massive hand he'd crafted with his ring spearing forward. Nightwing glanced over, used the second to ground himself, and lunged away. To the right.

"You've gotta trust me in the field." Hal complained later. "It's no use for me to call out orders just for you to check yourself." Nightwing dipped his head. Acquiescing , but not an apology. Not agreeing. Not a promise.

"Twelve o'clock!" Batman barked. Nightwing didn't even let his eyes stray, just moved, rolling away from the incoming stampede of aliens.

"What the fuck?" Hal mouthed to Barry, but the speedster had hardly a chance to shrug back before he was off to take the incoming wave.

So he waited instead until after the battle, waited until everyone was safe and back the Watchtower to advance on the young hero.

"Hey man, what the fuck is up with you?" He probably should have kept his voice down a little, but the anger had been building, and honestly, what was up with him? Disobeying Hal's orders, just to drop at the first sound from Batman's lips? Wasn't cool, wasn't fair.

Nightwing glanced up in surprise from where he was sitting on the table, patching his arm, and so did about half the League. Batman, in particular, was watching, white lenses narrowed, but didn't approach.

"I get that Bats is super cool and all that," Hal waved a dismissive arm. "But when I shout orders in the field, you're expected to follow them. Same as everyone else."

He glanced over at Batman. "No offense Batsy." he returned focus to the man in front of him. "But you don't get to pick and choose who's orders you follow kid. Not here."

"Actually I do." Nightwing answered, and, damn, Hal hadn't expected that. An apology maybe, maybe a little bit of arguing, but not a flat out refusal. The young hero didn't even bother to lower his voice or anything. Didn't even attempt to look cowed.

"You're different Hal. You're a Lantern. I'm not." his finger thrust in Batman's direction. "He's not." Hal cocked his head, frowning. "Yeah, I don't obey your orders immediately. I don't automatically trust what you call to me. Because you're. not. human. Maybe you were, once, before you got the ring. But you're not anymore. You're not on the field."

He gestured at Batman, to himself. "We deal with threats on the daily. In the streets. On the field. You're a brilliant man, I know you are. But you're not thinking for me."

He held up his hand before Hal could argue that of course he was. "You try." He agreed easily. "But you don't. Not really." He cocked his head, struggling to come up with an example.

"Lets say this; you're a cat, and I'm a dog." Hal pulled back, face twisting at the strange comparison, but Nightwing gestured to let him finished. Hal relented.

"You, as a cat, order me to drop to the ground. Because you, as a cat, know that if you drop, you'll land on your feet." Superman was nodding, following his train of thought. Hal was still a little lost, but Nightwing wasn't finished yet, so he was okay.

"But let's say that drop is fifty feet. And I'm a dog. Dogs don't land on their feet. That drop can kill me. You didn't account for that, no matter what you might think." He shrugged, glancing over at Batman, who was puffed up a little, with pride.

"He's a dog. Like me. And he thinks like a cat, like you. He accounts for that. So yeah," Nightwing shrugged, hopping from the table, and took a few steps forward. Hal stumbled back.

"I don't follow your orders immediately. I chance a look. I risk a second of disobeying your orders in order to ensure it won't kill me. Won't do more harm than good. But I still follow your orders."

He glanced over at Batman, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"And sure, I follow Batman's orders immediately." He shrugged, heading over to the older hero, smile evident in his voice.

"But what do you expect? He's my Dad."

but yeah in the same vein of Bruce’s kids only following his orders in the field…of course they do. in Gotham, if you don’t hit the deck when Bruce says “Down!” you’re getting hurt, at bare minimum. there’s no questioning orders or hesitating. you have to trust that when B tells you to do something, it’s in your best interest, or in the best interest of the civilians, to do it — and do it really fucking well. really fucking fast.

that doesn’t mean the JL give orders in the same way, even though they’re well-intentioned. that doesn’t mean they fully grasp an emergency scene or its civilians’ needs. they might not realize how risky an order they, as a meta, give to a fully human vigilante is. they’re not a tactician the way Bruce is — they’re not thinking in plans, and backup plans, and fallback plans and extractions.

so yeah, Dick doesn’t take direct orders from anyone but B. of course he doesn’t.

[ghostgirl-22]

okok this is an xfem!reader ask but could you write something like the video on the link with art?

https://x.com/sugarfemdom/status/1858661845122642119?s=46&t=3CW6FsXs0MAE69-4ntnOGQ

this is SO stanford!art to me it’s not even funny, like??? him and his pretty little girlfriend trying this for the first time and it’s completely new to art but he’s so lost in it he can’t even be embarrassed about how good it feels

Answering this sooner rather than later since Twitter has been trying to shut down the porn links. Y’all are so horny… and I love you for it <33 🥹

CW: 18+ !NSFW! Explicit (porn link)

—-

Art is this beautiful boy, tall, dorky, handsome and smart. Really incredible tennis player. You’d gone to your first tennis match to see Tashi Duncan, just like the rest of the school and while you were walking around the courts he was in the middle of his match when he smiled at you. You smiled back, thinking nothing of it, surely he just did that when he had an audience. But then next thing you know he’s asking for your number and the rest is history.

All it takes is for you to witness one interaction between him and his best friend Patrick, for you to realize your new boyfriend isn’t entirely straight.

They’re play fighting with each other. Patrick chasing Art around the courts while they’re giggling. He’s all too happy to be caught and wrestled to the ground, Patrick between his legs. The other boys are just laughing at them, you think they probably know too.

You fantasize about the thought of them fucking when you’re in his dorm room that night. You’re riding his cock and he’s losing himself, mesmerized by your full bouncing tits (he wishes he could slide his dick between them).

“Fuck yes… oh baby… oh god, you’re so fucking wet baby…gonna lose it… gonna give you whatever you want….” He’s moaning, crying, squirming as you bounce your hips, up and down, the sound of skin slapping together obscenely. His cock feels so good you don’t even care that Patrick could be back from his night out with Tashi at any minute. In fact you hope he walks in on you and gets so hard he has to fuck your boyfriend right in front of you.

You’re so caught up in the fantasy you tease a finger up inside of his ass without much warning.

“Oh shit,” you whisper as his moaning takes on an entirely new pitch. You tease a second finger inside him. “You like that baby?”

“Nngh yes… yes,” he groans, moving his hips. “Oh fuck. Fuck me baby. Please, please fuck me.” His hips bucking up uncontrollably and almost immediately he’s coming inside without even the pretense of needing to pull out. Thrusting himself helplessly while grinding into your fingers. Its so hot you start losing it too. He’s so fucking lucky you’re on the pill the way he’s filling you up.

He’s so lost in all of it that he barely bats an eyelash when you suggest that he let you fuck him for real.

“Of course baby, whatever you want,” he whispers, completely sated, gently kissing your face, as you curl up next to him in his single. He starts drifting off to sleep right away.

His mistake. You come over the next night with some of your lingerie. “Can you wear this out tonight baby?” You ask, pouting your lips. He loves when you play innocent.

“Fuck baby,” Art says shyly. “You’re serious?”

“Mmhm, if you wear it all night and be a good boy and don’t come I’ll give you a surprise,” you coax. It’s all he needs to actually do it.

Patrick gets home as you and Art are dressed and on your way out to the movies. You can’t help yourself. “Is the bra too tight baby?” You ask in front of Patrick.

“Uh…” Art stammers immediately turning red as Patrick starts grinning.

“I can help loosen the bra but there’s nothing I can do for the panties if you’re still hard,” you say softly.

“Where you guys going?” Patrick asks, patting Art on the shoulder, broad grin still on his face.

“Movies,” you smile. “He’s gonna be a good boy for me.”

“I bet,” Patrick says staring at Art but you don’t miss the heedy look that momentarily passes between them. You hate being right all the time. Even if they haven’t fucked, they want to.

*

Except for a few moments where Art has to take his time to hide his erection before getting up, he’s such a perfect gentleman all evening.

“I promised you’d get surprise right?” You say smiling when he’s standing so needy in front of you, clothes on the floor, dressed only in your lingerie, his dick straining the fabric.

“Y-yes,” he stammers. You make him sit on his bed. Again you have no idea when Patrick will be home but you really don’t care. You show him the strap on, you pull out of your backpack and there’s only one way to describe his reaction. He’s antsy, eager even, but he’s pretending like he doesn’t want it as much as he does.

“Have you ever done this before?” You ask gently.

He ponders his response for just a moment and then nods, shy. “My last girlfriend,” he whispers.

“Mm,” you hum. You ease on the strap and lube it up like you’re doing it with a real dick… the whole time he’s anxious. Legs crossed, his cock so full it’s leaking, dripping through the panties. You settle on the bed, pulling his soft hips forwards. He’s so pale in comparison to you, his skin so surprisingly smooth. He’s barely got any hair anywhere, he says he shaves for aerodynamics or whatever… You know nothing about tennis but you’re pretty sure barely having any pubic hair isn’t gonna make him a better player. It does make his dick look even bigger though.

You pull him onto your lap and slide the panties to the side so you can push the strap inside, he’s whining holding his breath as you guide it in. “Is it too big baby?” You ask gently.

“Mm, it’s good,” he breathes, pitched high and tight. He fucking loves this.

You start guiding it in and out of him. He’s taking it in stride, slowly rolling his hips on your dick. “That’s right,” you say gently. “Fuck yourself on my big dick baby.”

“Mm love you,” he groans. He’s said stuff like that before when he’s in the heat of the moment. You don’t take it seriously. He’s tugging the bra down, teasing his nipples, pinching them. You’re so wet you’re practically grinding your pussy against the harness as he’s riding it. You grab at his dick, sliding it out of the grip of the panties. So pink and achingly full. He’s moaning like a girl as you jerk him off, arching his back into the mattress, grasping at your legs, losing himself while he’s moving his hips, riding the strap.

You’re going a little crazy. You imagined he’d like it but you had no idea he’d like it this much.

“Good boy, fuck. You’re so good,” you whisper, over and over. Watching him fall apart with the strap shoved up inside him. Moaning like a slut.

“Oh fuck, baby, I-I can’t stop—“ he gasps as spurts of creamy white shoot up into the air, he’s coming all over himself, heated sticky liquid coating your hands. “Mm,” he whines. “Mm fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s good baby, it’s okay, holy shit. You liked that a lot huh?” You say gently crawling on top of him.

“Mmhm, thank you,” he says softly.

He’s so adorable you kiss him slow and soft.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend baby?” You whisper.

“Mm,” he whines. “N-not really.”

“What about Patrick? He’s hot right? You ever let him fuck you?”

Art squirms a little beneath you and you grin. “It’s okay, you can tell me later. First I want you to use your mouth for something else.”

“Mm yeah,” he says, licking his lips eagerly as you ease the strap off and move to straddle his face.

[l-starsz]

a/n: i don’t actually like this but i planned to post it when i was writing it so yeah:) also i wrote this because most if not all of my inbox is smut requests (i’m not complaining) and i felt like writing some fluff

my heart was hurting. everything was hurting and i didn’t know why. i closed my eyes and tried to distract myself. i played music. i watched something. no matter what i did, my mind wandered back to one thing. her voice.

i tried watching videos to hear her voice but it was no use. i needed to call her. i knew i shouldn’t though. she was out with friends. i needed to give her space. i tried so hard to keep myself distracted. i really did try. i couldn’t though.

my mind began to wander off. back to the one thing i was trying to avoid. i couldn’t. i’d been doing so well. i had the strongest urge. but i knew i just needed to keep myself busy for a little longer. just until billie was home.

i managed to keep myself occupied for all of 10 minutes before i couldn’t anymore. it was either hurting myself, or call billie. and i know what she’d rather me do. and i know what i wouldn’t regret later. i picked up my phone, finding billies contact before deciding whether to facetime her or just call her.

i ended up calling her, i didn’t want her or her friends to see how i looked. i wasn’t sure if she’d answer. she’d answer if she were to see my call, i know that, but i was worried she wouldn’t see it since she was a little busy.

as soon as i heard the ringing, my heart dropped. what if i ruined her day? what if she got mad? i tried to push those thoughts aside as i heard billies voice down the phone after a few rings.

“hey baby! everything okay?”

i stayed silent for a second. i didn’t want her to be mad at me.

“what’s going on love? talk to me.” her tone softened slightly.

“i.. i’m having a difficult day.” i sighed.

small tears rolled down my cheeks as i sniffled, trying to keep myself calm.

“tell me about your day, i’ll try to make it better baby.” i heard her move, probably to somewhere more private where we could talk.

“i just.. i don’t know i’ve just been stressed and i feel anxious. i needed to hear your voice to distract me a bit.”

she comforted me for a little bit and made sure i’d calmed down. she ended up making me laugh and making my mood so much better.

“i’m proud of you for calling me. i’ll be home soon okay?”

“okay billie i love you. thank you.”

“i love you, see you soon pretty girl.” she blew some kisses down the phone, and i did too before ending the call.

i decided to go make some food for when she got back, i mean she just took time out of her day to comfort me when she could’ve ignored me and spent time with her friends, so i wanted to do something for her.

i put my headphones in and turned some music on, then began making the food. because i had my headphones in, i didn’t hear when billie walked in the house. i was in the middle of stirring the food when i felt two arms wrap around my waist, and one of my headphones being taken from my ear.

i flinched before i heard her voice.

“hey baby, i missed you.” she whispered to me, placing a gentle kiss on my neck.

“i missed you more bil.” i smiled, turning in her arms to hug her.

we swayed side to side for a minute before i heard her speak.

“i’m gonna go change, do you need any help?”

i shook my head and smiled, giving her a gentle kiss before she spoke again.

“are you feeling better now? did it help when you called earlier? i just wanna make sure you’re okay.” she took my hands into hers.

“i feel so much better thank you my love. i’m sorry i had to call you whilst you were spending time with your friends.” i mumbled the last part, feeling genuinely guilty.

“don’t be sorry angel. i want you to call me anytime you feel like that no matter what i’m doing. i care about you so much and i’d do anything to make sure you’re okay.”

“are you sure?” i whispered.

she pulled me closer into her embrace again.

“of course i’m sure. now i’m gonna go change and then we can talk about what was bothering you. okay?”

i nodded against her, letting her go before i finished the food.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Looks like I haven't. Okay, well, let's see. I'll just give highlights, but it'll be long, so let's do a readmore.

So, in mid-2022, I dared to age past about 35 and therefore started withering bodily. Of course, this is partly my fault, because I do not get enough exercise, but also (shakes fist at uncaring universe, pulls muscle in fist) Life Hates Me

So, I started getting muscle pain between the shoulder blades. In my case, this is actually one of those annoying to-avoid-one-disability-you-created-another things, because I've had problems with my lower back since I was in my mid-20s thanks to never using proper lumbar support. Therefore, my standard spot to be in my living room became the sofa that stretches away from the TV, because then I could lie on the sofa and prop my head up on the arm to watch, but that means I spent several years as a recreational candy cane and NOW HERE WE ARE. I remember desperately trying to find a massage therapist that could see me that day before I went away to Edinburgh in August that year, and there was nowhere at all available. I had to get one in Edinburgh when I arrived, which was lovely, but also about £20 more expensive, because Edinburgh.

And then! In November! Of 2022!

I must have wished really hard. Because around the corner from my house - so close I could forward roll that distance, if it weren't for, you know (gestures at body, pulls muscle in arm)... a massage parlour opened.

Except. Here's the thing.

It had a name like "Swansea Oriental Massage" or "Thai Lotus Massage" or what have you (real name not given for privacy reasons.) The kind of name that makes you go "Ah. An independent business, likely staffed by workers fresh from abroad, with a name that implies exotic women to a certain type of client. This may be entirely what it claims, but it definitely Fits a Profile."

And to be clear, I have no issues at all with it being a brothel! I truly, genuinely don't. But for obvious reasons, I do want to know if I'm booking a session with a masseuse or a sex worker, because those are very different types of happy endings.

So Steff and I tried looking them up, which became almost a game in itself. We were like "Right. It has a legitimate-looking website that offers three different types of massage: Swedish, Chinese and deep tissue, complete with a disclaimer that deep tissue is not recommended unless you have good pain tolerance. A brothel would probably use more euphemisms, right? Intimate massage, full personal, that sort of thing. But maybe those are euphemisms?"

And then we'd be like "We have found a review. It says 'Very relaxing, beautiful girl.' That could either be a clumsily worded review from a gross orientalist marvelling about the massage, or it could be a subtle nod to them being sex workers."

And we went back and forth for weeks, until in the end I was like, no, enough. I am in pain. There must be someone, in any brothel, who can give a genuine massage - if you hide behind the phrase 'massage parlour', you MUST get people turning up occasionally looking for a back, neck and shoulders. It's the seamstress/needlewoman thing in Pratchett. They must be able to go 'Tracy, this one's for you.' That's who I need. I need Tracy. I need to be able to enter and go "Trace, what it is, it's my neck - no, no, Trace, leave your clothes on. Or, don't, I don't know your process. At this point I don't care. You know what? You do you. Mash my neck, don't worry about the happy ending."

(Well, unless it's reasonably priced as an add-on. I'm bisexual and I love a bargain.)

So one particularly painful day I thought fuck it, and I rang to book.

It did not clear anything up.

"Hello!" I said, when the lovely woman on the phone answered. In the interests of avoiding embarrassment on all sides, I decided to be Very Clear. "I currently have pain in my neck and shoulders, so I'm after a massage."

"Of course!" said the nice lady. "When would you like?"

"Tonight?" I asked. "About seven? If you can fit me -"

"Of course!" she beamed. "We will see you at seven!"

And she hung up. That was it. She did not take my name, or anything further; there was no indication as to how I would make sure I could, you know, actually claim the appointment on arrival. That was it.

"Hmm," I thought.

And then the phone rang. I picked up.

"I forgot to ask!" said the woman. "Do you want a male or a female?"

This, I thought, could still very much go either way.

"Well," I said. "I don't mind. As it's for getting knots out, I suppose -"

"Ah!" she said delightedly. "A male! See you later!"

And she hung up again.

"Hmm," I thought.

And so it was that I went to the massage parlour that evening, still none the wiser, waved off by my husband telling me to take the happy ending if it's offered, because he didn't mind at all and didn't want me to feel unsatisfied. This was very kind, but also qualifies for a "He's a little confused but he's got the spirit" meme, because I cannot tell you how little I was thinking about sex and how much I was thinking about the Gordian situation in my trapezoids and the way it was making me move like a T-rex.

Anyway. I was met by a lovely man who took me to a private room, gave me a towel, and told me to call him in once I was undressed and settled on the bed. This I duly did.

And then, what followed ended up being an hour and a quarter of the best massage I have ever had in my entire fucking LIFE.

I paid for an hour, to be clear. But this guy put his hands on my shoulders, frowned, said "Hmm," and then proceeded to work me over like I was meat for a tenderiser. It wasn't sexual. I just ceased being a person in his eyes. I was just muscles to him. Flesh to sculpt. I became a personal challenge. I watched as he passed into a state of intensive hyperfocus, time slipping away from us. He was like a fucking truffle pig after those knots, Tumblrs. He found every one. I could literally hear them clicking as he pressed them.

It was also, and I cannot stress this enough, the closest I have ever come to achieving enlightenment. There were points where I thought I was no longer in residence. I think I purred.

Eventually, he remembered the time, and left so I could get dressed. Then he sat me down in a chair and spent a final bonus ten minutes on my neck and shoulders, during which we chatted. His UK name is Chris (it's not, but both his real UK and Chinese names are here redacted for obvious privacy reasons), and he told me all about how he wanted to be an architect, and how his parents were hoping he would go back to China but he likes Wales and wants to stay, and which is the best Cantonese restaurant in Swansea. It was great. Transcendent experience. I walked out pain-free for the first time in months. He told me to drink water because it would remove the toxins the massage might have unleashed, and I thought that is not true, Chris, but I will do it for you.

I got home. "It's not a brothel!" I told my waiting husband and friends. "It's a legitimate massage parlour!"

"Hurrah!" they all said. "Perhaps we should get massages too."

And so, I went weekly. One time he had to reschedule, and so I received a message saying "Hello, this is Chris the massage boy", which is the most endearing sentence anyone has ever said to me, just absolutely delightful. Such a nice guy.

And then, one day, Steff thought maybe he'd go and get a massage.

And; well.

It turns out, Tumblrs, I had drawn a conclusion from too few datapoints; it turns out, Tumblrs, if you are male, in addition to the Swedish/Chinese/deep tissue options, you also get to order off the Forbidden Menu.

I had been ushered into a room where I was given a towel, and Chris would leave and only return once I was under the towel on the bed, so that he never saw a thing. But the first major difference we discovered was that, when Steff arrived, he was taken to a room and the woman who took him in then watched him expectantly until he stripped naked in front of her.

He did so, and got on the bed. She said, "Do you want two hands? Four hands? I can bring someone in."

"Oh," said Steff. "Um. Just a massage, please."

She stared at him.

"But," she said. "You don't want...?"

She mimed, very graphically, the act of wanking him off.

"No thanks," said Steff, voice getting higher.

"No??" she said, dumbstruck.

"Just a massage, please!" squeaked Steff.

They stared at each other.

"Okay," she said after a moment. "Okay."

She gave him the massage. It was very good. He's been back a few times. He's offered the menu every time. Every time, they are baffled by his refusal.

And then tragedy struck after almost a year - Chris the massage boy became Chris the no-longer-massage boy and moved away to Cardiff. Devastating. Horrifying. I was inconsolable for months. Why do bad things happen to good people.

Which meant I started seeing the other workers there. I don't think I've ever seen the same one twice, so immediately, there's an issue of never getting to a point with anyone where they know how much pressure I like/can take or anything like that; but also, every damn one of them has been a waif of a girl I could bench press with one hand with no ability to do a proper deep tissue massage.

Mostly, this has not been a problem. They do very nice massages regardless, though it turns out they really do just wait for you to get naked in front of them, and Chris was very much an outlier in that regard. But a few months back I did get one who checked the file they apparently had on me, and got out her language translation app on her phone, and spoke into it. In English it read, "You want me to go hard? Deep?"

"Well," I said. "Just on my back, if possible?"

Her phone translated what I said into Chinese, for her to read. She nodded, and said something back, and held up the phone.

"My me is very small," it read. "But I will try."

And then what she did, Tumblrs, was channel every ounce of rage and hatred and inter-generational trauma for the British that she possessed in her heart straight into into her hands and, by extension, my me. Have you ever seen someone, like, scrub at a bloodstain that won't come out, and is going to send them to prison? Ever seen someone scrub so hard and so fast and so desperately that they start grating off their own fingertips, and yet they just keep scrubbing? Ever seen someone scrub like their life might literally be depending on it?

How I still have skin baffles me. I'm astonished she didn't buff off every mole on my back. She fucking pummelled me. And the worst part was, she didn't let up once she moved away from my back and down my legs, and I couldn't communicate that she was now going far too hard, because she didn't speak English and her magic phone app was put away, and also I'm a wimp who never tells tradespeople when I'm unhappy. It was an endurance session. I paid her £30 for it, and thanked her once she was done.

Anyway. All this brings me to today.

So I managed to jar my back by falling off a Ninja Warrior cheese-shaped board just before New Year, which, naturally, jarred right between my shoulder blades. Super painful, now passed, but the stiffness has remained and seems reluctant to leave; so, I thought, it's massage time.

And

Well

I think that was the worst massage I've ever had from that brothel.

Not bad as in painful! It was not bad as in "This is actively painful." But it has never been clearer that this girl was a sex worker cosplaying as a massage therapist, and was sort of guessing at what to do.

Like, she started on my back, and normally that's the focus of a massage. I would say you normally get about two thirds of the session on your back. Not so today. Today, in a half hour session, she spent maybe five minutes, if that, just loosely running her hands up and down my back. Just loosely. Sort of skimming her hands over the skin, if you will. A sort of extended stroke, like I was a flighty Thoroughbred.

Then she moved on, whereupon she she spent, conservatively, about TEN FULL MINUTES on the backs of my legs. Some of that was doing a sort of pressing pinch, where she was squeezing big handfuls of flesh. Some of it was a massage stroke. And the rest of it - quite a lot of it, actually - was her attempting that thing where massage therapists do the smacking with the sides of their hands, but she hadn't understood it, so it was actually about ten minutes of being softly but rigorously karate chopped on the thighs and calves.

(No overlapping strokes, mind. I appreciated the transferrable skills on display.)

Next, she told me to turn over, so I did. At this point, she attempted to put a towel over me. I'm unsure why, since I was bollock naked and had been the whole time; perhaps she wanted me to stay warm? I don't think it can have been for modesty, though, at least not entirely, because I KNOW the kitty cat was not wholly covered. I think there was a good centimetre or two of labia poking out the base, two happy little hills, peeping out at the room as the session progressed.

And progress it did, but with one change - she used absolutely zero oil to do my front. From this point onwards, this encounter was was done dry. That is probably making some of you wince, but honestly, it actually wasn't that bad, for reasons of there was very little massaging that actually required it from here on out.

She sort of pulled on my fingers first of all. Really very firmly too, one of them clicked. She started with my left arm, and pulled every finger in turn; then she raised my hand up above my elbow, pressed her thumbs into the centre, and then quite literally punched my palm. Then she laid the arm back down, held my shoulder down with one hand, and then used her other hand to grab my arm at different points to sort of half squish it, half grind it into the bed. And then she yanked on my shoulder, karate chopped a bit more on my forearm, and then that was it for Arm 1. Arm 2 was much of the same, except she added in a fun lil move where she sort of waved it about a bit from the shoulder a couple of times.

Then she went back to my legs. No more oil, so she sort of half-heartedly prodded and karate chopped my shins a bit, but to be honest I don't think her heart was in it by then.

But THEN she had a brainwave, so the last five to ten minutes were an attempt at a face massage.

Except when I say a face massage, I mean:

Well; she started well?

She did the fingertips on the temples, thumbs on the forehead, rotate gently thing, which lasted maybe 15 to 20 seconds. But then she got bored, I suspect, so she smooshed my cheeks a bit and rotated them vigorously like a cartoon character. And then she decided that I carry my stress in my forehead, so she started gently pinching my eyebrows and spider walking her fingertips left and right across them. And then she massaged my forehead for a moment

and then

she went back to karate chopping. On my forehead. Where my skull is. Repeatedly.

And like, don't get me wrong - it didn't hurt. But there's only so pleasurable and relaxing you can find "softly yet rapidly struck on the head in a rain of blows for two minutes straight."

Also, and I probably should have led with this, but she had her tits out the whole time.

Anyway it's my favourite place to go for a massage. I mean I now have to go somewhere else tonight to get my back sorted, admittedly, because I in fact carry my stress in the shoulders and not the eyebrows and they were the least attended part of me. But absolutely 10 out of 10 experience, no regrets.

Search is turning up nothing, but that's Tumblr even if there is something, so:

Have I told you guys about my many adventures with the brothel massage parlour around the corner from my house yet?

[taehyungsgrowl]

birthday cake

hi! it is one of my best friends birthday today (happy birthday, reyna ily) and so here is a little yoongi birthday fic 🩷

in which yoongi decides to make a cake for his gf…

just blushy yoongi. fluff. slightly suggestive. no smut!

Yoongi found himself standing in the middle of his tiny kitchen, apron tied around his waist, frantically flipping through a baking book. He hadn’t baked in God knows how long, but today was different—today was Y/N's birthday, and he was determined to surprise her with the perfect cake.

He glanced at the clock, nodding to himself—plenty of time before she’d be back. No need to worry. After all, how hard could making a birthday cake be?

He regretted those thoughts instantly, rushing the first layer of cake back to the counter—if you could call it rushing. The kitchen was a disaster: eggshells scattered like confetti, flour dusting every surface (mixing in with the few strands of gray that nestled between his black hair), half-used sticks of butter, and sugar in places sugar should never be. "Ah, ah, ah..." His fingers danced under the baking tray, trying to avoid the heat, even through his thick baking mitts.

He shoved everything he could into the sink, trying to make room for the first cake layer. This couldn’t be the only way to do it—he had to have missed a step. What do you mean he had to repeat the whole process for the second layer? He muttered curses under his breath. Why hadn’t he thought to grab a second pan? Now he’d have to clear the one he was using, then make the frosting, decorate the cake, clean up, decorate the house, and still somehow look presentable. Where had the time gone? Y/N would be home any minute, and the kitchen looked like a war zone—with no cake in sight.

Yoongi's phone vibrated in his back pocket, taking him out of his zone. Her face flashed on his screen from the incoming call. Panic started to set it. She'd have to be on her way if she was calling! He tried to get it together and answered the call. "Hi honey," she could hear the smile in his voice, "Happy Birthday."

"Yoongi, you've already wished me a happy birthday," she laughed, adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder as she walked down the street.

Yoongi’s phone was wedged between his shoulder and neck, his head tilted just enough to keep it in place. His hands were busy, stirring the cake mixture as he tried to work the clumps out. "Yeah, I know I already said it, but I mean it. I want you to have the happiest day—every day, really. How was lunch with your sister?" He was proud of how carefree he could sound despite the anxiety this cake was giving him.

"Great! I'm actually calling you to tell you that she's taking me to go pick out my gift so I'll be back at a little later than expected -"

"He'll be fineee," he heard Y/N's sister whine in the background.

"Tell her I say hello too," he chuckled, "And not to keep you too late -she has to share." He couldn't stop the pout from forming on his lips, but he was also started making a mental list of ways he could thank Y/N's sister for buying him time. It was gonna be okay!

He quickly resumed his work, moving through the kitchen at the speed of light (or so it felt - but he had to keep stopping to check the instructions and recipe).

Yoongi carefully tried to lift the first cake layer, hoping he could slide it onto the cooling rack without incident. But as he moved it, the spatula slipped, and the edge of the cake tipped over the side. The layer landed with a soft thud on the counter, its corner now crumpled and slightly bent.

“C’mon, don’t fall apart now,” he muttered, his heart rate picking up. He gently tried to lift the cake, but the soft edges were starting to crumble under his touch.

With a frustrated sigh, he quickly steadied the layer, praying it wouldn’t collapse entirely. The last thing he needed was for this to fall apart before he even got to the frosting.

He glanced nervously at the clock—Y/N would be home soon, and this wasn’t exactly the picture of a perfect cake. "This is fine," he told himself, wiping his hands on his apron. “It’s fine. I’ll fix it.”

He gently placed the cake back on the rack, willing the crumbling edges to hold. It wasn’t perfect, but it was salvageable. At least, he hoped it was. Frosting fixes everything, right?

After more work, Yoongi stepped back and looked at the scene with a small, exhausted sigh. The cake wasn’t perfect, but it was finished—mostly intact and topped with a layer of frosting that, while not “artistic,” at least covered the obvious flaws. He gave a quick glance at the clock again. Y/N would be home soon!

He quickly grabbed a rag, scrubbing down the surfaces, and tossing used utensils into the sink. He kept glancing over at the cake, praying that it would stay intact for a few more minutes. It wasn’t perfect, but he was determined to make it look like he had it all together.

His mind was already racing to the next task. The house. He had to make it look less like a disaster and more like a cozy birthday surprise. Yoongi hurried through the living room, straightening the pillows on the couch and turning on her favorite candle. He didn’t have time for perfection, but he could at least make the place feel welcoming. He placed the happy birthday banner up on the wall. The fresh bouquet of flowers gently placed in a vase. It was all coming along!

The door opened just as Yoongi finished adjusting the last of the decorations. His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly wiped his hands on the apron, glancing around the living room one last time to make sure everything was in place. It wasn’t perfect—there were still a few flour smudges on the counter, and he hadn't quite managed to get the place spotless—but it would have to do.

He opened the door with a wide grin, his eyes lighting up as he saw Y/N standing there her face lighting up when she spotted him.

“Happy birthday!” he exclaimed, his voice a little too loud, a little too eager. The words came out with so much enthusiasm, but that was fine—he was just relieved she was finally home.

Y/N smiled back at him, her eyes softening in that way they always did when she looked at him. "You didn’t have to do all this," she said, looking at the decorations and then back at him. "It looks amazing."

Yoongi’s heart fluttered at the compliment, but before he could say anything more, Y/N’s eyes flickered down, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Uh… Yoongi,” she started, her gaze narrowing in on the corner of his mouth. “I think you missed a spot.” She reached up and gently wiped her thumb across his lip, picking up a small smudge of chocolate frosting that he hadn’t noticed. Without missing a beat, placed the thumb in her mouth sucking it clean, slow and deliberate.

Yoongi’s face went red as he stepped back, blinking in surprise. "What? Oh," he chuckled, his voice soft as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I, uh... might’ve taste-tested the cake. Can’t risk it being too sweet, right?”

Yoongi’s gaze flickered to her thumb, then back to her, his breath catching in his throat. He was blushing so hard he could feel the heat creeping up to his ears.

He flashed her a sheepish smile, still standing in the doorway in his apron, realizing only now how ridiculous he must look. “I kind of got caught up in... well, the cake... and, uh, decorating…” He gestured vaguely to the living room. “You know, the usual birthday chaos.”

Y/N laughed softly, the sound light and warm. She stepped inside, giving him a playful shove. "You're adorable," she teased, brushing past him to take in the rest of the room. “But seriously, you didn’t have to go all out like this. I’m happy just being with you.”

Yoongi felt a swell of warmth in his chest as he closed the door behind her. “I wanted it to be special,” he said quietly, his gaze softening as he watched her smile.

“Don’t worry, it is,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a wink. "Though, I might have to help you with that messy kitchen... and maybe some other things later."

Yoongi followed her into the kitchen and he nervously glanced at the cake, still standing in the kitchen with his hands behind his back. He couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck. "Uh, so..." He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "I, uh, made this for you."

He turned around slowly to reveal the cake—lopsided but covered in a thick, uneven layer of frosting, and sprinkled with a few hastily placed decorative touches. It wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely made with care.

Y/N smiled warmly, her eyes softening as she looked at the cake. "Wow, you really did this all yourself?" she asked, genuinely impressed. She leaned in closer, taking in the little imperfections with a fond smile. "I love it. It’s perfect."

Yoongi rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, looking anywhere but at her as his heart raced. "I, uh, wanted it to be special. I know it’s not... fancy, but I—"

Before he could finish, Y/N leaned in, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Don’t worry," she said, her voice soft as she reached for the cake. "I think it’s perfect."

Without another word, she dipped her finger into the frosting and brought it to her mouth, licking it off slowly, savoring the taste. Yoongi’s breath hitched as he watched her, his pulse spiking. He tried to look away, but his gaze was glued to her finger and the way she cleaned it off, her eyes meeting his for just a second.

The warmth in his chest spread to his cheeks, and he immediately turned his head to hide the flush on his face. “Did you... like it?” he asked, his voice low. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest like it was about to leap out of his ribcage.

Y/N, still holding her finger to her lips, smiled coyly. “Mm, I do. It’s... sweet.” She licked her lips slowly, her gaze playful. “I think I’ll need more of this.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, the heat in his face intensifying. He opened his mouth to say something, but his brain couldn’t quite catch up with his racing thoughts. Instead, he just stammered, “Happy birthday, by the way…”

She let out a small giggle, stepping closer to him.

“Mm, the cake is really yummy," Y/N said with a smile, wiping a little frosting off her lips as her eyes locked with his. The look was gentle, but there was something in it—something more—something Yoongi recognized.

He stepped closer, the space between them narrowing. “I’m glad you like it," he murmured, his voice low. His hand reached for hers, fingers brushing her skin lightly.

Y/N’s thumb traced the back of his hand, the light touch sending warmth up his arm. She didn’t say anything more, but the silence between them was heavy with everything they’d been feeling in that moment. She was close and yet it wasn’t enough. Yoongi could feel his breath hitch as he gazed at her, his fingers tightening around hers just a little.

"Y/N," he breathed out, his voice soft but full of meaning. She didn’t pull back. Instead, she gave him a look that made his stomach flip, and the distance between them was gone.

He leaned in, his lips finding hers with a familiarity that made his heart race even more. It wasn’t tentative or hesitant. It was the kind of kiss they shared when there was nothing else in the world but the two of them. Yoongi’s hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb gently brushing her cheek as he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer.

Y/N’s arms slid around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, her body pressing into his. Yoongi’s chest tightened with the simple pleasure of having her so close, so warm. They kissed slowly, savoring the closeness, the sweetness of the moment. His tongue parted her lips as he deepened the kiss. He could taste the chocolate off her tongue.

Yoongi smiled as he heard her gasp against his kiss. He swallowed her sounds, his fingers gripping her hair.

Y/N's senses were everywhere. The sweet scent of the kitchen filling her nose, Yoongi's tongue tracing patterns as he kissed her, her fingers tangled in his hair.

She could feel him smirk as she gripped his hair and Yoongi made a mental note to keep his long length just a little longer (if it were up to Y/N, he knows he wouldn't be getting his hair cut any time soon).

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they caught their breath. Yoongi smiled softly, his fingers still tangled in her hair.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a little raspier than usual.

She smiled back, her eyes sparkling with affection. “Thank you, Yoongi," she said, brushing her lips lightly against his. "Best gift ever.”

Everything just felt right. It was simple—just them, the cake, and this little piece of happiness they’d carved out together.

[horsechestnut]

I think my ideal Steph, Cass, and Tim dynamic would be that they're all best friends, but they can not all hang out together. Like, if you ask any one of them who their best friend is they genuinely will not be able to pick between the other two, but all three of them together triggers each of their insecurities in the worst way and always leads to a fight.

Like, Steph and Cass are so affectionate with each other, and constantly flirting and Tim assumes their teasing, but what if they're not, and oh god is he third wheeling on a date between his ex-girlfriend and his sister? They don't actually want him here, they invited him to be nice and he was to oblivious to realize it wasn't genuine. He should leave. But before he can come up with a believable excuse they've changed topics and... hang on, did Steph just say her dad threw a book at her once? Because so much of Steph and Cass's relationship is built on an understanding that they won't make a big deal when they mention something messed up about their past that they just say stuff like that, but Tim does not have that same understanding. So Tim hears that and instead of rolling with it, it's "Steph you can't just say that like it's not a big deal... why is Cass laughing? You can't laugh at that it's fucked up! I don't care that it was a long time ago!" And now Cass is confused and Steph is angry and Tim feels like shit for probably ruining what they wanted to be a date and frustrated that he's being treated like he's overreacting despite being the only one with a normal reaction to child abuse. Mostly he's terrified that he screwed this whole thing up somehow and neither of them is going to want to hang out with him again.

Meanwhile Steph and Tim are so intrinsically linked to each other. They've shared things they will never share with anyone else, they were each others first love. And Cass understands that, she does, but it's hard sometimes seeing how easy they are with each other. The way Steph knows Tim's upset without having to read his body langue the way Cass does or Tim can predict exactly how late Steph will be to any given situation. More than that though, what truly makes her want to hide away from them, is the history they both had but didn't share. The sly comments about Tim looking like a character Cass has never heard of or jokes that make no sense but send Steph into laughing fits. The kind that when she asks are brushed off with "it was an old meme" or "just a show from when we were kids". The reminders that she isn't normal, she can never really be like them. If she doesn't ask most of the time it doesn't occur to them to explain, it seems so obvious to them. They start doing a synchronized dance from some movie that came out when they were in middle school and Cass slips away into the shadows. Later she gets a string of concerned text that slowly turn angry when she doesn't answer. Cass never tells them what was wrong.

And it's hard for Steph to look at Cass and Tim and not feel jealous, because more than just being friends, they're siblings. They are full members of the club, Bruce's children, let into the fold in a way she never can be. She doesn't even want to be anymore if she's being honest, but it still stings. They'll casually mention family dinner or reference inside jokes from the last Wayne charity whatever and Steph will feel the growing desire in her chest that she can not, under any circumstances, let anyone see. The desire that has caused her so much pain, she will not give it control over her again. And Cass calls Tim Robin sometimes, and he calls Cass Batgirl in return, and Steph has to bite back the urge to scream at them that she was Robin too! She is also a Batgirl! But it doesn't matter because she wasn't Cass's Robin or Tim's Batgirl, and it drives her insane that they're romanticizing that time, because don't they remember how much of an asshole Bruce was back then? And now Tim is mad at her for bring up the past as if they're not the ones who started it, and Cass is assuring her that Bruce has changed, and maybe he has, but it's to fucking late! He already ruined any chance of Steph every feeling fully comfortable with her place in their lives. So she storms off, fuming, leaving a baffled Tim and Cass to go enjoy their stupid family dinner.

So yeah, they are best friends. They all love each other more than they know how to say, and trust each other more than anyone else in the world. But they can never all hang out together. That only ever ends in disaster.

[lovelynim]

Sick Leave

Zenless Zone Zero - Wise x Asaba Harumasa

A/N: To think this is the first thing that I managed to finish after all this time... well, it is what it is, but I think I like it.

Summary: Is 'tickled to death' a good reason to ask for a day off work?

Word count: 1304 words

Wise blinked in confusion, still trying to process the absurdity - or reasonability - behind Harumasa’s explanation. He sat back down on top of the other man’s lap; his hands, once poised to strike, now hesitating, clenching at the couch beneath them.

“But-”

“If you really care, proxy, you can’t,” Harumasa insisted, even crossing his arms behind his head before laying back down. “Doctor’s orders,” he added, making Wise pout slightly.

How could such a good, priceless intel be wasted just like this? Be discarded like a spam e-mail or like a troll post on the Inter-Knot? Still, Wise would probably die out of regret if he actually ended up hurting Harumasa because of something like that.

Seeing the upset frown on Wise’s face, a lighthearted chuckle broke the silence between the two men. “I’m sorry ~,” Harumasa cooed and Wise could swear that there was some mockery hidden in those words, “I’m such a disappointment, ain’t I?”

“Don’t say that,” the proxy sighed, shaking his head before his arm on the couch’s backrest, “it’s just hard to believe.” 

Too hard, actually, to the point that Wise could cross his heart and hope to die on it. Asaba Harumasa, elite agent, part of the armed forces under H.A.N.D., member of the Hollow Special Operations Section 6… couldn’t, for medical reasons, be tickled?

Wise heard this absurd merely moments ago. He and Harumasa were watching a movie (yes, cuddling together on the couch, but that’s not important *caham*) and, on the screen, one character tickled the other. A brief, short-lived moment, mostly irrelevant to the plot itself. Still, that scene lingered just enough inside Wise’s mind and sparked a question, the question.

‘Are you ticklish, Harumasa?’ Wise had mumbled with his cheek still pressed on top of Harumasa’s chest, his words barely distinguishable from gibberish. ‘Yes, but don’t do it,’ was the other’s plain, calm answer.

Oh, but why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he tickle Harumasa to tears right there and then?

As if controlled by some sort of bigger, incomprehensible force, Wise felt the need to tickle Harumasa at that exact moment. The agent’s words had barely made it inside WIse’s brain and he could already picture all sorts of scenes - Harumasa laughing, blushing, hiding his giggling face behind his hands…

He had to do it!

The proxy, then, moved his hands - his fingers trailing up both Harumasa’s sides at the same time, lightly grazing and wiggling against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt - and, seconds later, wise could already feel the grip around his wrists, stopping his hands in their tracks and holding them away from the other man’s body.

“I asked you not to, proxy,” Harumasa repeated sternly, his golden eyes leaving the movie aside to look down at Wise’s face.

“Why? Are you that ticklish, Harumas-”

“Because I will get hurt.”

Maybe it was the dead-serious tone in Harumasa’s voice or the (fake) concern in his eyes when he said that, but Wise’s mind went blank. He expected a plea, an angry facade or even some silly excuse… but ‘get hurt’?

The agent, then, explained that his body couldn’t stand being tickled - not because of its apparent sensitivity - but because of his health’s condition. 

“My lungs are too weak to let me properly breathe while I’m… under such stress, not to mention my heart could literally explode trying to keep up with it!” It did sound serious, a bit convincing, even. 

Wise did think about arguing back, saying how Harumasa could tear all sorts of horrors from the hollows apart effortlessly, and, therefore would be able to stand a bit of tickling, but fighting ethereals and protecting citizens sounded like a much better use for his energy than getting tickled just to please the desires from a single proxy’s heart.

“But what if I am gentle?” Wise suggested, back to present, still trying to find a way into it.

Harumasa’s only answer was a sigh. “That’s not how it works,” he mumbled, softening his tone to add to the dramatic charge of his act, “before we notice, my skin will be covered in bruises, I’ll be coughing like dying man and my heart will be as good as a broken bangboo left-” 

“Okay, okay, I get it…” Wise interrupted, waving a hand close to his chest in the hopes of sparing himself from any other gruesome detail of the consequences of tickling Harumasa. Still, that was starting to sound a bit… too much.

“I’m glad you understood it, proxy,” Harumasa smiled, pushing his body up for a brief moment just to wrap his arms around Wise’s neck and drag him back down with him right after. “I really wish I could experience such a thing, but you know how my life is extra diffi- p-prohoxy?!”

 Before Harumasa’s act could come to an end, a strained chuckle interrupted his line. With widened eyes, he looked down at Wise’s face - inches away from his - as if hoping that the source of the sensation that just crept up his spine was a mere accident.

“Yes?” Wise grinned slightly, his chin resting by the top of Harumasa’s collarbone.

Harumasa could feel his throat closing, the pressure inside his mouth as his teeth gritted, and his muscles tensing up while Wise’s thumbs rubbed into his lower ribs. “I-I thohought you- ahAH - w-would spahare me of suhuch pain!”

“Wrong,” Wise clicked his tongue, feeling encouraged by the reactions he was managing to draw out of the other guy, “[..........].”

It didn’t take more than a couple seconds for Harumasa to understand that Wise managed to see through his act. That whole discourse may have fooled Seth and Soukaku, but it definitely didn’t seem to work on Wise, the agent noted mentally.

“W-Wise, wahahait! I was seheherious! AHah, plehease, let m-me explahahain!” Harumasa whined, one of his hands reaching for Wise’s while the other latched onto Wise’s shoulder, trying to push him away. None of these attempts, however, had the desirable outcome.

Harumasa couldn’t help but smile - genuinely, this time - as Wise’s fingers wiggled and traced his ribs and the sides of his chest, searching for any ticklish spot like a carrot program collecting data from a hollow. “Your body seems to be handling it pretty well, huh?” Wise teased, as cheeky as possible.

“It’s nOHOhot!!” Harumasa whined, kicking his feet on one end of the couch and pressing his head back on the other. “W-Wise, plehehease!! AHAhah! ~”

“Wait, are you ticklish here too?” 

“W-wahait, not thehEHE-”

“...”

[The next day]

“Asaba-kun, you don’t expect me to really approve another leave this week, do you?” Yanagi sighed, looking at the papers her colleague had handed her. “What are these symptoms even supposed to indicate? Cheek and abdominal pain, labored breathing…” 

“Y-you don’t need to read it, vice-captain, just sign it” Harumasa groaned sheepishly, standing next to her desk, “I don’t even need it to be long this time, it’s just so I can get checked and make sure my condition isn’t getting any worse.”

Yanagi looked at him with the corner of her eyes, over the lenses of her glasses. She wasn’t convinced. “Please, vice-captain! It’s been like this since- since yesterday! It’s hurting so bad that I had to put up a battle this morning just to come here and talk to you!”

“...sigh, I hope you already have the compensation for this in mind, Asaba-kun. But, of course, you may go see a doctor.”

“Thank you, vice-captain! You’re the best!” Harumasa cheered, springing back into life as if cured just with the idea of getting a day off. 

He could hear Soukaku asking Yanagi about his leave while he walked out and an unpleased groan coming from the vice-captain, but it didn’t matter. If anything, Wise was the one to blame this time, not him.  

[iglowindark]

@sideguitars and @makicarn you may regret engaging me about my 2025 Pasta Shape Rubric of Awesome (TM). 😜

i was getting quite annoyed with the New Year's Resolution questions from friends and fam - like, i consistently fail to overhaul my life during the other 11 months of the year, why would January be a magical success month? but i was also bumming everyone out during Resolution Reveals so i decided to pick something that would be fun for me and mildly upsetting for my elders!

the initial format was to "try every pasta shape in 2025". but. there are more than 400 pasta shapes. do you know how often i would have to eat pasta to accomplish this? i mean, i had to use a calculator because i forgot a year had 365 days, but it's MORE THAN ONCE PER DAY. i love pasta, but i also love other food, and i need to leave room in my life for every other cuisine.

so then i settled on "52 pasta shapes in 2025" - but glowy! (you might say) how will you decide which 52 pasta shapes to eat??? out of more than 400???

the answer is, of course: arbitrarily! but with a spreadsheet twist, because my first love in life is hot sauce, and my second love in life is a spreadsheet - no, i lied, i forgot about ms underfoot 😸, ok, she's #1, then hot sauce, then spreadsheets, then probably my family i guess.

ok, so please understand, i literally spent 7 hours and 40ish minutes over the past week assembling, editing, auditing, and admiring this spreadsheet. i started with trusty wikipedia, which helpfully broke down pasta shapes into groups like "long/medium" and "short cut" and "soup". it also had a group for "filled", but maki, sorry to say, this group i eliminated wholesale. there was just so much variation in what they might be filled WITH, and i needed some sort of control element. i didn't think it would be fair to compare cheese ravioli with 3-cheese tortellini? the cheeses are not equal! 🧀🧀🧀

so THEN: i did my own sub-grouping. (actually, first i split long and medium into their own groups, because, duh, they're different) long-flat and long-rolled, for example. i also started combining shapes that were really similar. like linguini and tagliatelle are kinda just the same noodle with slightly different widths/shapes/ingredients? (please, nonnas of the world, do not come for me in the comments, this was SO HARD). this part involved a lot of googling. my ad content for the next 4 months is gonna be all pasta related. through many gruelling rounds of re-googling to remind myself what shape was what, and some painful, tearful cuts (lasagne noodles are for lasagne, not for unserious noodle frippery) i finally finally finally culled my list down to 52 pasta shapes. 🍝 (editor's note: the single emoji does not represent this publication's favored pasta shape)

then the FUN part: how was i going to score these 52 pasta shapes? every google result went to pains to insist that different shapes were meant for specific sauces, and i'm sure that's true, but what's the fun in scoring something based on what it's meant to do? (also i didn't want to commit to having to make 52 different sauces/soups) so i came up with this scientifically rigorous scoring rubric:

BUTTERED/RED SAUCED (depending on my mood and whether or not i have red sauce available)

a pasta may earn up to one (1) point for being really good at holding butter/red sauce

a pasta cannot lose points in this category

PRIMAVERA (my version of primavera just means that i diced up whatever veggies i had handy and tossed them w/ the pasta)

a pasta may earn up to one (1) point if i can make one perfect bite that includes veggies/sauce/pasta

a pasta cannot lose points in this category

ALTERNATE USES

a pasta may earn one (1) point (max 5 points) for every non-food alternate use that i can dream up. for example, orecchiette could be used as hats for frogs! or to decorate the ramparts of a sand castle! 2 points for orecchiette!

a pasta may not lose points in this category

MISC/GENERAL (here's where i let my freak flag fly)

a pasta may earn one (1) point if i think the name is fun to say

a pasta may earn one (1) point if i think the shape is "cute"

a pasta may earn one (1) point if it works in a soup

a pasta may earn one (1) point if it might stick (cooked) on the ceiling

a pasta may earn one (1) point if it could probably be used to build a bridge for matchbox cars

a pasta may lose one (1) point if it sticks together unreasonably

a pasta may lose one (1) point if water gets stuck in it and surprises me with pasta water bites

a pasta may lose one (1) point if i can't eat it with a spoon

a pasta may lose one (1) point if it won't fit in a pot without being broken up

a pasta may lose one (1) point if it breaks when dropped from 5 feet (dried and uncooked)

all pasta shapes must be eaten twice (once with butter or red sauce, and once in a primavera), and once i've submitted my scores to myself, i cannot be influenced or bribed to change them. at the end of the year, a Champion Pasta Shape will be announced and celebrated.

so... was that a lot of senseless work for an absolutely pointless goal just so i can eat lots of pasta? heck yeah it was!!

[whump-in-the-closet]

Whumpee sacrificing themself to protect their friends....that's the shit

AGREE AGREE AGREE

it hits so hard every single fuckjng time

Actually, here’s a little snippet that this ask inspired

Content: team whump, team dynamics, lady whump, sidekick whump, manhandling, beating, gun mention, pistol whipping, branded, sacrificial character, self sacrifice, pinned down, used for bait, vigilante whumpee, supervillain whumper, forced to kneel

Supervillain’s henchmen surrounded the small team in the same way a pack of coyotes swarmed their victim. They could taste victory.

The fight had left them covered in dust and blood and in horrible shape.

Exhausted.

Bleary eyed.

Defeated.

it took two guards to force Leader to kneel. The fight had done a number on her, with one eye swollen shut and her knuckles ripped open, blood dripping into the sand.

Once down, there was the click of a guns safety and the rich smell of powder and metal burning her nose.

She worked her jaw in a tight circle, knocking loose a tooth. The taste of iron was overwhelming and she spat out a glob of blood with something white embedded in it on the henchmen’s boot.

They groaned in disgust.

Then Youngest dropped down beside her, their uniform torn and stained. The fight hadn’t gone well for them either. They were clearly shaking, a hollow look in their eyes.

She tried smiled at them. It came out crooked. “It’ll be okay,” she mouthed.

Youngest grinned back tiredly. They wanted to believe her so so badly.

The henchmen kicked down Medic and tore off their satchel, dumping its contents on the ground. White bandages unraveled in spirals and bottles of much needed medicine spilled into the dirt. Wasted.

Medic’s jaw trembled but they stared directly forward.

“We’ll get it back,” Leader attempted to comfort them in a whisper.

One of the henchmen pressed the muzzle of the gun to her head in a clear threat. “Quiet!”

Leader’s eyes burned. “Or what?”

She never got to hear the answer.

Supervillain strode through his circle of followers, eying the captives. Finally victorious, he adjusted his shirt collar with a grin. But his triumphant smile faltered before fading away altogether.

He looked over the team again, counting them off.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Where was Vigilante? Where was his turncoat sidekick?

Supervillain wasted no time.

“Where are they?” He didn’t need to specify who. Everyone knew who they were. He paced in front of them, each step methodically, pausing for dramatic effect in front of Youngest.

Youngest swallowed, eyes darting to Leader for guidance.

Leader pursed her lips with an almost untraceable shake of her head. Almost.

Supervillain saw it.

“You really think this stubbornness will get you anywhere?” He sighed. “You silly, stupid, little fools.”

He grabbed Youngest by the shirt collar and twisted it, hauling them to their feet. Actually, their feet left the ground and swung above the sand. “Tell me where Vigilante is, or this one won’t be able to say anything at all.”

“Let them go!” Leader’s molecules felt like they would rip apart if she did nothing. She lunged to her feet, frantic. The henchmen reminded her of the gun by whipping the butt across her temple.

White. Blinding, electric white.

There was a sickening thud as she folded over into the dirt.

Medic’s mouth fell open. No—

A few yards away, a shadowy figure had a similar reaction, except they were horrifyingly sick into a discarded helmet.

Vigilante cowered, their invisibility a small escape for now. They suppressed a tremor, their breathing too loud in their own ears— how could Supervillain not hear it?

They watched with wide eyes as Supervillain pinned Youngest to the ground by the sole of his boot. The movement was as fluid as squishing a beetle.

Their breathing faltered, Supervillain’s boot a throbbing memory on their shoulder. How many times had he done the same thing to them?

The last time Vigilante cried had been the day Leader found them.

They were dangerously close to tears now.

They couldn’t go back to him. Back to the beatings and bruises and the red, red room—

They couldn’t—

Coward.

Then Supervillain slipped on spiked metal rings. Slowly, so Youngest could see them. “Someone has to pay for wasting my time.”

Youngest struggled under Supervillain. “I-I’m sorry! Please I don’t know anything, I swear I don’t know I don’t—“

It was too much to hear the tremble in their voice. Vigilante couldn’t take this.

Vigilante didn’t know what came over them. A sense of calm. Something desperate, something other.

They shifted back into visibility.

“Miss me?”

Everyone turned.

Everyone stared.

Supervillain began to smile again. “Hello, Sidekick,” he used their old name like it was a curse. Subtly, he nodded to his henchmen to begin to encircle Vigilante.

Vigilante swallowed. Hard. No turning back now. “It’s Vigilante. Now let them go—“ they gestured at Youngest and the rest of the team. “It’s me you want.” A hint of desperation snuck through the gaps in their teeth, audible.

Supervillain ground the heel of their boot into Youngest’s back. They wheezed, the sound strangled, as something small snapped in their ribcage. “Vigilante!” Help.

“Get off them!” The tone was almost pleading.

“Grab them,” ordered Supervillain and the henchmen wrestled Vigiliante’s hands behind their back, tying them tightly enough to cut off circulation.

Supervillain stepped off of Youngest, who lay sprawled on the sand like a thing discarded. He approached Vigilante.

Vigilante’s breath caught in their throat. The henchmen’s grip was unrelenting, pinning them in place.

With two fingers, Supervillain tilted Vigilante’s chin upwards. And then to the left. Then to the right. Inspecting them from all angles. “I did miss you.” he relented.

Vigilante looked away.

But Supervillain’s touch didn’t leave. It traced downwards, dipping below Vigilante’s shirt collar.

Vigilante swallowed. Please.

Supervillain peeled back the shirt to reveal the brand on Vigilante’s collarbone, as deep and scorched as the day it had been given.

Vigilante’s gaze flickered up, to the glassy blue sky, away from Supervillain’s smug smile and Medic’s sympathetic eyes.

They knew what had to be said. And the words tasted like acid in their throat, built up like plaque on the back of their teeth.

“Take me back.”

“Hm?”

“Take me back. I’ll go. Just…just leave them.”

A pause.

“You’re prepared to accept the punishment for the troubles I’ve been put through to get you back?” The words were like a physical blow and Vigilante flinched.

Medic broke in. “Don’t do it! Don’t!”

“Yes,” they whispered, unable to look away from the bloody sand. Leaders limp body. Youngest curled into a fetal position. Medic. Kneeling.

“What’s that?” Supervillains smile widened.

“Yes,” and tears pricked the corners of their eyes. “Sir.”

[honeyjars-sims]

Part 2 Prologue #1: Growth Mindset

Author's Note: I made some changes to my plans so the next few posts will be the prologue to Part 2 of Safe Harbor. They will fill in some gaps from the last chapter and set things up for the next chapter!

I’m preparing for my therapy appointment but this time instead of making the drive to Evergreen Harbor, I’m logging into our meeting on my PC. 

“So how are things going in San Sequoia?” Khadija asks me once we’re both settled in.

“It’s going great,” I tell her. It’s a little weird seeing her on the screen instead of in person, but before long our conversation feels as comfortable as ever.

“I’m glad to hear it! Is everything going okay with your roommate? I know you were a little apprehensive moving in with someone you don’t know that well.”

“Yeah, Paul’s pretty cool. I figured he would be, being Lucy’s brother and all. And everyone in the community has been welcoming.”

“So no secret cult activity?”

“Nope,” I laugh. “If anyone’s performing any rituals, they’re doing a good job of keeping it under wraps.” My impression of my neighbors so far has been that they’re mostly wannabe bohemians–they like the idea of a homesteading lifestyle but don’t want to fully commit to a life without modern luxuries. Pretentious, maybe, but not harmful.

“It sounds like you like it there.”

“I do. It’s different, but it’s fun. I’ve been helping out with the animals; you know, cleaning the chicken coop and milking the goat, stuff like that. I even helped hatch a chick!”

Khadija laughs. “I have to say, I never expected you to be out in the field doing labor.”

“I didn’t expect it either, but it’s not that bad. I guess I’ve been doing a lot of new stuff lately. Paul convinced me to join a yoga class and I think it’s helped me relax. And would you believe I’ve been doing cross-stitch?”

“Cross-stitch? I wouldn’t have pictured that either, but it sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it takes a lot of patience because I messed up a lot at first, but it's kind of relaxing in a way.”

“Relaxation seems to be a big focus for you right now.”

“I guess so. I’ve been trying to find new ways to regulate my emotions like you suggested. Honestly, I’m feeling really good right now.”

“I can tell. I’m really proud of your progress, Johnny. I can see you’re really putting in the work.”

“Yep, even when it comes to the hard stuff, like having to talk to Lacey, I’ve been able to work through my feelings and do what I need to.”

“Oh yeah, how did that go by the way?”

“It was okay. I just told her what I said to you, that I think she’s a really great person and I value her friendship, but I just don’t have romantic feelings for her. And I apologized for leading her on.”

“How did she take it?”

“Pretty well, I guess. I could tell she was disappointed, maybe even hurt, but she was cool about it. Work was a little awkward for a bit but I think we’ve worked past the worst of it.”

I'm glad that Lacey and I are still friends, but I do feel bad still about how everything went down with her. She's everything that I thought I wanted, but for some reason, it just wasn't clicking for me. The whole thing makes me more empathetic to what Lexie went through when she broke up with me; it really doesn't feel much better to be on the other side of things.

“Well, I’m proud of you for doing the right thing, even if it was difficult. I think it says a lot that you’re trusting your own feelings and not getting hung up on what you think you should do. I’d like to see you do that more often. How does that sound to you?”

“Good, but a little scary,” I answer. 

“A little fear is understandable as long as it’s not keeping you from growing. I think you can work through it, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I wasn't sure I'd ever get to this place, but for once in my life, I actually feel like I can handle whatever's coming my way. And I can't wait to take it on.

Previous | Beginning of story | Beginning of chapter | Next

[genderqueerdykes]

this is prob silly but i appreciate you being so candid about not interacting with much media (like film/tv/pop culture stuff). it's kind of hard to be on tumblr or really even exist if you're not able to interact with media but it's a big trigger for me so i just... can't. like, i've never had anyone understand that it's not a choice i'm making to be special/different/lazy i just have extreme and unhealthly reactions to most media, except some books and comics. which idk if that's how it is for you (its not my business or anything) but i've never felt seen/represented about it before so im thankful, yk?

i appreciate you for sending this! i don't find it silly at all

i think it's very good for you to acknowledge that you have an unhealthy relationship with most forms of media. i'm sorry that you're going through this, but consuming media is not a requirement nor is it something that you genuinely need for your mental health, so it's okay that that's how you feel. i appreciate this because it gives me a chance to talk about something that is important to me, but people struggle to understand why that is

my parents used to make fun of whatever i was watching or playing as a kid over my shoulder. i used to get relentlessly mocked every time i put on a show i liked or played a game in front of either of them. it caused me to have severe trauma for years where i couldn't watch or play anything around other people at all. i still don't like when people ask me to put on things that i do like for a big group. the stress i feel when other people don't enjoy it is not worth it. i'm still very uncomfortable doing this to this day

i've felt pretty alienated all my life due to this. it seems like now more than ever, media, especially fictional media, is so important to general modern culture that it creates a barrier between people who do and don't engage. and it's not like it's a passive thing, i have people get offended at me when i say i haven't seen a movie or TV show. not talking about anyone on here, or any anons i've answered about media! people have been kind and respectful here. but in my real life and in conversations with other people, i have genuinely been mocked or insulted because i don't engage with most television, movies, books and comics.

i've had people question my autism over this. when i've told people in the past that i do not engage with pop culture, fictional media and so on, i've had people actually say "but i thought you were autistic????" like it's genuinely frustrating that it seems like people have shifted to thinking that autistic people's special interests are always cartoons, games and TV shows. it worries me because at times it feels like people are turning the common definition of autism into Media Consumption Disorder. my special interests are queer history & culture, animals & nature, and medicine & psychology. i genuinely enjoy research, it's something i happily do for hours because it stimulates my brain and motivates me. it excites me just as much as i think fiction excites people who can enjoy it. it's more than okay for autistic people to have a piece of media as their special interest, i'm not saying that its not! but it frightens me that people seem to conflate "autistic" with "loves fictional media".

due to my DID, i can't remember plots. like at all. plots confuse the ever loving hell out of me because i can't keep track of what's going on. real life doesn't have a plot. science doesn't have a plot. i don't know if fully understand the point of a plot, honestly. expecting people to be able to remember such an absurd amount of information in order to figure out something that happens down the road or at the very end feels like a herculean task to me. i can't remember what happened to me 10 minutes ago, there's no way i'm remembering a tiny event that happened hours and hours and hours ago. scripted interactions feel so stiff and unnatural to me

people tell me i'm saying i don't know what they're talking about to "be an asshole". i used to have a best friend who got really into dungeons&dragons and it traumatized me for years because i got into at first, then quickly lost interest once i realized how boring actually playing the game is for me. my friend did NOT take it well. he continued to force me to play. if i would ask him to please change the conversation topic he would start insulting and berating me and telling me that i was pretending to not be interested anymore to be mean to him. he couldn't understand that i grew out of it. he never got any better with this, as he was obsessed with marvel films and would get super pissed off if i told him i had no interest or didn't know what to say to him. it was frustrating because i didn't have a choice whether or not i could like something. it was "if you don't like this, you're an asshole."

and it's not just him that's treated me that way. it's been most of my friends. for whatever reason, when you tell the average person that you haven't seen, or god forbid don't like a piece of media, they take it personally for... some reason. as if i said "no i don't watch that because that's bad" as opposed to what i actually say is "i don't know what that is" or "i haven't seen that". you would not believe how insecure people get when you tell them you don't like a piece of media they like. i'm not sure why people feel like their favorite media is an extension of themselves, but it's an unhealthy relationship. it's not healthy to get offended if your friend tells you they haven't seen a piece of media that you have.

i have aphantasia, which is the inability to picture things in my head. i don't get "sucked into" media like people with clearer mind's eyes do. i don't picture anything cool or epic or fun happening in my head because i can't. as a result, i don't get pulled into shows, i don't get invested in tabletop games, i don't really get that affected by the media that i watch because i am painfully aware that i'm staring at a pre-recorded and scripted show the entire time. i'm painfully aware that i'm staring at an actor in a costume i just cannot get immersed in most forms of media save for very rare video games but even then, i immediately stop thinking about it the second i'm done interacting with it

i just don't listen to music and that one baffles people as i'm punk. most music is just straight up overstimulating to me due to my autism. i'm not saying that music is bad, it just overstimulates the everloving hell out of me. most of the time it just hurts my ears or gives me a headache or triggers my misophonia, which results in me getting irrationally pissed off. it's not something i can control. i prefer to listen to nature sounds, very simple meditation music that is a few simple tones, or nothing at all. i actually enjoy silence. i enjoy not overloading my ears. i enjoy being alone with my own thoughts. i can't think when there's too much noise happening

video games are more enjoyable than anything else due to the interactive element, but that does not mean i am paying attention to the characters or the story. it's very rare that a game can actually make me get interested in the characters themselves. i'm just there for the gameplay. generally i prefer games like rollercoaster tycoon, tower unite and other games that don't have a plot at all and are strictly focused on gameplay. i have no idea how people memorize all the different characters and interactions and story beats in games that have an overarching plot.

it's a personal choice. you're allowed to choose what your hobbies and interests are. if pop culture stresses you out, you do not have to engage. i just straight up do not get pop culture references at all and i've had people laugh at me for it but i just really don't care, it's not what i'm interested in as a person. i feel like a lot of people aren't quite realizing that most popular media is made for profit, not to be something genuinely well written or entertaining. i'm not saying those things are bad but what i am saying is that it's a product meant to be consumed in order for you to help a generally huge company profit. there's very little soul and whimsy when it comes to most AAA games and big box office films. the artistic integrity is severely lacking

anyway, thank you for giving me a chance to talk about this more at length! it's why i'm just very honest about it because i'm not going to force myself to change my interests because some people find how i approach life strange, or take it personally. you're allowed to choose what you interact with and don't. you're allowed to define your own interests and hobbies. and i think you're doing a great thing by acknowledging that you have an unhealthy relationship with pop culture. a LOT of people do right now. it's manufactured to be addicting on purpose. binge watching things is encouraged and is becoming seen as a new norm. i don't think people like you or i deserve to be mocked for approaching life in ways that make sense to us. take care of yourself, i appreciate you!

[blueishspace]

Hero, Villain God 47

(Prev) (Next) (First)

*Grian's pov*

You run back to your apartment, you do not appreciate having to do this at all. You had a whole thing pre-planned and they ruined it for you!

Creating an outfit is not the hard part, you can do that pretty easily with the snap of a finger but no matter how oblivuous Scar might be he's still definitely going to question it were you to arrive with an outfit that looks professionally made. You don't think you could justify it without being called out...

...So of course you have to also make it look homemade, like it was made with stuff you had around the apartment in half an hour, what an un-cute start to your sidekick career.

You settle on a pink and blue hoodie and a mask, not the best outfit but you did what you had to to make it look legit... On theme but not outlandish enough to be questioned. And if it is questioned... you'll deal with that later when it becomes a problem.

...And with that you are just in time to pick Hotguy up and make it to Las Nevadas before the commotion ends.

"Cuteguy? Is that?"

"Yep, not my ...first choice but it will have to do... So how do I look?"

"You look like a vigilante when, dressed like that"

"That's hardly my fault Hotguy."

"... Yeah, I know"

...

"You didn't answer, how do I look?"

"Great! I mean, not that you usually look not great, you always look good! But it fits you really well- it looks cool I mean hot I mean...good???"

"Are you.. ok?"

"....I'm... I'm just really tired."

... You can relate with that, a lot has happened in the span of a few hours... especially for you.

"Yep"

"... Sooo, are you ready for your debut?"

"Unfortunately"

"Oh C'mon It's going to be... great?"

He can't even manage to sound like he believes it, zero out of ten encouragement here...one out if ten, at least he's trying.

"So...uh...let's go!"

And he just books it! You are having deja-vu to when Flame did this exact same thing when you met him the first time. What's with super powered people and running away randomly?

"I see how it is Hotguy!"

And you spread your wings and fly to him.

As you approach Las Nevadas you hear the sound of sirens, you forgot about those. In hindsight you really should have thought of the attention a group of notorious villains fighting a group of vigilantes in front of a major casino and hotel would garner, oh well.

You look towards Scar, he is... slightly upset, clearly this is bigger then he expected...you wonder just how little the hero association actually knew and how little of that they actually told him. Considering past presedent you don't have very high hopes.

You kinda wish he would just stop being nice, go a bit apeshit even, for once and tear into them...is that how you use the phrase? You heard Martyn say it during the movie marathon and it definitely fits your opinion on the matter...either way, you really wish he would do something like that even though it probably would cause problems it would also be very satisfying to watch...like Legally Blonde! Nice reference, you learned so much today, you are so proud of yourself.

You land down near the chaos, on top of one of the nearby building, Quackity is gone because he must have chosen to be smart about it and left in the confusion... Flame is currently fighting Xonorth, Worm man is dealing with the Doctor, Seraphin with Mot and you are fighting with you...This is going to get confusing real soon.

You hear Hotguy sighs from your left, you turn towards him, his expression is even more unconfortable then it was earlier.

"This isn't..."

"Well, what now Hotguy?"

"I don't... The association sent us after the vigilantes ..."

You can sense the doubt in bis tone, is he having second thoughts.

"But?"

"I don't think we should target them, we should get the villains...?"

"Uh?"

You turn fully to him.

"T-that makes more sense right? Villains...villains are worse then vigilantes so...they should be the one we get??"

"Makes sense to me?"

"So..."

"So we are working with vigilantes? Even though that's the opposite of what the hero association said?"

"..."

He's silent for a few moments, before you can try to spur him on he steps foward.

"I think so... Just this once."

"Sounds good to me, I'm right behind you."

He turns towards you and smiles, then he jumps into the fray and you follow suit immediately after.

It's a bit much controlling three bodies at once but you think you manage it pretty well! Mother Spore dodges a swipe to the left, Poultryman trows an egg at a guy on the right, Cuteguy slashes a tendril in half... All in all you would say you are doing pretty well.

Chaos is your domain and this almost all vs all is refreshing and sweet and invigorating! Still It's different from how you normally view your domain, usually It's more detached, more uninteresting...but being in the middle of it? Extremely confusing and doubly as entertaining. You get lost in the confusion in the best possible way.

Cuteguy jumps on Mot and Mother Spore summon a mushroom wall around herself and Poultryman uses his wings to deck Paroh. You jump from side to side, fly and swipe and dash and at one point you even do a backflip from no reason other then because It sounded fun and you had no reason not do it...

After a while all the fighting does start to meld together as you get more lost in it, to be fair It's been a while since you have been able to do something like this so you end up being very intense about it-

...

And then you hear a strangled cry and everything goes quiet. You turn. All three of you turn towards the noise, the world itself almost wraps in vortex as you hear a scream of someone very familiar.

You turn and you see a tendril, one of Xonorth's... It's passing right trough Scar's heart, you can see his suit darken around the point in which the tendril makes contact with flesh, you look as crimson blood begins to coat the appendage. You turn and for a second it is silence...And then everything stops.

*End of Chapter 9*

[malk1ns]

january 5 @ hurricanes, 4-3 OT loss

i cannot believe the season is halfway done. i can't believe i've actually written a fic for every single game, for forty-one games. that's crazy. thanks so much to everyone reading along, the comments and tags you leave really do encourage me to keep going—it's hard to work on a big project like this with no positive reinforcement! i love and appreciate you all <3

playing carolina might be boring AF but at least we got this picture of of it, hey? geno is so much bigger than sid it's truly ridiculous.

Sid isn’t very good at hiding what he’s feeling.

Zhenya knows about the narrative, how a Sidney Crosby quote is a lot of words but when you go back and actually read what he said it’s a whole bunch of nothing. That’s probably true; Zhenya doesn’t make a habit of looking up his teammates’ media spots. Answering his own questions and sitting for interviews is enough exposure to reporters, thank you very much.

But long before Zhenya and Sid spoke the same language, Zhenya was able to read Sid like a book.

Sid’s not subtle. When he wants something from you, you’ll know.

And when they’re getting ready to go out for overtime at the Lenovo Center, when Sid ducks his head and looks up at Zhenya through his eyelashes, Zhenya knows exactly what he wants.

It’s nice to catch up with Staalsy after they play the Hurricanes; frankly, it’s Zhenya’s favorite part about facing this damn team. Jordy’s waiting for them outside the visitor’s locker room after Sid is finally done with his cooldown, and they duck down a quiet hallway to chat. Partway through the conversation, Zhenya slings an arm over Sid’s shoulders, casual as anything, and smothers a smirk when Sid not-so-subtly tucks himself into Zhenya’s side.

Jordy doesn’t notice anything. He’s always been oblivious. It’s something Zhenya always appreciated about him. Kris gives them a hairy eyeball, but after so many years he knows when to feign ignorance, even if he’s far more observant than Jordy ever was.

Sid behaves himself on the way back to Pittsburgh. He keeps his hands to himself on the plane, sticking his earbuds in and zoning out on whatever podcast series he’s hooked on this month.

Zhenya taps his way through a few rounds of solitaire, nudging Sid with his knee when the plane begins its descent. When they’re deboarding and Sid makes to grab for his stuff, Zhenya bullies him out of the way, pulling both their bags down from the overhead compartment and slinging them over his shoulders.

Sid goes pink.

Their drive back to Sewickley is quiet, Zhenya navigating the dark streets carefully with one hand spread over Sid’s thigh. Sid’s parents are still in town, will be through the upcoming homestand, so Zhenya takes them up the hills back to his place, pulling into the driveway and throwing Sid’s Range Rover in park.

He crowds behind Sid as they walk into the house, dropping their bags as soon as they clear the threshold so he can get his hands on Sid’s hips, steering him to the staircase over Sid’s protests that they need another protein shake before bed.

(He refrains from making the obvious joke.)

Sid drops his feigned reluctance as soon as they get to the bedroom, turning in Zhenya’s arms and wrapping his arms around Zhenya’s neck, tugging him down for a kiss.

The first time Sid kissed Zhenya, it took both of them by surprise. It was Zhenya’s second year in the league, and not even any sort of special occasion—they’d just beaten Boston in TD Garden, a hard-won shootout on the first half of a back-to-back with travel in the slog leading up to their too-short Christmas break. He and Sid both had to do media, courtesy of Geno’s two goals and Sid’s three points, and they were the last ones in the locker room after they finally escaped to do their cooldown and get showered.

Zhenya was fumbling with his tie when Sid crossed the room, got up on his toes, and smeared a kiss across Zhenya’s mouth.

They didn’t talk about it for months. There were games to win, after all, and playoffs to push for. They were both determined to have a better showing than they had last season. It wasn’t until after they had to watch the Red Wings raise the Stanley Cup in their own building, after locker clean-out and the last media of the season, that Sid showed up at Zhenya’s door with a determined look on his face.

Their second kiss hadn’t been any more artful than the first. It didn’t take them long to get good at it, though.

Really good. They’ve taken breaks throughout the years, arguments and ego and fear of the future sending one or both of them stomping away from the relationship, and Zhenya’s seen plenty of girls stumble out of dark corners with Sid looking dazed with swollen mouths. He kisses like the world is ending, all-consuming and intense, and Zhenya’s more than happy to fall into it every time.

Sid doesn’t want to just kiss tonight, though. His hand sneaks down and squeezes at Zhenya’s dick through his dress pants, and Zhenya cants his hips forward, letting Sid grope him.

“Fuuuck,” Sid groans, pulling back and looking down between them. Zhenya follows his gaze.

Sid’s not a small guy. He’s broad, with thick arms and legs and big, capable hands, clever fingers that are adept at taking Zhenya apart. His hand on Zhenya’s dick where it’s straining at the fabric, though, looks almost small.

“Jesus,” Sid mutters, stroking a thumb over the head. Zhenya shivers as his dick twitches.

They’re clumsy as they undress, the late hour and a long, heavy game slowing their reflexes, but eventually their clothes are in a pile at the foot of the bed and Zhenya has Sid stretched out on the mattress, pinning his hands over his head with one hand around both wrists.

Sid takes a deep breath, testing Zhenya’s grip. Zhenya watches his throat bob as he swallows and tightens his thighs where they’re around Sid’s hips.

“You’re stay put,” he says to Sid, half an order and half a question, and he can see his words register, leaching into Sid’s body and dropping all the tension from his muscles.

Sid’s hard between them already, dick curving up toward his belly button and damp at the head, and when Zhenya curls his hand around it Sid gasps, craning his chin down so he can look.

Sid’s hands might be big compared to a regular guy, but Zhenya’s put his to shame, and Sid’s dick looks small in his grasp.

Zhenya knows that turns Sid’s crank, even though he’ll never admit to it. Hockey players are all the same, after all, and none of them are going to own up to getting off on their dick looking small, but Zhenya’s never needed Sid to actually say anything to know what he wants.

Sid likes how much bigger Zhenya is than him. He likes the way Zhenya’s hands span his waist like it’s dainty, the way he fits under Zhenya’s arm like Zhenya’s girlfriends used to.

He especially likes Zhenya’s dick.

Zhenya lifts up a little and shifts so that Sid can spread his legs, settling between them and rubbing his dick over Sid’s balls and shaft. Sid props himself up on his elbows, mouth open as he pants for air, hitching his hips up to meet Zhenya’s movements. 

Zhenya spares a moment for regret that they don’t have time to fuck properly until the homestand is over. Sid’s so tight, even after all these years, and sinking into him is the closest to a religious experience that Zhenya’s ever had.

He props his forearms on either side of Sid’s head, leaning down so he’s completely covering Sid’s body, pressing their chests together as he mouths at Sid’s neck. Sid always leaks so much, like the second he gets even a little worked up he’s ready to bust, which means they don’t need lube when they do this.

When they were younger, they used to get off like this every spare minute they had, sneaking off to spare rooms and rubbing up against each other until they came. It only took one instance of having to misappropriate a fancy hand towel in Billy Guerin’s guest bathroom for Zhenya to start carrying around a handful of tissues in his back pocket for quick clean-ups.

They usually take their time now, luxuriating in the privacy of their own homes and the improved technique that comes with experience, but sometimes Zhenya likes to make it quick and dirty, likes to get Sid panting and begging for dick underneath him.

Zhenya can’t give it to him tonight. The waiting will make it better when they have time, though.

Sid’s getting close. His thighs are trembling where they’re locked around Zhenya’s waist, and he’s tossing his head back and forth, little uh-uh-uhs pushing from his chest as he arches his back.

Zhenya pushes himself up a little and rests his hand on Sid’s neck, curling his fingers and pressing his thumb to the hinge of Sid’s jaw. Not much, not enough to actually do anything, but his hand looks enormous at Sid’s throat, and when he increases pressure the tiniest bit, Sid gasps and comes with a shout.

He’s still shivering through his orgasm when Zhenya drags his dick over Sid’s groin, smearing come into his pubic hair, and groans as he finishes on Sid’s stomach.

“Damn,” he says, rolling off to one side. Sid tucks them together, yanking Zhenya’s arm until his hand is splayed low over Sid’s belly.

It’s sticky and kind of gross. Zhenya rubs their come into Sid’s skin, ignoring Sid’s protest.

His hand really does look huge on Sid’s body. Normally he doesn’t think too much about it; he’s aware of how tall he is, how big his dick is, and those facts on their own don’t do much for him. He’s happy to go along with what Sid wants—seeing Sid get off on something is what gets him hottest.

Sid’s a grower, though, and when he’s soft Zhenya can cover his entire groin with his palm.

Sid grunts as Zhenya fondles him, wincing and over-sensitive, but Zhenya ignores it, rolling Sid’s balls in his fingers and palming his soft member.

Yeah, he sees the appeal.

[buckbuckleykinard]

here's a little snippet from a fic i probably wont ever finish but may repurpose into something else

He curls his legs into his chest and presses the warm glass of his phone screen to his ear.  With his free hand, he drags his fingers across the rough, night cold grit of the stone beneath them, just to feel the scratch against his skin.  Little grits of sand and moss lift up and stick in the whorls of his fingerprints as his phone rings once, twice, three times–

“Evan?  Are you okay”

Tommy’s voice is drowned out a little by the distant but unmistakable sound of chopper blades whirring to a stop.  It’s only 6pm in L.A. and Tommy is still on shift.

“Shit, you’re at work.  Sorry.  I forgot about the time difference.  I’m fine I–”

“It’s okay.  We just got back from a call, just give me a second to get somewhere quieter and I can talk.”

Buck considers telling him it’s fine, that he’s fine, that his crisis can wait till Tommy isn’t at the tail-end of a 24 but the problem with that is that he wants. And maybe he’s selfish and childish and all the terrible things his parents think he is but maybe Tommy wants, too.  

Because Tommy answered his call.

“Okay, I’m in the bunks now.  How are you?  How are your parents?”

“I'm good.” A lie. “My parents are fine.  How they usually are.”  The painful truth.

A semi truck speeds by, blaring its horn at nothing, headlights cutting through the dusty blue evening.

“How are they usually?”

Mean, Buck wants to say.  Careless, oblivious, belittling.  Maddie always says they’re not bad people, just bad parents, and he has always parroted it back.  He feels like he’s said it so often that it had just become true, but at the time he hadn’t been around them.  It was easier to put on some rose-coloured glasses and pretend that things were better than they actually were, or at least less painful.

“I don’t think they like me very much.” Maybe it’s too honest but he finds the more they talk, the more he wants to be honest with Tommy.  Some wicked part of him thinks that maybe if he shows this man the ugly, jealous rot of his insides, that he’ll leave before it hurts too much.  That it won’t be like Abby, who he’d thought he loved, or Taylor who he knew he did.

His parents loved Daniel, and how fucked up is it that he’s jealous of someone whose dead.  Then again, maybe they're more alike than he thought because yes, they had loved him, but they erased him too.  They scrubbed their lives clean of him, threw out his things and painted over the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling.  Maybe the only difference is that Buck is still alive.

“Yeah?” Tommy says, a little probing but kind.  Buck knows that if he dropped it, if he moved on to something lighter, that Tommy would let him.

“They repainted my room”  He knows it's ridiculous as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

“They didn’t tell you they were going to?”  Tommy asks, like this is a completely normal thing for an adult man to be upset about.

“No, they didn’t say anything.  They threw out all my stuff too.  Not that there was a lot there, but stil–”

“They should have at least given you the opportunity to come get what you wanted to keep.”

“Yeah, exactly!”  He says with a chuckle.  “I mean, I’m pretty sure my skateboard was still in the closet up there.  They’re not cheap, you know.”

“You skateboard?”  Tommy asks.  Buck swears that he can hear the smile in his voice.  

“I used to, sort of.  I'm pretty sure I spent more time falling off than actually riding.”

“God, you were a total punk in high school, weren’t you?”  Tommy laughs.  It’s nice, like warm honey settling low in Buck’s stomach. 

“Oh, definitely.  I think I spent most of my childhood injured in one way or another.”  It’s hard for him, looking back, to find a memory that doesn’t include bandages or a cast or a sling of some kind.

“You know, considering that the first time we met was flying a helicopter into a hurricane, I’m really not surprised to find out that you’re incredibly reckless with your own safety.”

“I had a motorcycle, too.  Got it basically as soon as I learned how to drive.”

“God, Evan.”  His voice is still tinged with amusement.  It floors him a little, how Tommy had managed to steer the conversation away from his morose family musings toward something lighter.  It makes Buck want to run through every time he’s ever almost died.  Chase away the amusement and ruin this on purpose before he does it by accident.

“Does it bother you?”

“Depends on why you're doing it.”  Tommy doesn’t ask what he means, doesn’t need to.  Buck wonders if he can smell his insecurities through the phone line.  He waits for Tommy to continue.

“Every time you go into work, you put yourself in dangerous situations to save lives.  So do I.  That’s the job.”  Buck can hear some shifting from Tommy’s end, tries to imagine him sitting on the edge of one of the bunks at the Harbour station, phone pressed against his ear.  Maybe he’s gotten more comfortable, lying down, eyes closed as he tries to get a little bit of rest between calls.  They shouldn’t be having this conversation over the phone, but the thought of having to do this in person, to have to look Tommy in the eyes and ask to be soothed, sends a chill through him that's much stronger than the one caused by the rapidly cooling evening air.

Some kind of sports car speeds by, music thundering through the closed windows as it slows around the corner and disappears.

“But being reckless with your life because the only time you felt like your parents looked after you was when you were hurting?  Yeah, that bothers me.”

And there it is, The Breaking Point.  He’s found a way to push Tommy too far.  Tommy, who’d already given him far more chances than he deserved.

“I mean, I’m familiar with shitty parents, believe me, but if I made my kid feel so unloved that they thought they had to hurt themselves to get my attention, I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself.”

Huh.

That’s unexpected.

“Evan?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here.”  There is another beat of silence.

“Sorry, if I overstepped.  I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t.”  Buck says, definitively.  “I’ve just never really had anyone see it like that?”

“Like what?  What do you mean?”

“Like my reckless behaviour isn’t some sort of defect of my personality.  Like maybe, I was hurting, too."

[awardenandacrow]

FANFIC SNIPPET 22

NOTE: Chronologically Follows Snippet #18

[Bellara and Lucanis inadvertently learn Rook’s favorite breakfast food]

CW/TW: mention of food insecurity, poverty, and slavery; brief strong language

——————————————————————————

Hunger pains drew Naimeryn from sleep perhaps sooner than she would have liked. She grumbled and rubbed her eyes, remembering suddenly that with all the excitement of settling Lucanis in, she’d never eaten anything that could be considered dinner. She sighed. Up and at ‘em, then.

She shed the night wrap and left it laying on the couch, shrugging into an old tunic and a pair of worn trousers. She grabbed her hair bands and headed out the door, braiding as she went. She’d been wearing her hair the same way for so long she could usually get it right without a mirror, but also, if they were uneven or crooked, she doubted anyone would be paying enough attention to her to notice.

The library and courtyard were both silent and empty, and she wondered if she were the only one up. As she reached the door to the kitchen, she hesitated. It was probably a good bet the assassin who had just spent a year in a Venatori prison was a light sleeper. She’d have to be quiet. Thankful the Fade didn’t find squeaky hinges aesthetic, Naimeryn opened the door just enough to slip inside.

It had been unnecessary. Lucanis stood by the fireplace, a cup of Harding’s tea in hand. He glanced over his shoulder as she entered. Caught off guard, she gave him a nervous little wave — and then felt immensely stupid, and quickly put her hand back down. Why was interacting with him so *hard?!*

“Good morning,” he acknowledged her, turning fully away from the fire.

“Morning,” she returned, opting to just head to the kitchen rather than make a further fool of herself by trying to actually *talk* to him. She rummaged around for the pan and a carton of eggs, waving her hand to start the fire in the oven. She’d just started cracking the eggs into the pan when the kitchen door opened again, and Bellara wandered in with a yawn and a big stretch.

“Oh! Good morning, Lucanis! Did you sleep well? I know your bed’s in the pantry, but was it better than — oh I shouldn’t ask that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lucanis assured her. He sounded exhausted, and Naimeryn couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t answered her question. He.. *had* slept, hadn’t he?

Well, he *had* told her he tried not to sleep much. But… he had to get *some* sleep.

“Morning, Rook!”

“Morning, Bel,” she said quickly. She should focus on her task, not how well Lucanis did or didn’t sleep. “Do either of you want eggs? I think there’s enough for everyone, but we’ll have to remember to grab more.”

“Are you hard boiling them again?” Bellara wanted to know.

“Too hungry,” Naimeryn shook her head, flipping the first two eggs in the pan. “Didn’t remember to eat dinner. Frying these. Could make scrambled — while I eat these.”

Bellara giggled. “Scrambled, please. Rook makes decent eggs,” she told Lucanis.

“Don’t ask me to make anything else though,” Naimeryn laughed, dumping her eggs onto a plate and starting on Bellara’s scramble. Milk, salt, pepper. “We’ll need more milk soon, Bel.”

“Every morning she’s in here making eggs,” Bellara continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “They must be your favorite, huh, Rook?”

Naimeryn shoved a mouthful of egg into her face and started whisking Bellara’s. She swallowed quickly and shook her head.

“I actually hate them,” she laughed at herself. She poured Bellara’s breakfast into th pan to cook. “But they’re really the only thing I know how to make. My whole childhood, eggs and bread were really the only thing we could consistently count on having to eat, because they were cheap. In Denerim, no one noticed or seemed to care if you stole some from the coop. And the magister had so many chickens, that was basically all they ever fed us.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” she concluded, depositing Bellara’s plate in front of her. As she did, she caught the expressions on both of their faces. Surprise, concern, confusion… maybe even some pity?

“Oversharing,” she said uncomfortably. “My bad. Uh, Lucanis, eggs?”

“After that speech?” He asked, shaking his head.

“Sorry,” Naimeryn mumbled, returning to the pan and cracking three more into it. She dropped her eyes to her plate as she scarfed down what was left of the first two.

“What *do* you like for breakfast, Rook?” Bellara wanted to know, the scrape of her fork letting Naimeryn know *she* at least had not lost her appetite. Bless her for trying to salvage the morning. Naimeryn finished what was in her mouth before answering.

“I’ve only had them once, but… I really like *pancakes*,” she admitted with a sigh, flipping her next batch of eggs. “I tried teaching myself to make them, but I always seem to make the batter too thick, or too thin, or I burn them, or they stick and I can’t flip them. I dunno. It’s easier to just make eggs.”

“I make a mean pancake,” Bellara grinned.

“Really?” Naimeryn looked up at her. “Could you teach me?”

“Sure, of course!” Bellara nodded, finishing her eggs. “Next time we go shopping, I’ll make sure we get what we need.”

“That would be really great,” Naimeryn smiled, dumping her remaining eggs onto her plate and dousing the oven fire. Suddenly they seemed even less appealing than they had before. She crossed to the table and sat next to Bellara.

“Rook!” The other elf cried suddenly, reaching out and shoving her braid out of the way. “Your neck!”

Naimeryn grimaced. “Fucker grabbed me pretty hard. He leave bruises?”

“Neve didn’t mention he grabbed your *neck*,” Bellara frowned, inspecting the damage intently. “How dare he?”

“I’m all right, Bel,” Naimeryn smiled. “I was just distracting him so Lucanis here could finish the job.”

She nodded to their new companion. She felt bad deflecting Bellara’s attention to him, but also she didn’t like being fussed over. Varric needed her to be the one in charge. She needed to do better.

“Erm, yes,” Lucanis looked uncomfortable, making her guilt double down. “A most effective distraction.”

…

SHE. HATES. EGGS?

Lucanis did his best to ignore Spite.

SHE’S EATING. A LOT OF EGGS.

“Yes,” Lucanis mumbled into his cup as Bellara fretted over Rook’s neck and Rook proceeded to wolf down her least favorite food like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Was forgetting to eat a common occurrence?

WHY? Spite hovered over Rook and pointed at her empty plate. WHY EAT IF NO LIKE?

*The same reason I’m drinking this damned tea,* Lucanis grimaced.

Rook glanced up at him and said, “…so Lucanis here could finish the job.”

Mierda. He hadn’t been listening to them.

"Erm, yes,” he said quickly. Bellara had been upset about the bruises Calivan left — was Rook trying to pass that off as an intentional distraction again? “A most effective distraction.”

Rook dropped her gaze to her plate, noticed it was empty, and… pouted? She must still be hungry. He’d done a quick inventory of the kitchen and pantry while the others slept. How the four of them had been surviving on such bare minimum supplies, or why, he couldn’t fathom. He mulled it over for a moment, then excused himself to the pantry.

There was no reason Rook should go hungry. There were potatoes, and various spices labeled in flowing script, and he’d seen an onion, and a small amount of oil. Not much, but something.

Bellara was yammering away to Rook when he returned with the ingredients in hand. Spite followed him, staring intently at the food, but was mercifully silent in his apparent curiosity.

“Whatcha got there?” Rook quipped, craning her neck as he passed them.

“Not much,” he said truthfully. “And generally you would eat it *with* your eggs, but after should not be a problem, I don’t think. Do you like potatoes? Onions?”

“Sure…?” She sounded… unconvincing.

“Lucanis, do you cook?” Bellara asked excitedly.

“I do,” he nodded, then indicated the oven to Rook as a question. She smirked at him, standing slightly to blow a small fireball off her fingertips, over the chairs, and into the chamber. Mierda. He turned quickly to begin his task.

“It has, of course, been some time,” he continued, beginning to peel the potatoes.

“Do you need help?” Both women asked in unison, then dissolved into giggles. Lucanis wasn’t sure if it was endearing… or annoying. It had been so long since he’d simply… existed in the same place as other people.

“I don’t,” he said. Hesitated. “But if one of you wanted to dice the onion? I would not object.”

He actually hated the idea. But… he’d be working with these people. He should know if they knew their way around a knife. And he should probably *attempt* to be… friendly, at least.

Two chairs scraped the floor, then Bellara spoke.

“Oh, um. Rook, why don’t… *I* do it? You did the mission yesterday, and I’m sure you’re tired..”

Rook chuckled. “It’s okay Bel. I already admitted all I can cook is eggs. You can say you don’t want me preparing your food.”

“No, no, it’s not that. I mean you just made me those eggs. And they were great!”

“But you don’t want to risk me leaving behind a fingertip?”

“Rook —“

“It’s okay Bellara. I’m teasing. Go show that onion who’s boss.”

Before long, Lucanis had the potatoes sizzling. The door opened twice more, ushering in both Neve and Lace in turn. Both commented on the amazing smell, then expressed surprise that it was Lucanis cooking. He was glad Bellara had reminded him they should make enough for them, as well, even if Lace seemed somewhat… apprehensive. A healthy dose of suspicion in that one.

He decided their constant chatter amongst themselves was odd, but not as disruptive as he’d feared. When the hash was finished, he scooped a serving onto five plates. Bellara helped him pass them out. He sat across from Rook, waiting to take a bite until she had.

She was talking to Neve about going to Minrathos that day. She finished her sentence, then stabbed a few cubes of potato without really looking at her plate, and popped them into her mouth.

Rook made a surprised noise, and her eyes got wide. For a split second, he was nervous, but then they closed. She began to chew with an audible “mmmm!”

Neve started to laugh. “All right there, Rook?”

Rook’s blush started across her cheekbones and rapidly spread to her nose and up to the tips of her ears. Her eyes flew back open and she swallowed quickly. Lucanis began to eat, disappointed her enjoyment had been interrupted, though he wasn’t really sure *why*. It was of course always nice when someone liked something you’d made. It had been a long while since he’d experienced it.

“I’m so sorry,” Rook said, dropping her eyes to her plate and beginning to push the potatoes around with her fork. “This is just… really good.”

“What did they feed you at Weisshaupt, anyway?” Lace asked. Lucanis beginning to eat seemed to have been reassuring enough to her that he hadn’t poisoned them all, as she cautiously took a bite.

Weisshaupt… a Grey Warden then. He wouldn’t have guessed if he’d had a hundred guesses. He’d never met a Warden so… animated.

I TOLD YOU. SHE SMELLS LIKE. BLIGHT.

Well, that was true. Now he knew why Spite had said that.

“Mead and bread, mostly,” Naimeryn chuckled. “And potatoes sometimes, but never like this.”

She indicated her plate with her fork and finally took another bite.

“No meat?” Bellara wanted to know.

“Oh sure, for special occasions,” she shrugged. “I’m sure the higher ranking Wardens eat whatever they want, whenever they want, but there’s a lot of us in Weisshaupt at any one time, and feeding what’s essentially a standing army with a collectively ravenous appetite isn’t cheap.”

“You know Rook,” Neve said thoughtfully, “if you’re not careful, I’m going to start feeling sorry for you.”

“What? Why?” She asked earnestly, but Neve only chuckled.

“When we’re in Dock Town later, remind me. I’ll treat you to my favorite fried fish.”

Rook perked up. “Really? I’ve always wanted to try fish!”

The kitchen lapsed into awkward silence. Rook’s face went red again, and she quickly looked back to her plate again.

“Sorry… I mean, you don’t have to do that. I can get myself lunch.”

Long after the others had gone, and Lucanis washed the dishes from the meal, the exchange continued to play over and over again in his head. Rook was an open book. Not exactly a wise trait for the leader of a team out to hunt down actual gods to have. He remembered Spite’s taunt from the night before.

*HOW SWEET.* the demon had said.

She… *was.* And if it were an act, she was the best damn actress he’d ever met.

The dishes done, Lucanis hunted down a scrap of paper, and a pen. It was a modest kitchen, but he didn’t need it to be gourmet to make sure these women *survived.*

He shook his head. It was incomprehensible to him how they’d done so until now.

And with that thought, he began to make a list.