#this is a good idea. this is as good of an idea as collecting and playing all the imagine games

[the-warlock-syndicate]

Ooh, I like this. I am going to give my thoughts as a personal worldbuilding exercise.

A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin

Gold standard is rather uncommon actually. Historically a lot of nations were on the silver standard. I blame DnD for some of the gold popularity. As far as alternate currencies go it might be interesting to have one that relies on alloys. Easier to invent a new alloy than a new metal to stand in for gold, and the alloying process could be a secret known only to those granted the right of seniorage, but have some property that makes the alloy easy to test. Perhaps a magical variant of electrum that glows under a particular type of magic light?

A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans

This is an interesting one, because the nature of the economy would necessarily change. You could reference history to look for examples. Salt is one that comes closest to mind. That said, it is probably important to consider the purpose of currency. What does it actually do for people that makes it worth it? And a lot of the time, currency penetration of a market has to do with easing transactions and increasing state power. There are quite a lot of historical societies that use perishable resources for currency. It is arguably the default. Lords often collected taxes and tithes in grain, and perishable goods and services were often the thing underpinning complex systems of debt and exchange in such societies.

A clock that isn’t 24-hours

Its an interesting thing to consider. Honestly, one of the harder ones on the list, because timing things gets fiddly. If we have something like 20 hour or 28 hour days we can round to a day and pretend that they work like our days. Mostly because we can add or remove about 4 hours but plausibly be capable of the same number of actions in a day. More or less than that, and things get tricky for action economy as it were. Unless you go large enough that you can start rounding days to be more equivalent to weeks or months, a la different planets. I am actually doing something like this in my own WIP. Adjacent at least.

More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know

Always a fun idea. Worth tying fantastical seasons to cyclic weather events, like rainy and dry seasons irl.

Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain

Love it. Makes for neat worldbuilding.

Multiple moons/no moon

Multiple moons is cool, but I honestly think it is done a lot. In fairness, statistically it is kind of odd that we ended up with one fairly largemoon, but still, it has become shorthand for no longer in Kansas, without the worldbuilding consideration that multiple suns requires for climate, a la Tatooine.

Planetary rings

Aesthetic

A northern lights effect, but near the equator

Also aesthetic, but runs the risk of readers asking for reasons why it happens. Beware the rabbithole.

Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks

Great worldbuilding opportunity here. Envision the image of the city.

Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals

This is a difficult one. Ideas about what valuable materials are are so deeply embedded in western culture that gold and jewels are default assumed to be valuable in a way that other materials are not. Not too bad though. You are forced to explain the reason your society considers it valuable but in turn that lets you exposit worldbuilding.

Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands

Its fun thinking about what sociological methods one might replace wedding bands with as a visual indicator of marriage. Ritualized tattoos perhaps? Getting the spouses names tattooed on each other in ornate lettering? Makes infidelity and divorce awkward though in pre laser societies

The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage

I think there is honestly more concepts to be explored here but I can't think of any good ones. Still a good idea.

No concept of virginity or bastardry

Beware the rabbithole. A lot of thoughts about bastardry are tied up in thoughts about bloodlines which are tied up in thoughts about inheritance. That being the determining factor for how land, wealth and power are distributed in basically all preindustrial agrarian societies. Its not that it isn't a concept worth exploring, but it does mean that cribbing off of vassalage based societies results in a lot of dissonance and you need to invent a lot of sociological worldbuilding out of whole cloth.

More than 2 genders/no concept of gender

This is always good and fun. I have a hiatus work that plays with this.

Monotheism, but not creationism

An interesting idea, though I find it a bit curious, since polytheism was far more common before J-boy showed up.

Gods that don’t look like people

Also doing this in a WIP. That one is fun actually, the gods are constellations, so in a sense they cannot look like people. But they are also there and visible in a way that is not always common.

Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats

An interesting idea. There is a fun(dark as hell) webfiction which has dinosaurs in this role. Here is a curious one though. Have you ever seen a work of fiction in which dogs don't exist? I argue that they are so tied to and connected with humanity that you need to get really out there non-human perspectives to get away from dogs.

Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot

Always fun. Adds whimsy and realism to the story

Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom

YES. This is important. Communication is direly important in preindustrial times. Nations are blind, fundamentally. We live in a panopticon surveillance state, so we take it for granted that we can just know how many soldiers a nation can draft. This is not the case in history. Kings often didn't know with perfect precision the state of their armies, the quantity of troops they could call upon, where the troops might be at any given time, and all kinds of things. The lack of mass communication combined with a robust and powerful bureaucracy and administrative state directly kept a lot of medieval polities fairly weak and small. It is genuinely hard to rule an empire when you might hear that a village 100 miles away decided to rise up in rebellion a week ago, and you need to send troops after it without knowing shit about the situation.

“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls

Loose leaf? This one is difficult because you get directly into convenience. You can play with what constitutes a book, like a magic rock that is basically an audiobook. But if you keep it strictly a material which carries text as a means of communication there aren't a lot of options. Clay tablets are superior to stone tablets, and paper and vellum are superior to both, in terms of weight, size, and convenience. Binding paper keeps the loose leaf safer and more organized. Scrolls are just rolled up paper and don't have crease marks from folding it.

A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language

An important and useful skill for a number of reasons. Could be a useful pidgin or trade language incidentally.

A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)

Also a fun one that makes you think about the logistics of feeding people and what that does to a society.

I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.

Small fantasy worldbuilding elements you might want to think about:

A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin

A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans

A clock that isn’t 24-hours

More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know

Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain

Multiple moons/no moon

Planetary rings

A northern lights effect, but near the equator

Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks

Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals

Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands

The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage

No concept of virginity or bastardry

More than 2 genders/no concept of gender

Monotheism, but not creationism

Gods that don’t look like people

Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats

Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot

Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom

“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls

A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language

A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)

I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.

[honey-bitch]

୨⎯ Eros in the Houses ⎯୧

Eros(433) is the son of Aphrodite and represents on sexuality in the birthcahrt. Although it's an asteroid finding out what signs and degree Eros is in your chart can help you understand yourself more and what gets u going.

✩1st House: Eros here is about self-acceptance. These folks are comfortable in their own skin, flaws and all. They may identify and be more comfortable being sexual and exude that whether they're conscious of it or not.

✩2nd House: Eros here is about appreciating the good things in life. It's not about being materialistic; it's about finding joy in the world around them. They might be passionate about creating a comfortable home, collecting things that have sentimental value, or building a sense of security. They value quality over quantity.

✩3rd House: These are the intellectually curious, the ones who love a good conversation. They're passionate about ideas, learning new things, and connecting with others through stimulating discussions. They might be writers, teachers, or just that friend who always has an interesting take on things. Whisper in their ear... and that'll get them

✩4th House: Eros here is about creating a sense of belonging. They're passionate about nurturing their loved ones, building strong family connections, and creating a place where everyone feels safe and loved. Home is their anchor. Their desires are tied to that deep need for connection. The challenge? Navigating family dynamics and finding a balance between closeness and personal space.

✩5th House: This placement is playful, passionate, and a little bit mischievous. These people are drawn to romance, self-expression, and all things fun. They might be artists, musicians, or just someone who brings a spark of joy to everyday life. They want to be praised and carried, very fun placement to have

✩6th House: Eros here is about finding meaning in their work. They're passionate about contributing, making a difference. They might be drawn to helping professions, creative fields, or anything where they can use their talents meaningfully. They might also be passionate about their own well-being. The risk? Overworking and neglecting their own needs.

✩7th House: These folks value connection and intimacy. They're passionate about finding a partner who truly *gets* them. They love the give and take of a relationship, the shared experiences, the companionship. The challenge? Codependency and remembering their own worth, regardless of their relationship status.

✩8th House: This is the deep stuff, the transformative stuff. Eros here is about exploring the complexities of human connection, the messy, beautiful parts of relationships. They might be drawn to psychology, spirituality, or anything that delves into the deeper aspects of life. They're not afraid of vulnerability. The challenge? Navigating intense emotions and avoiding power struggles.

✩9th House: These are the explorers, the seekers of knowledge. They're passionate about expanding their horizons, experiencing new cultures, and exploring different ways of thinking. They love to travel, to learn, to grow. Their Eros is fueled by a thirst for understanding. The risk? Restlessness, always needing the next new experience.

✩10th House: Eros here is about making a real contribution. They're passionate about their careers, about doing work that matters. They might be drawn to leadership roles, creative industries, or anything where they can use their skills and talents. The challenge? Balancing ambition with their personal life and staying grounded.

✩11th House: These are the community-minded, the ones who care about the world around them. They're passionate about their friends, about social issues, about making a difference. They thrive in groups, working towards a common goal. Their Eros is about belonging, connection, and making a positive impact. The challenge? Navigating group dynamics and maintaining their own sense of self.

✩12th House: This is the introspective one, the one who looks inward. Eros here is about the inner world, the dreams, the hidden desires that shape us. They might be drawn to spirituality, creative pursuits, or anything that helps them understand themselves better. Their passions can be subtle, complex. The challenge? Self-discovery and learning to accept all parts of themselves.

©️ 2024 honey-bitch All Rights Reserved

DISCLAIMER: this post is a great generalisation and may not resonate with you. I would recommend buying a reading from a professional astrologer to get more insight

[syrma-sensei]

→ Skincare.

gif credit.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!reader.

Rating: Flufffff.

Warnings/Tags: None, domestic fluff.

Word Count: 1.04k

Summary: You decide to give your tough boyfriend some soft skincare.

A/N: I'm planning on making my Dean taglist. Hit a comment if you want to be added. Enjoy!

No, absolutely not.

He glares at the tray of jars, tubes, and bottles you lined up on the nightstand then back at you.

I'm not a painted whore. Fake me was.

“Relax, it's not the same as putting on make-up,” You say as if you just read his goddamn mind. “This is so different. It's just skincare, makes your skin healthy and glowing!”

Dean Winchester isn't exactly the “self-care” type. His idea of skincare was splashing cold water on his face after a hunt and calling it a day. “Demons, ghosts, skinwalkers—I can handle. But cucumber-scented goop? No thanks.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and stepping between his knees, cupping his stubbly cheeks with your hands. “But, baby… your skin deserves some treatment. You don't even have to lift a finger. Your head in my lap, and relax, okay?”

He tries to ward off the smile threatening to curl his lips. Aren't you a sweet thing? Taking care of your boyfriend. He'd be lying if it didn't appeal to him. He glimpses at the products again, pursing his lips together. He always wonders what kind of stuff you spend an hour putting on your face in the morning when you wake up, and at night before you retire to bed.

Whenever you return to the bunker from a hunt, you take a shower and spend good time on this stuff. Well, one thing he can say is… they smell good. He can tell.

He sighs through his nose, glancing from you to the tray again. "All right, fine. But if I end up smellin’ like a damn fruit salad, you owe me pie."

You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Deal. Now, lay back, tough guy."

Dean does as told, his head resting in your lap with a grumble. His eyes follow your movements as you unscrew the first jar. "What's that?"

"Cleanser. Gotta get rid of all the dirt, oil, and whatever monster guts you’ve been collecting on your skin."

He smirks. "Sounds sexy when you say it like that."

You roll your eyes but smile as you massage the cool cleanser into his skin. His eyelids droop almost immediately. "See? Not so bad, huh?"

He hums in response, the tension in his jaw easing under your fingertips. You move with gentle precision, running a warm cloth over his face to wipe away the cleanser.

"Okay, next up: toner."

Dean’s eyes crack open. "Sounds like something you’d put in a printer."

"It tightens your pores, smartass." You tap his nose with the cotton pad before swiping it across his skin.

He groans when the cool sensation hits. "Mmm. Feels nice, actually."

"Thought you'd say that."

“Y’know if Sammy walks in and sees this crap on my face, I’m never hearing the end of it.”

“Oh, I’m definitely taking pictures for blackmail.”

As you continue with the serums and moisturizer, Dean gradually slips into that calm, content state he rarely lets himself indulge in. When you reach for the last step—eye cream—he peeks at you again.

"What’s that one for?"

"Dark circles. Gotta keep you looking young and fresh."

"Sweetheart, I hunt monsters for a livin’ minus the money. The only way I’ll look fresh is if you dunk me in holy water and pray for a miracle."

You snort, dabbing the cream around his eyes with your pinky. "Well, you're still the most handsome guy I've ever laid eyes on. Crow's feet and all."

Dean huffs out a laugh. "Flatterer."

Once you’re done, you sit back to admire your work. His face is clean, glowing, and—though he’d never admit it—soft as hell. You lean down, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"All done. How do you feel?"

Dean sits up, rubbing his hands over his face with a thoughtful frown. "Weird… but nice." He stretches his neck and catches his reflection in the motel mirror. His eyes widen slightly. "Damn. Look at me. I got the skin of a freakin’ K-pop star."

You burst into laughter, collapsing against his chest as he pulls you in with a smirk. His lips brush against your ear as he murmurs, "Okay, okay… maybe this skincare thing ain’t so bad. Long as I get the lap pillow every time."

"Every time," you promise, already planning the next session.

And later that night, when you cuddle into his chest and breathe in the faint scent of citrus and cedarwood lingering on his skin, Dean Winchester decides self-care might not be such a pain in the ass after all.

Dean’s sprawled on the couch in the bunker’s library, half-asleep, when Sam walks in with a thick book in hand. Sam pauses mid-step, does a double-take, and slowly lowers the book.

"Dean…what the hell is on your face?"

Dean cracks one eye open. "What’re you talkin’ about?"

Sam points at the faint, greenish tint around Dean’s nose and cheeks. "That. You’ve got...something. Is that a face mask?"

Dean bolts upright and swipes at his face, groaning. "Son of a—she said it was clear!"

From the hallway, you peek around the corner, stifling laughter. "I said it dries clear, babe. It needs, like, five more minutes."

Sam stares at Dean. "You're sitting here…with a face mask…in the middle of the day?"

Dean runs a hand down his face, smearing the clay further. "It's a detox mask, okay? Clears out toxins."

Sam blinks, deadpan. "Right. Detox. From all the…demon goo?"

Dean glares at him. "Laugh it up, Sammy. My skin’s gonna look ten years younger. You’ll still look like you slept in a ditch."

Sam can't even respond. He just whips out his phone and snaps a picture.

"Delete that," Dean growls.

"No chance," Sam says, walking away with a grin.

Dean flops back down with a groan, rubbing his face again.

"Stop touching it!" you scold, walking over with a damp washcloth. "You're ruining my hard work."

Dean mutters something about hunters not needing spa days but obediently lets you wipe his face clean.

And later that evening, when Sam shows Dean the edited photo with the words "Self-Care Queen" in pink cursive across the bottom, Dean vows to never trust you—or clay masks—again.

★ Main Masterlist

★ Supernatural Masterlist

★ AO3

[canisalbus]

I love the idea of Machete healing some unresolved stuff about himself because he realizes the things he resented about himself when he was younger are traits that Ear has but because he loves Ear it helps him to realize those traits aren't inherently unlovable. Do you think Machete or Vasco would be helicopter parents?

.

[brainscrems]

Okay so. Yea. People saying, “I would simply solve the problem” are missing the point. But the choice of whether or not to walk away isn’t the point either. The point of omelas is that the world you’ve been presented with in the narrative is not a world that is true in the way we’ve been told, neither in the story nor the systems it is meant to represent. The point omelas is making is that it is absurd to believe that a good world must come off the back of exploitation. You are supposed to read it, see the child and recognize that, even if omelas specifically DOES require that child’s torture, there exists a better world with all the light of omelas and without that child’s suffering. The question isn’t, “Would you walk away if you saw your world was built on suffering?” because walking away changes nothing. Staying or going omelas still exists and the cruelty perpetuated by their society exists too. The question posed by omelas is, “If someone told you that this world was not only built on suffering, but that there was no better way, would you believe them? If they told you your choice was to stay or go, but you could make no change, would you trust them? Or would you imagine a different and better world? One that doesn’t require the exploitation of others. And, most importantly of all, if you did realize that, would you fight for it?” Omelas is meant to be reflective of our own world, simplified to the point of an easy choice. Our entire world is built off of exploiting others, many of us know it but believe the lie that we can’t have a safe world for us any way except off the backs of others. The idea presented in omelas of a child’s torture being necessary for a better world is that it is fundamentally absurd. There is no mechanism presented, there is no rational reason, we are just assured by an authority that those smarter than us have thought this through and this is the only way. The point of the child is to metaphorically take all the exploitation of that our world is built on and put it in a scenario where the absurdity of its supposed necessity becomes not only obvious, but within the grasp of individual power. You are supposed to take the absurdity of the situation presented to you and apply it to our world. Yes, anyone saying they would, “simply” solve the problem is missing the point because there is no “simply” about it because the question of omelas is not about omelas. But it isn’t about whether you’d abandon omelas for an uncertain world either, because abandoning it does nothing for that child. All abandoning omelas changes is your own personal relationship to the problem, and not the problem itself. It is about recognizing that we are all, collectively, lied to about what the world has the potential to be and choosing to denounce the lie and fight for the better world we’re told does not exist.

ursula k le guin: if confronted directly with the knowledge that society requires suffering to be maintained, would you be capable or willing to abandon the structure and safety for uncertainty, strife, deprivation?

strange and inscrutable people who claim to know how to read: i would simply solve the problem

[marsian-tango]

Yandere Cowboy

Ah, the countryside…

It’s such a contrast to the messy and hectic scenery of your city—flickering lights from the streets, which shine manages to cover the inside of your bedroom, even with the curtains drawn; loud voices that echo against the quiet of the neighborhood at night; the constant fear of getting robbed while you’re walking home from the grocery store, or at the bus station, or while you’re taking a nice stroll in the park.

You chose to live in the city. It inspired you at the time. It made you feel like a complete star, living in a cosmopolitan environment, breathing the air filled with potential and dreams, sending new chapters and drafts to your editorial almost everyday. You wanted this, so why does it seem so annoying now?

Maybe it’s because you drank a little bit too much tonight, but the idea of leaving your entire life behind and starting again doesn’t seem so bad all of the sudden…

Imagine. A pretty farm, lots of animals, creating a new routine, meeting new people, expanding your horizons. It’s perfect! Plus, you can still do your job, this shouldn’t be an impediment. In fact, this is gonna get you the inspiration that you’ve been lacking lately!

Oh, a whole new life waiting ahead of you. The intoxicating calmness and the pretty landscapes are bound to make you feel right at home. You just know it.

It’s been two months since you arrived at this place. The Campbell farm. You’ve gotten pretty used to the whole country life—if you may say so yourself.

You walk through the farm after eating breakfast, heading to the barn like you usually do. Waving and cooing at the animals that you passed by, making sure to bathe in praise every cute animal that you see.

You take in the morning sight, the one that always takes your breath away, no matter how many times you see it. It remains just as beautiful every single time you look at it.

Lush green plains covering the landscape, as well as fields with different kinds of vegetables and cereals, and a few small creeks here and there that seem to shine in an ethereal glow when the sunlight hits it. The breeze caresses your face softly, bringing the faint smell of mud with it. It’s all just like the stories you always read, or the Hallmark movies you sometimes watch—the ones you take a guilty pleasure from.

It’s all a new routine, different from the one you had in the city. Wake up at 7:44—even if the Campbell ladies scold you for ‘waking up late’; collect the eggs from the chicken coop; make yourself breakfast; clean the chicken coop; feed the animals—except the cows, they may look cute and soft, but they haven’t warmed up to you yet; and lastly, find Flynn to see if he needs any help.

Ah, right. Flynn.

“Hey! How’s it goin’, sweetheart?” A deep voice resonates in the old barn, pulling a knowing smile from your face.

“Nothing much.” You say dismissively. “How are you? Anything I can help you with?”

Flynn Bennet. The golden boy of these lands. Son of a well respected landowner, who passed away when he was just a kid. Popular amongst the other landowners for his helpful nature and charming presence—and that’s exactly why he’s here, helping out at the Campbell’s farm out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh, I’m doin’ just fine on my own, sweetheart.” He says as he lifts a square bale and puts it amongst others in a corner. He steps towards you, standing in front of you. “But I actually have some business in town, wanna come with?”  Your face lights up at his offer and you nod eagerly.

He chuckles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to bring you closer as you two start walking to his truck. “Mhm, knew you’d agree.”

Ever since you got here, you’ve felt a sense of comfort every time Flynn’s around. He’s your only friend here apart from the owners of the farm after all. He’s just such a country sweetheart, and you don’t want to stereotype him…but he’s a living stereotype himself! He’s a true gentleman. He’s helpful, caring, respectful, handsome. You like being around him, and—in all honesty—who doesn’t?

He always seems to appear out of nowhere when you need him the most, or when you’re coincidentally looking for him. He’s just always so within reach. Every time you have a problem—as minuscule as it may be—he’s there. Like when the bathroom door got stuck after you came out of the shower, or when your curiosity got the best of you and you tried to hand feed the cows, or that time when you thought it’d be cool to ride a horse—without really knowing how to ride a horse. 

But that’s only what you perceive, isn’t it?

You don’t notice his lingering gaze tracing every curve of your body when you’re not looking. You don’t notice the way his polite smile seems to tense—like it always does when he’s lying—when he says that the Campbell’s asked him to do the laundry for them, but he only ever picks up your clothes. You don’t notice the heavy breathing coming from your wardrobe when you’re about to go to sleep.

To you, he’s your knight in shining armor, ready to help you whenever you need. But to the omniscient presence following your story? Well…it’s complicated.

“I don’t wanna sound like a jerk, but both look the same to me.” You deadpan, shrugging at him.

Flynn rolls his eyes. “C’mon, darlin’! They’re two completely different colors—oh, whatever. Just tell me which one you like best.” He slightly lifts the two hangers with the shirts, so you can see them better. The only aspect that helps you tell them apart is an almost imperceptible shade difference. You don’t seem to be a very helpful shopping-buddy.

Before you can give your answer, a sudden voice startles both of you.

“Well, look who we have here, if it ain’t the Golden Boy himself!” You turn your head to look at the stranger, which makes him drift his gaze to you. A smirk stretches across the stranger’s face before he acknowledges your presence. “And…a cute lil’ angel too.”

“Ah…” You laugh awkwardly, unaware of the hard glare Flynn was giving the man. “Uhm, you guys know each other?”

Flynn huffs under his breath as he sets the shirts he was holding on a nearby table. He hates being interrupted, and he especially despises being interrupted while he’s spending time with you. Don’t people know that intrusions like these are impolite? Ugh! He just wishes he could bang this guy’s head against the wall over, and over, and over, and—

“Boy, do we know each other, huh, Bennie?” The man chuckles, patting Flynn’s shoulder with a bit too much force, but Flynn’s broad body doesn’t flinch. “We’re like cousins, we went to school together!”

Flynn lets out a sigh, clenching his fist in exasperation until his knuckles turn white. “Yeah, good to see you, Harvey, but we’re actually a lil’ busy here—”

“Oh, don’t kick me out like this! I still need to get to know this lil’ sugarcube right here…” His eyes slowly wander down your body, his tongue running along his lower lip as he does so.

Your eyes widen slightly in response to his overwhelming—and kind of off putting—attention, making you turn to Flynn for support. His features soften as his gaze collides with yours, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, Harvey,” You say politely, but unenthusiastically. “But Flynn’s right, we were actually about to leave, so…” You lie, feigning an apologetic look.

“Oh, well that’s quite alright! You see, I can tell you’re not from ‘round here, and I’ve heard that the Campbell’s got a little guest on their farm,” Harvey takes a step closer to you, invading your space, and making you back away until your back touches the wall behind you. “You don’t happen to be said guest, do ya’? Cause if you are, then I could—you know—drop by and…pay you a lil’ visit.” He smirks at you, and you grimace.

Next thing you know, Flynn’s pulling you to his chest, away from Harvey. You welcome his comforting touch with open arms, letting him hold you against him, and ignoring how tight his grip is on you. You pretend not to notice the sharp tension hanging in the air, and you also pretend not to notice how the man’s face turns from arrogance to something close to fear.

“We’ll be on our way now, Harvs. It was…nice seeing you.” His voice sounds just as easy going as it always does, but there’s something in the way he says it. Something…fake. Restrained. Controlled. As if he was holding back from saying something entirely different.

You two leave the shop without sparing him a single glance. Flynn’s grip on your arm remains tight, he seems to have forgotten to let go, but you don’t dare remind him. You’ve never seen him act like this, and it unnerves you.

You get in his truck, sitting in the passenger's seat, and he buckles your seatbelt for you before turning the car. Even in a state of wrath, he remains a gentleman.

The ride back to the farm is quiet, disturbingly so. You choose to leave him be and let him cool off instead of questioning his behavior—no matter how intrigued you are. Throughout the whole journey home, you stay in your head, daydreaming about everything and anything.

And while you wonder if the cupcake that you left in the fridge disappeared, was stolen, or you simply ate it and don’t remember—Flynn is scheming.

Lost in his head, his mind going 100 miles per hour, he plans how he’ll punish that bastard for shamelessly harassing you in front of him. He plans how he’ll make that vermin pay for even attempting to woo you. He plans where he’ll hide the body. He plans if he’ll even leave a body.

He’ll gauge his eyes. He’ll skin him alive. He’ll chop off every limb of his body. He’ll make sure to give him a slow and agonizingly painful death.

Flynn Bennet has never killed anyone. Why would he? He’s the Golden Boy after all, the knight in shining armor, the prince charming. But now that he has you. Lovely, sweet, innocent, God-sent you. What is he supposed to do?! Let that parasite…live? NO!

C’mon! ‘Sugarcube’? CREEP ALERT!

Someone as precious as you shouldn't have to deal with morons like that.

He needs to protect you! You’re from the city, you don’t know how disgusting these people can be—how nauseating they are! They’ll try to take advantage of your naivety and hurt you!

Not him though. He’s the exception, he’s the only one you can trust.

Sure—he may or may not sniff your dirty clothes until he falls asleep, and he may or may not watch you while you change…and sleep…and shower…and just overall exist—but that’s just a bad habit! He’ll quit once you become his, he swears!

He will take great care of you. The second you become his, you’ll never have to worry ever again.

He’ll take care of everything, so don’t worry about a thing. He’ll make sure to romance you how it’s supposed to, like a true gentleman. Trust him. His mother and older sister have taught him how to treat a darling like you.

So, just you wait. You just keep writing your stories, playing with the animals, getting to know yourself. He’ll take care of the rest.

After all, what better way to live the country life than with a cowboy by your side?

I did it! I finally did it! I finished what i was supposed to finish a month ago! Are you guys proud of me? I know you're not, you must be heavily disappointed, especially the person who requested this. I'm sorry. But I did it, at last, the prophecy has been fulfilled and I can finally write whatever I want guiltless... I know it's not very good nor very long, but at least it's here (Which is the bare minimum, I'm sorry) I love you all, I hope everyone is having a good day or night. Remember to point out any mistakes that you see. Ps. @c4cyk4 I'm really sorry, my sweet N4N4, I owe you. I shouldn't have taken this long. I love you, don't leave me, wifey <3

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

(ep8 spoilers ahead)

Black Sapphire is at a bit of a loss.

Really, who wouldn't be? What was supposed to be a simple, fun little programme of torment spiralled so far out of control that anyone would have lost their bearings. Even Master Shadow Milk had lost his by the end of it, so the rest of them surely stood no chance!

It ended up as a complete disaster on their part, an absolutely ghastly stain on their record. Black Sapphire is fairly sure he hasn't witnessed a worse showing since– well, he can't think it too loud, because it's a sore point for the Master, but it has been an incredibly, incredibly long time.

And they had to abandon the Spire too! The Spire, which he and Candy Apple have patiently waited in for what seems like eons. Candy Apple has been pretending not to sulk over it, or to sulk for different Master-related reasons, but she's rather upset over the loss of her glamorous collection of syrups. Black Sapphire can see right through her though. He had been the one who got her half of those syrups in the first place, because he knows she likes to entertain herself with dressing up.

He may have also replaced a good number of them too, as a meagre apology for ruining them in his occasional pranks, but that is neither here or there.

What is here and there is the fact that Black Sapphire is facing a near unprecedented level of befuddlement in the face of all this falling apart. And the worst culprit, naturally, is Pure Vanilla Cookie.

Black Sapphire really isn't sure how to feel about him. Candy Apple, of course, hates him on all grounds, both logical and illogical, but Black Sapphire's opinion on the matter is frustratingly more nuanced. He holds a certain disdain for him on principle, but just to himself, he can admit that his act of deception was impressive. If it were directed towards anyone else, Black Sapphire would have reveled in it, even.

But it had been directed at Master Shadow Milk, and the sheer audacity, the sheer unadultered nerve of that strips a good deal of the amusement Black Sapphire might have gotten from the situation away. He's still experiencing the lingering shock of such a thing succeeding.

And then there's the problem of Pure Vanilla's apparent...effect on the Master. Something about him prompted a disgusting sort of authenticity from Master Shadow Milk, made his smiles and snarls and laughter break the mould they were usually contained by. Black Sapphire prides himself in his ability to, generally and with minimal effort, guess the true emotion of his Master at any given time, regardless of what mask he chooses to wear. He hadn't needed to do that when he and Candy Apple came to fetch him after that battle; Shadow Milk's ugly, eeriely complicated rage was plain on his face, his masks thrown to the side.

It was both terrifying and agonising to imagine that anyone could affect Shadow Milk to that extent.

Black Sapphire is not burdened with the same lovesick blindness as Candy Apple, so he can recognise that, in hindsight, Pure Vanilla's strange influence on Shadow Milk is probably due to his possession of the Soul Jam. It puts Pure Vanilla in a unique position and, considering Shadow Milk's proud declaration of their new shared title before it all went downhill, it must make him a worthy partner in Shadow Milk's eyes, circumstances permitting.

The idea is almost laughably absurd. It makes Black Sapphire feel like there is something barbed and bitter lodged in his throat.

Following their forced retreat, Master Shadow Milk had insisted that he has no more interest in Pure Vanilla, that he will get his revenge by destroying him and that will be that, before sequestering himself away to scheme, apparently uninterested in his faithful minions' inputs. This, at least, is a fairly common occurence. Black Sapphire understands why he wouldn't want Candy Apple's erratic suggestions, driven moreso by a bid for his attention than any meaningful attempt at contribution, but he humbly believes he could be of good help, if given the chance.

Personal grievances aside, Black Sapphire is a little disappointed by the Master's clumsily designed lie, such a far cry from his masterful tapestries of deceit, intricately woven with a slither of truth to easily ensnare all who encounter it. Candy Apple accepted his excuses wholeheartedly because they soothed her, even though Black Sapphire is sure she noticed the discrepancies too.

Ironically, disciples of Deceit tend to have a better grasp on the Truth then most Cookies, recognising it far quicker. To be able to most efficiently reject it, you see.

For all their Master claimed to reject Pure Vanilla, he kept fiddling with that little doll in Pure Vanilla's image, squeezing it and mauling it and fixing it at random intervals as he mulled over his new plans. Black Sapphire had seen it, every time he cautiously tried to check in on their Master, hastily bowing back out whenever he recieved a nasty glare. If the doll was ever broken, it was never broken for long, always returning to a serviceable state so Shadow Milk could continue fidgeting with it.

It is ominous, this attachment his Master seems to have. Black Sapphire quite dislikes it, so he guesses by extension, he quite dislikes Pure Vanilla too.

Speaking of attachment, he blinks out of his pondering as Candy Apple bobs into view in front of him, trying to slink past him to undoubtedly go and disturb the Master in his seclusion.

Black Sapphire pointedly clears his throat. "And what do you think you're doing?"

Candy Apple tiptoes to a stop, glancing at him with squinty, suspicious eyes. "Obviously, I'm going to check on Master Shadow Milk! Hasn't he been holed up for a while? A really long while?"

"Master Shadow Milk ordered not to be disturbed." Black Sapphire replies silkily, hiding the fact that he, too, has been getting antsy about the duration of their Master's isolation. Still, every one of his polite entrances has been met with poor reception, so Candy Apple's boistrous one would definitely go even worse, and he would much rather avoid that. She's an annoying brat, but Black Sapphire would find her permanent absence... uncomfortable.

Candy Apple pouts, puffing out her cheeks. "Yeah, well, he ordered that a while ago and he still isn't out. Maybe he needs some cheering up!" She lights up, her eyes gleaming with an uncanny, delighted shine. "I need to be there for him in his time of need. I can help him think of ways to destroy that- that awful, pathetic Vanilla Cookie!"

"Pure Vanilla Cookie." Black Sapphire corrects quietly, reluctantly, only because he has a sinking feeling that he will continue to haunt their conversations, and he isn't sure, much to his chagrin, how Shadow Milk will react if he overhears and thinks Candy Apple genuinely didn't bother to remember his name.

Black Sapphire really doesn't understand Candy Apple's infatuation with their Master. Of course, he can understand the admiration and the exhaltation, because their Master is a brilliant, powerful Cookie who was baked with the world as his inheritance, but Candy Apple's obsession is so extreme it causes her to act outside the guidelines of their Master's orders if she foolishly believes it would benefit her chances.

Then again, she has always been like this. From the moment Candy Apple has opened her eyes, she has had an odd fixation on Master Shadow Milk, even though it was Black Sapphire who sat in front of her and watched her morph into her Cookie form for the first time, out of the sickeningly sweet apple the Master had tossed carelessly into his hands like a second thought. Her fixation has only intensified and warped as she's grown, seemingly only spurred on by the overall lack of acknowledgement from Master Shadow Milk.

It is almost as if the impossibility of it, the way it always lies just out of reach, has only made Candy Apple's attachment deeper, obsessed with the thrill of that distant and flickering sliver of chance.

Come to think of it, that might be the same for Shadow Milk's obsession with Pure Vanilla. It would explain why he seems to be marinating in such a staggeringly complex mix of emotions now, even after his desired ending seems to have slipped from his hands.

Ugh, love. What a beautifully awful thing, so easy to twist. It's the best kindling for rumours, drawing out the worst reactions, and it's the ultimate curse.

"Whatever!" Candy Apple huffs, turning away from him with a flourish of her skirt. "Shadow Milk needs me. I'm going to help him, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!"

And, well. That's just a blatant lie.

Black Sapphire sweeps his microphone out in front of her feet, tripping her so badly that she lands directly on her face with a shrill squeak. He snickers a little. He can't help it.

Candy Apple pushes herself up from the floor with a sharp scowl, eyes boiling with anger, her shriek practically vibrating in her dough. "You- you MEANIE!"

Black Sapphire shrugs theatrically, not bothering to hide the curl of a smile. "Consider this payback for your hinderance back at the Spire." He chuckles slightly, narrowing his eyes. "After all, if you hadn't released those Cookies from those cards, we probably wouldn't be here now, would we?"

It's petty, especially since Candy Apple has apparently already been punished for that transgression, but any punishment handed down by Shadow Milk might as well not be a punishment at all to her. Keeping her from running in and bothering Shadow Milk, on the other hand? Now that's a punishment.

Candy Apple's face contorts, her dough flushed with humiliation and anger both, sputtering out frustrated grumbles that sound exactly the same as when she was first baked. "Shut up and get out of my WAY!"

She jumps at Black Sapphire, who dodges and alights into the air with a flap of his wings, making her stumble again with a cheeky flick of his microphone. He laughs at her responding screech, so much like the harsh feedback of his audio equipment.

Besides, pettiness aside, Black Sapphire is only dutifully following his orders. If Master Shadow Milk wants to gather strength by wallowing in his unstable emotions, then who are they to stop him?

He is the Master of All Knowledge, after all. He must know best.

[allfearstofallto]

TW: Yandere! x Reader, super super toxic relationship

I don't write for Yandere! Wanderer much, but-

He's the type to play with your trust. He can no longer isolate and restrain you physically, not like how Scaramouche could, so he has to do it psychologically.

Your friends aren't your friends, he hammers that idea into your mind until it takes root in your skull. He's the only one who truly cares about you. Nimble fingers will be gently stroking the skin of your cheek as speaks these words to you as casually as he'd say the weather, until they become the truth in your heart. Until they become the truth in reality. Until everyone you know distances themselves, slowly, but surely, and proves him right, once again.

You don't need anyone but him, he'll assure you. Wanderer doesn't tell you much about himself, but actions speak louder than words. He's smart and capable. He's calm and collected. He's a good listener and gives even better advice when he actually does decide to speak. So why are you outsourcing your needs to anyone else, when he's right there? There's no one better than him. His words may be a little snarky and expressions harsh, but can't you see how soft he is around you? Only you and no one else.

You cannot live without him, he tells you while holding your shaking, sobbing form in his arms. All those fears, plights, and struggles that you told to him in good conscious, every part of yourself that you lacked confidence in, it'll all be tossed back in your face. Not to harm you though. Of course not. No. Never. It would pain him more in his mechanical heart to be the reason for your self doubt. But to tell you that he's the only one who will ever love you, flaws and all. Those things about yourself that you hate to the point of depression, he likes them. Those miniscule flaws and perceived faults, nonsense in his eyes. And Wanderer is the only person who would truly accept you for who you are.

We only have each other. You nod in agreement at this. Cupping his face in your hands, you stroke his cheeks with your thumbs, watching as he sinks into the feeling of your touch. Long eyelashes fluttering closed, he kisses your palms with a tenderness that only you have the luxury of experiencing. When he meets your gaze again with those deep blue eyes, you feel yourself shiver. Was it love or fear that was causing you to faulter from the way he looked upon you? You couldn't tell. Both emotions had collided together so perfectly inside yourself that you weren't sure if you could feel one, without the other following close after.

"No one will ever love you the way I do,"

[fewsystemsinonebody]

having a name that's too "out there" - what it even means XD

not being cis gender - oh no... but like as an alter or collectively? because I'm collectively... no idea

being lgbt in general - damn, only straight people can develop DID? that's homophobic!

your alters have different names - ... wait... so they have to have one name only? like... a singlet?

you have more than 20 alters - 50 alters in co-con rn

being american - finally something that proves I'm not fake!

being white - awh... there went my chances down the drain... DID is so racist it wouldn't touch a white person because they're too privilaged

having non-human alters - so I've heard animal alters are a myth, good to be part of mythology

having introjects (especially of popular media) - you mean fictives? then I passed as I don't have 'em

being alternative - luckily am not trendy

knowing youre a system - oh wow... only those who know they're singlets are actual systems now

knowing even one fact about one of the alters - me with piles of papers on my alters like a librarian

being a minor - too old for that

posting videos/content about DID - if educational then I decided not to so I suppose I saved my ass by that

liking anything mainstream - what are you saying?! I'm a certified hipster...

having alters with different interests and distinct differences - can't mask for life

having little alters or alters of different ages - Maylo, you're too grandpa to be part of our brain, leave

alters with pronouns (specifically neopronouns, or ones different from the bodies birth gender) - trauma made me do it

putting pins on your backpack (this is referencing a very specific post) - turning my head to look at host's one bag with those that she barely ever uses but... still

having a single ounce of fun - being positive will put me in jail

sorry for funny input OP, I'm only trying to make fun of those stereotypes, don't mind me! I can delete if you want me too

Dagmar

here's what i've learned from fakeclaimers on what makes someone a faker in DID:

having a name that's too "out there"

not being cis gender

being lgbt in general

your alters have different names

you have more than 20 alters

being american

being white

having non-human alters

having introjects (especially of popular media)

being alternative

knowing youre a system

knowing even one fact about one of the alters

being a minor

posting videos/content about DID

liking anything mainstream

having alters with different interests and distinct differences

having little alters or alters of different ages

alters with pronouns (specifically neopronouns, or ones different from the bodies birth gender)

putting pins on your backpack (this is referencing a very specific post)

having a single ounce of fun

if you're any one of these then you're apparently faking and/or deserving of ridicule!!!

[grimmweepers]

— ★ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you were only a week away from marrying alhaitham when you had a very strange encounter with his long-passed grandmother. one that felt far too real to be just a dream.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: alhaitham x gn!reader, SFW, alhaitham is not physically in this until the end but he’s mentioned a lot, dialogue heavy, fluff, COMFORT, references to character story 5, dream fic, alhaitham’s lore, mention of death (his parents), reader has akademiya background (implied), established relationship (obv), very self-indulgent, wc: 2.0k | masterlist

a/n: i suddenly got this idea after posting this

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You don’t remember coming here.

Beneath your feet, the soft earth felt undisturbed. Leafy vines curled into paths that seemed to stretch on forever, and as though time had paused indefinitely at dusk, a gold and violet sky blurred the edge of the world into a dream-picture haze. 

A breath of warm air brushed your skin, not unpleasantly so but still, it buzzed with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

There was no doubt this was somewhere you had never visited yet you do not question the presence of that bountiful, fruit-bearing tree behind you. Nor do you question the stone bench where you sat, which was dotted with patches of orange light from a sun you could not see. 

In its brief passing, the wind carried the rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of unseen children. 

Somehow, even in its unfamiliarity, everything felt exactly as it should be. 

“Seems like your mind’s wandering, my dear,” a sudden voice broke the quiet. 

You turned your head, surprised to find an elderly woman sitting beside you with her hands folded neatly in her lap. 

How long had she been here? 

Better yet, how long have you been here?

The woman regarded you with eyes that held a plethora of stories and her hair, silver with age, was pulled back into a simple style. She had an air of wisdom about her that only came with time and a life well-lived. 

You couldn't decipher the ease you felt in her presence. It was like you’d known for her much longer than the mere moments you just shared. You should’ve asked where you were, who she was, what this place was. But instead…

“The wedding…” you realised, belatedly, that you were confiding in a stranger. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t mentioned anything, and yet for some reason, it seemed the only thing worth saying. “The wedding is in a week.” 

The woman remained neutral, waiting, listening.

“And I…” you frowned as you collected your thoughts. “There’s still so much to do. So many people to please. Sometimes I think about canceling everything and running away with him. I think he feels the same.” 

You spoke of your worries so effortlessly, that the woman could only nod as if she was meant to hear them. 

“Ah,” she hummed, you could feel her searching for something inside of you. “So you are the one.” 

“The one?”

A deep smile had settled on her face as she chuckled, “The one marrying my grandson.” 

You lost sense of everything. 

Now that you looked closer, you saw the resemblance. The sharp cut of her eyes, the peak of her nose, her iron glare which was softened by her warm complexion. 

Pieces of Alhaitham were etched into her like scattered ink on an old page. 

“You’re his… grandmother.” 

She nodded again, and you felt your heart beat faster and faster. There was no coming out of this conversation unscathed, not when your fingers began to fiddle like that. 

Alhaitham spoke about his family sparingly but only as an acknowledgement for the past rather than a wound to be reopened. You knew that both of his parents were scholars who died in a tragic accident when he was young and that his grandmother was the one who raised him during the bulk of his pre-adolescence. 

Said grandmother watched you carefully as she continued to smile, “It’s good to finally meet you.” 

“It’s an honour,” you said softly. 

She waved a hand, amused but appreciative of your good manners. “No need for formalities, my dear. I just wanted to see the person who managed to keep up with that boy.” 

“He’d say it the other way around,” you began to chuckle. It was refreshing to have someone else tease him so fondly. If only Alhaitham was present to hear his grandmother. Your chest stopped fluttering. His grandmother. 

Why were you with his grandmother? 

“Of course he would,” she replied back, shaking her head. “That child was as brilliant and stubborn as parents. If not more. I used to say that one day, he’d argue with the sky about whether it was blue.” 

You couldn’t help but grin, “He still would.” 

A hearty laugh came tumbling out of her like she was elated to know her grandson was still the grandson she knew, “My dear, may I share a few stories with you—”

“Please,” you accidentally interrupted. 

Immediately, you flashed her an apologetic look but she understood the excitement. Some skeletons would remain forever in the closet if Alhaitham ever deemed them unworthy to share.

“Very well.”

“Did you know,” her voice suddenly dipped into nostalgia, "When Alhaitham was a child, he would sit in my study for hours, reading books far beyond his years? Whenever he discovered something new, he would come to me, eyes alight with curiosity. He never sought praise. He simply wanted to share what he had learned.” 

You could picture it so clearly. 

Alhaitham as a boy, sitting beside her with his little hands gripping a book, his teal eyes burning with all the wisdom a child could hold. You smiled as though the fond memory were yours. Then you sighed, “It seems he hasn’t changed at all. He still does that, too. Even now when he finds a particularly interesting theory or text, he’ll tell me about it. Even if I don’t quite follow” 

Her eyes twinkled as she let out a softer laugh, “That is how he loves.” 

You believed it. 

“Is… it true you were a scholar as well?” 

That fact has always piqued your interest. 

“Correct,” she nodded but did not elaborate immediately. Instead, she tilted her head and studied you. “Tell me about yourself. Who are you, to have earned Alhaitham’s regard?”

Caught off guard, you found yourself nervously unfolding everything. You spoke of your life, of your time in the Akademiya, of how you had met Alhaitham. His grandmother listened attentively, occasionally chiming in with her Ooo’s and Ahh’s like a young girl indulging in gossip for the first time. 

“You must be quite remarkable,” she finally said. The praise made you feel a type of shyness you hadn’t felt since you were also a child yourself. 

She paused before adding, “I was a member of Kshahrewar, long ago. Though my specialty lay in engineering, I always admired the tenacity of those who pursued pure knowledge. It seems he inherited that hunger. I see it in the way you speak of him.”

“He’s certainly strong-willed but people tend to forget he shows his kindness in his own way. He wears his heart on his sleeve more than most people know,” your eyebrows perked, “I suppose that’s why I’m marrying him!” 

Marrying. Marrying. Marrying. The reality of it rattled and reverbed in your head. 

For the first time, her expression shifted to surprise before it melted into something serene and tender. Something prouder. 

“You remind me of his mother.”

You wondered how you appeared to her when she said that because you failed to notice the tears that came like the rush of tide. “In what way?” You struggled to ask.

“She had the same light in her eyes when she spoke of his father,” she said, “And the same warmth when she looked at her son. When she loved you, her smile always beckoned you.” 

A cork felt like it was lodged deep in your throat when you tried to speak, “She sounds…” 

Wonderful, was what you were meant to say but her remark from two seconds ago still left you blundered and muted. You had never known his mother, Alhaitham barely knew his mother, so you couldn’t even fathom carrying a part of her with you.

His grandmother’s gaze lingered on you before she asked with utmost intention, not expecting you to finish your sentence, “What brings you light? What do you love?”

An odd question but it brought you back to her, “You mean about him?”

“No no,” she said, wiggling a finger at you, “About yourself.” 

You blinked.

So much of your life these past weeks has been focused on your wedding and your future with Alhaitham. While it was joyful, overwhelming, beautiful, all of the above—somewhere in the midst of it all, you hadn’t stopped to ask yourself this.

“I…” You thought for a moment, then smiled when the answer came to you. “I love learning. Not just from books, but from people. From Alhaitham, from those around me. I love how it changes us—connects us. And I love life because I still have so much to discover from it.”

Taking everything into consideration, his grandmother mused, “Good. You’ll be a fine match for him.”

A breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of something far away, and her expression turned thoughtful, “You know, I once left him a message in one of his books.”

Aware of the message she spoke of, you stiffened. 

Whenever he allowed, you had read those words over and over, traced them with careful fingers, and wondered about the woman who had written them. What kind of person was she? What had she seen in him, in the world, to leave behind such a wish?

“May my child Alhaitham lead a peaceful life—” 

Yes, it sounded surreal when it finally came paired with a voice. 

But then, she reached for your hand. Her grip was warm, comfortable, achingly real. Not physically but the kind of real that imprinted itself onto the very fabric of life.

“—with you by his side.”

The message drifted beyond the confines of ink on a page, stepped out of the past and into the limelight of the present, spoken into existence just for you.

That part had never been written.

That part belonged to you.

“Take care of him,” she advised you kindly, though you needn’t a reminder, “And let him take care of you, too. Peace isn’t something that should be carried alone.”

“I will,” you beamed in return. 

When you said that, it occurred to you the realm around you was beginning to fade into a colourless void. The sky paled into nothingness. The warmth in the air waned into a ghostly chill.

His grandmother exhaled, almost a sigh.

You tried to hold onto the moment, “Will I see you again?”

“The world is a strange place,” she said. “Maybe you will. Maybe he will.”

A final gust of wind swept through, and the last thing you remembered was her wide and true smile. 

Then, complete darkness.

———

Morning light bled through the curtains once you woke. The scent of crisp air and traces of coffee filled your senses as you slowly adjusted to reality. For a moment, the fog of sleep still clung to you, until you felt the bed dip beside you.

Rolling over, you found Alhaitham lying next to you with one arm propped behind his head, a book resting on his bare chest. He wasn’t reading, though. His eyes, sharp even in their drowsy state, were waiting for yours to meet them.

“You were mumbling in your sleep,” he remarked, voice still hoarse from the criminal hour of the morning. “Something about our wedding and my grandmother.”

You swallowed thickly. The memory of her laughter, her words, her warmth—everything had felt so tangible. You hesitated, your fingers curling against the sheets as you struggled to make sense of it all.

“It was… a dream.” Though, it sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself. Your words wavered as if saying them aloud would make them true.

Alhaitham regarded your answer for some time before pursing his lips, closing his book with a small thud. “Was it?”

You looked at him then, really looked, and for the briefest moment, you swore—swore you could see it in his eyes.

A flicker of recognition.

Perhaps he had seen her too.

The world was a strange place, after all.

© 2025 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform.

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[yvesdoee]

content 𐙚 : when you and babygumi bring a stray into the house ( part two ) 🐈‍⬛ pt. 1

warnings 𐙚 : just fluff. dad!toji, wife!reader, megumi is your biological son. no proofread bc i’m really sleepy. wc : 745

okay, so we all agree that toji would be 100% the kind of dad who “doesn’t want any cats in this house”, but ends up being the most loving cat dad ever?

you knocked softly on the door, hearing a “come in” from the other side. you opened it, stepping into megumi’s room. little boy was already tucked into bed, his favorite stuffed bunny in his arms, the dim light casting a warm glow around the room.

“mommy, why doesn’t mr.cat like me?” megumi’s small, sad voice made your heart ache. you immediately softened, moving to sit on the edge of his bed.

you let out a quiet chuckle, taking his small hand in yours, gently stroking the back of his palm with your thumb. “megs, he loves you. after all, you’re the one who noticed him on the street and brought him home.” you smiled reassuringly.

megumi’s little brows furrowed. “but when i try to pet him, he walks away from me! and he won’t sleep on my bed. he loves dad more.” his voice was full of hurt, his small shoulders sagging with disappointment.

“sweetie, not all kittens are affectionate, it doesn't mean he doesn't love you. he just shows his love in a different way.”

that answer seemed to satisfy megumi, though he was still upset.

you opened the book you had brought with you—a collection of Japanese folk tales—and began to read. the story of momotaro, the boy born from a peach who grew up to defeat ogres, was always a favorite.

when you finished, you closed the book with a soft thud, the silence in the room settling in.

“was i born in a peach too?” he asked suddenly.

you giggled at his innocent question. “no, you weren’t born in a peach. you grew in my belly before you were born.”

megumi blinked up at you, looking as if he were trying to process the idea before simply nodding, satisfied with the explanation. he yawned, his small eyes closing slowly, drifting toward sleep.

you stood up from the bed quietly, smoothing the blankets around him as you whispered, “good night, megumi.”

you left his room quietly, heading toward the living room. toji was sprawled out on the couch, already asleep, his broad frame looking utterly relaxed. his hand rested on his jaw, and the tiny ball of fur curled up on his chest—mr.cat—was snuggled up close to him. you couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight.

you knew the story well. toji had been vehemently against bringing a cat into the house when you first suggested it. he’d grumbled about the mess, the hassle, the hair—everything. but now… now it was clear that he and mr.cat had become inseparable. the kitten had claimed toji as his own, following him around the house like a shadow, napping on his chest, and curling up next to him every chance he got. the bond was undeniable, and it was obvious that toji had softened, his gruff demeanor melting whenever the cat was around.

you walked over to the couch, gently patting his shoulder. toji stirred, mumbling something as he slowly opened his eyes. when he saw you, his lips curved into a sleepy smile.

“hey, ma.” he murmured hoarsely, blinking up at you.

“let’s go to bed, toji. you can’t sleep on the couch.”

with a small groan he got up from the couch, the cat woke up too, following you into the bedroom. mr.cat trotted along right behind you both, almost like a little guard dog, sticking close to toji.

“you guys seem to get along well.” you chuckled.

“i don’t like him. little guy just happened to follow me.”

you couldn’t help but giggle at his words. “uh-huh, sure. whatever you say.” you shot him a teasing smile as you both climbed into bed.

the cat followed toji, as always, jumping up onto the bed and settling down at the edge, right next to toji’s feet.

toji grunted, pulling the covers up around both of you, before wrapping his arms around you.

“good night, ma.” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

“good night, love.” you whispered back.

just before you closed your eyes, you could hear the soft purring of cat from the edge of the bed. he had finally claimed his spot—right next to his favorite person. toji’s arm tightened around you as you both drifted to sleep, a warm, peaceful night settling over your little family.

[mejaemin]

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you’re cute! - lee seokmin

wc: 1.3k summary: seokmin’s a little too obvious about his thing for you, but it’s okay! it’s cute! warnings: music major!seok n reader, they’re both a little immature but in a cute way?, loser!seokmin, seungkwan feature an: i’m so sorry this is late.. i wanted it to be perfect because it’s seokmin’s bday fic !!! he’s so special to me and i couldn’t let it suck yk?? (i still think it does..) n e way tysm to cutie @cxffecoupx for giving me this idea !!!

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lee seokmin’s really cute.

you see him sitting in the row beside you, and you hide in your books so he can’t see that you’re watching him. he’s talking to his friends, and you can hear his melodic voice ramble about god knows what. when he starts laughing, everyone else starts side eyeing him while you can’t help but bite your lip to avoid smiling with him.

all of a sudden, his friends turn serious. they’re all staring at seokmin with this accusatory look, and you turn your listening ears on when seungkwan leans in,

“so, are you gonna stop being a loser and do something about..” he uses your first initial to refer to whoever they’re talking about, and your heart nearly beats out of your chest. maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop…? you put your notebook down and start scribbling in it.

you hear said loser sigh heavily, and from your peripheral you can see his head fall into his arms. it’s muffled, but you think you hear him say, “i can’t… she’s too pretty! i’m scared!”

seungkwan sighs. “a girl writing notes in a hello kitty notebook with a glitter gel pen is scary? seok, she even has the same texting habits as you. what’s scary about that?”

he pops his head up. “it’s scary cute, okay?! and- wait, you text her?! this is so unfair..” he whines, resting his cheek in his palm to watch you with a pout.

taking a quick glance around the classroom, you’re able to confirm that you’re definitely the only one in here with a hello kitty notebook and collection of glitter gel pens. you think it’s safe enough to assume that he’s definitely talking about you, and it makes you feel like kicking your feet and twirling your hair.

you said it once, and you’ll say it again, but this whole ordeal is really the cutest thing. even before you knew about this little crush, he’s always had your attention. his smile is contagious, and it’s never really been directed at you, but just seeing him happy makes you happy. he truly has a skill at making people smile. not only that, but his laugh? goodness, he really knows how to make a girl swoon even with his lack of skills in said department. he’s got blonde hair, and it’s quite new, but it really opens up his features and he looks even brighter than you thought was possible. and now, over the past couple of weeks, you haven’t been able to stop overhearing his overshares in public to his friends.

his voice is so loud, however it’s not in a suffocating way. his laugh is contagious, his singing is amazing, and, god, when you got paired up that one time during your piano class, it was quite private, and he was attempting to sightread. it sounded like.. music, you guess, but it’s just the way his pretty fingers stumble over the keys, his laugh ringing through the studio at his own mess-ups (if only you knew that he actually wasn’t so bad, it was just knowing that you’re one of two other people in the studio right now). you weren’t much better, and you tried to offer that as words of comfort, which ended up in his red face as he stumbled over his words.

since then, you’ve overheard him during all your music classes. he’s not the best at keeping his volume down, and you know that very well. you’ve overheard plenty of things from his mouth, things that were a little too strange for your liking, but there’s good parts to it. like.. hearing him ramble on and on about this girl who’s too pretty for his own good! she’s so gorgeous he could die, she looks so pretty when she’s focused, and ugh she’s just so cute when she struggles with music theory! if only you’d actually talk to her, his friends would tease, and that’s the only time he’ll keep his mouth shut. it’s always the same excuse, that you’re too pretty and he’s scared, your looks too intimidating. lost in thought, you pout, thinking you really can’t be that scary…

all of a sudden you’re ripped from your thoughts, your seatmates and everyone else beginning to pack up. although a little frazzled, you follow suit, stuffing your things away in your little tote bag. you sneak another peek at seokmin and his friends, and seungkwan pats his shoulder.

“listen. there’s no way she doesn’t know at this point. if you don’t do something in a week, i’ll do it for you.” he says, leaving him behind in the classroom.

you slow yourself down, matching his pace as he begrudgingly packs his belongings away in his little shoulder bag. he’s got a pout of his own, probably tired of getting playfully (?) bullied by his friends. finally, he’s done, and he walks out of the classroom with his fluffy hair, striped shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. before he goes too far, you chase after him. it can’t hurt to say something.. right?

shuffling on tip toes to catch up to him, you finally do, and tap on his shoulder. he turns his head, a smile on his face, and he can’t help the shocked expression that pops up on his face once he sees it’s you.

“oh- um, hi! do you- uh, did you need.. something?” he asks, his face a little too expressive when he grimaces at himself.

you nod, bouncing on your toes with a smile. “seokmin, right?” that was a dumb question… you already know his name! regardless, he nods. you give your own, even though you know he knows it too, “you know, seokmin… you don’t really have an inside voice, do you?” it comes out a little sassier than you meant it to, but how are you supposed to start a conversation?! you’re not built for this either…

“i’m so sorry! if it’s a bother, i’ll be more quiet, if it uh- it- yeah..” he gives up at the end of his silence, sighing heavily, his cheeks pink with embarrassment.

you smile, looking up at him with innocent, yet teasing eyes. on the inside you’re just as nervous as him, but something about knowing he’s the exact same puts you at ease a little. “i can hear what you’re talking about, y’know… about me.”

his jaw drops. you watch him, waiting for a response, but he just stands there. you actually stand there for a few seconds watching it, and he’s literally frozen for that entire duration.

after gaping like a fish for a few moments words finally come out, “i’m sorry if you’re uncomfy because of it.. i can be quiet, if that’ll be any better?” he looks super sad right now, and you’d feel evil to let him think the worst any longer.

“no, silly!” you giggle, putting a hand on his shoulder, his face only gets redder, and he’s stuttering in protest. “i don’t mind it. you’re super cute too, you know!”

“oh- oh? seriously?” he asks, and you nod.

“i like you too, y’know!” your giggles become even more frequent, and a little louder at him. it’s so charming the way he stumbles over his words and blushes so intensely, in his own cute little loser way.

he’s still in shock, mouth hanging open, and it’s a little bold but you use a finger to push it closed. with a sigh, made of giggles and amusement, you take out one of your sanrio sticky notes. seokmin’s got a pen sticking out from his bag, and you pull it out to write your phone number on it. pulling it off the stack, you stick it to his chest, making your way to walk past him, not without a smile. you’re sure that once you’re further away you hear a little yesss! and it makes you smile even bigger, knowing that something could come of you and the cute loser in all your music classes.

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perm taglist: @chenlezip @coquettejunnie

[utytimeline]

And for UTY:

Dalv likes word puzzles and coloring books. He's not too big on games in general, but puzzles and coloring calm his mind when he's overthinking.

Decibat hates video games because they're too noisy. Especially if they have chiptune music.

Martlet plays Minecraft. Creative mode, mostly. She's no good at combat or puzzles, but she loves to design things.

El Bailador was on his way to becoming the rhythm game master until Mettaton made his debut.

Starlo tries not to play a lot of games, because he'll get obsessive over one and be at it for DAYS, like literally, without sleep. (And yes, RDR2 is his favorite.)

Ceroba doesn't like video games, but she will play tabletop Mah Jongg sometimes.

Chujin gave Kanako a console he found in the dump with hundreds of games pre-programmed on it. He used to play games with her- 2-player if the game had that option, taking turns at the controller if the game was only 1-player. He would let her win, until she got old enough to beat him. Kanako's favorite game character was Tails. The game Chujin programmed for Kanako was about a kitsune fox that beat up dragons and collected 7 golden mushrooms to keep the evil dragon lord from getting them.

Ed and Moray fight each other in beat-em-brawlers. Mooch and Ace used to bet on Ed and Moray until Starlo put a stop to it (they still place bets on them in secret, tho).

Ace doesn't really play video games, but Star did take his phone away for a week when he spent too much money on gambling games. (I also headcanon that Ace has a gambling addiction. I can't remember if there's in-game evidence for this or not.)

Mooch adores stealth games. Star worries a lot that they give her ideas, but he hasn't been able to prove it yet.

Axis plays sports and racing games.

Clover doesn't like video games. They prefer the outdoors.

Some Undertale gamer headcanons:

Someone said that Toriel would be the world Tetris champion, and I'm not sure why, but I agree with that. And not just Tetris, but bubble-poppers, match 3, marble-shooters, all of those kinds of games. She's the new Candy Crush mascot.

I've also seen people say sans would be into rhythm games, and... no. Why would you think he would be into something that takes that much effort? Seriously, come on. What sans is into is farming sim games. He's written dozens of online strategy guides for Stardew Valley, all of them under different pseudonyms.

Papyrus is into online multiplayers. All of them, any genre- Fortnite, Apex Legends, Fall Guys, Elder Scrolls Online, Runescape, you name it. He sucks at all of them, but none of his online friends is willing to tell him how bad he is because he's so darned innocent and nice. Nobody really wants him on their team because he'll always make them fail the mission, but he's so upbeat and uplifting that no one has the heart to tell him they don't want him.

Undyne loves Souls-like and dungeon crawlers, but she struggles with anything that requires stealth, she just doesn't. do. stealth. She says it's stupid to have to sneak up on enemies, she should just be able to barge in with guns or swords or spears blazing in any and all circumstances. Don't ever even suggest Metal Gear to her. Or Breath of the Wild- she rage-quit after the Yiga Clan Hideout quest (although it did leave her with the impression that bananas give you strength in battle, so she now always keeps a bunch of bananas on hand).

Blooky plays solitaire and Mah Jongg, and even those stress them out.

Maddie plays casino and slots games. On an unrelated note, she's always broke.

Mettaton is the rhythm games master. You will not change my mind on this.

Alphys is HEAVY into JRPG's. The more anime it looks, the more she loves it.

Asgore has no idea what a video game is. Well, ok, he has some idea, his kids both played games, but he never could figure them out. He thinks Sonic and Crash are both Mario characters and that Link is a girl- you get the idea. But he did used to play card and board games with Toriel. Especially chess (she totally owned his ass in every match). Ever since Toriel left, he can't bring himself to play chess. He plays checkers a lot, tho. He usually loses (he plays against himself).

Asriel and Chara were into action/adventure games. Asriel's favorite characters were Yoshi and Link, while Chara's favorites were Samus and Shadow the Hedgehog. What? No, I'm not projecting my favorite games onto the Dreemurr kids. What are you talking about?

Frisk has only ever played the hit indie game Undertale. About 500 times. Always Pacifist, they've never even tried a Geno run. They've been thinking about playing that Deltarune game, too, but they kinda wanna wait until the whole thing is released.

[rauspberries]

lawyer!aaron hotchner x paralegal!reader. summary: your boss shoots down your big idea to try and win a big case, only to use it later without telling you. noting your irritation, he sets the record straight. tags/warnings: afab reader, no use of y/n and no physical description of reader, prosecutor!hotchner, author didn't go to law school, reader is in law school, this is mostly just very hidden flirting and tension word count: 4.1k notes: this was recommended by an anon! i unfortunately accidentally deleted the ask but thank you so much whoever suggested this <3 this is mostly just tension but maybe one day i'll write more of this pairing [leave me requests huehuehue]

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the wall, cascading your shadow against the wall full of plaques on the wall. When you had first started working at the district attorney’s office as a paralegal, you had been amazed by the look of the place. High ceilings, tile flooring, the cleanliness of the place. It screamed excellence and richness, like you had finally made it – even if you weren’t exactly high on the food chain.

As a paralegal, you were essentially a mini-lawyer. Your job was to collect evidence to assist the prosecutor, conduct interviews for them and help prepare for court, meaning you were extremely important in the way legal cases were handled. Your caseload was just as high as the one of prosecutors, your overtime hours just as extreme, but you enjoyed the fast-paced environment and the lovely collection of recommendation letters you’d get once you finished going through law school.

While you sometimes tended to stray to help other procescutors, you tended to be on the cases that Aaron Hotchner handled, to the point where you had memorized everything about him. How he liked his cases ordered on his desk, what order he preferred to gather extra evidence in, how he conducted his witness interviews, all the way down to his coffee order. In order to help him efficiently, you believed that you needed to know absolutely everything in order to excel.

You had been called a perfectionist for the majority of your life. To be a lawyer, that’s what you had to be. You couldn’t slack off just because you weren’t there yet.

You push through the doorway of Aaron’s office just as he sets down his briefcase on the desk, giving him a soft smile as you place a coffee cup on his desk. “Detectives found more evidence in the sexual assault case in Columbia Heights, meaning we’ll most likely have another court case on our hands during the week. I pulled more cases to set precedent for the Argal case and the summary for that is right here,” you grab the manilla folder from beneath his briefcase, holding it back to him, “and the lab results on the knife finally came in for the Neller case, we got him dead to rights.”

The corner of Aaron’s lip pulls up in a slight smirk as he pulls open the file you handed him, glancing at it for a moment before back up at you. “Whatever happened to ‘good morning, Counselor?’ And breathe, please.” He chuckles, setting the file down before sitting in the chair behind his desk. 

Taking a deep breath at the reminder, you cross your arms over your chest, tilting your head. “Is it a good morning if you haven’t slept? Kidding,” you add quickly when he pins you with a stern look, afraid of being sent home due to exhaustion. 

“The Temple murder case is tomorrow, by the way.” The words come out of your mouth slowly, cautiously. The high-profile murder case had been a storm cloud over the office since it had come through, making it the main thing that had plagued your mind – and your workload.

You knew the case like the back of your hand. A spree killer, William Temple, a married business man loved by many. Four different bodies, blunt force trauma to the head and stab wounds to the chest, evidence of sexual assault on low-risk victims. It had gotten media attention before the cops had even known what to do with it, making it a case that had to end in a guilty verdict. It was either that or letting him walk free with a God complex, believing that he could do absolutely anything with no consequences at all.

Unfortunately, there were always issues with high-profile cases. It put them under a microscope, all left under the court of public opinion before getting in front of the jury. His defense attorney would most likely use his charm to their advantage, playing him as a loving family man who couldn’t hurt a fly. Crowds would gather on the steps of the courthouse, either chanting for him to be released or for him to be locked away for good.

There had already been issues with the case. The defense attorney had buried you and Aaron in unnecessary motions, brought you in front of the judge about every single piece of evidence you had attempted to submit for fabricated reasons, along with asking for extraneous files that’d never be needed for the entirety of the case. After that stalling, in which they took the chance to put his good name all over the Internet, jury selection had taken over a week, too worried about his media coverage poisoning the possible jurors.

Finally, after what seemed like years of making an air-tight case, it was time for the case to proceed. Despite the judge granting Aaron’s motion of keeping the media out of the courtroom, a few things would definitely fall through the cracks, meaning everything you’ve pulled together evidence-wise had to be airtight.

“Are you asking me if I’m ready?” The prosecutor hums as he scribbles something in a file, glancing up through his eyelashes for just a brief moment before back down at his work.

“Are you?” You respond calmly, brow arching. It wasn’t like you to question Aaron - you often worshipped the ground he walked on as a prosecutor - but this case was practically half of you. You couldn’t bear to see it go the wrong way. “Do you think we have enough to prove he did this beyond a reasonable doubt?”

A sigh leaves his lips as he sets down his pen, chin tilting up until his focus levels on you, eyes wrinkling around the corners. “I know what my job is.” He reminds you evenly, challenging you with a twitch of his lip. “We have witness testimony putting him on the block of two of the kills, the expunged record of sexual assault, the testimony of his ex-girlfriend on his domestic abuse that shows his dislike towards women.”

You press your lips together as you sit down in the chair on the other side of his desk, crossing your leg over your knee. “Yes, but they have his wife. She’d be willing to perjure herself to give him an alibi, no doubt about it, we’ve seen it before. Also, you said it yourself, his record was expunged. That’s asking for the defense attorney to twist it into how he was wrongfully accused, how this is twice in a row. This man is charming people by just existing, Aaron, we have to come up with either more concrete physical evidence or a way to show the jury that he’s not the kind man he appears to be.” 

Realizing you might’ve overstepped, you clear your throat. “Sir.”

Clearing his throat, Aaron leans back further in his seat, long legs stretching out and splaying apart as he crosses his arms over his chest. He looks dangerous, holding the same focus and grit that you often saw displayed across his face in the courtroom, sending a soft flutter of butterflies in your stomach. Dark and determined eyes watch all of your movements closely, jaw set despite the seemingly relaxed state of his body, a tuft of hair draping over his forehead and his patterned tie just slightly crooked around his neck.

“What would you do?” He questions, keeping his face even. “You want to be a lawyer, don’t you? You’ll have to make these decisions for yourself. So, what would you do?”

You swallow, anxiety creeping its way up your spine. While he doesn’t look upset at your obvious overstepping, the conversation feels like a game of tug-of-war. Pull too hard, you risk anger. Let go, you risk kicking yourself for giving up so easily. “Bring in his wife and have her sit on the wrong side.”

The prosecutor’s eyebrows raise. You can tell you’ve caught him by surprise, watching as he shifts his weight and leans a bit closer to you in curiosity. “Why?”

“During the trial, Temple is going to keep to the calm, good guy demeanor that they’ve tried to paint him to be. His attorney is going to coach him into looking likeable, sophisticated, someone who would never kill anyone, much less four people. But, based on the evidence with his domestic abuse and all of his victims being women, you can infer that he has something against women who go against what he believes is correct.” You lean closer to the desk as you talk, being extra aware to hold the tense eye contact with him.

After a pause, you continue. “If his wife, who believes he has trained to obey his every command, looks to be deceiving him, the irritation will show. If he believes his only solace is his wife and that that one person is betraying him, his good-looking image would immediately be reconsidered by the jury when he snaps at you. If you press into him, explaining to the jury exactly why he looks so agitated and nervous, he will grow defensive, further proving your own point.” Your hands move wildly as you speak, growing excited as your idea spills out of your mouth.

Despite your excitement, Aaron stays in his relaxed position, bending his knees as he places his feet firmly on the floor. “That sounds too risky to make it our smoking gun.” He responds, head shaking just a smidge. “If the wife doesn’t agree or if he’s able to keep his composure, we’re right back where we are at this moment.”

The way he speaks, so easily dismissing you, makes irritation prick at your skin. Your idea is good. You know it’s good. It’s been done before, tactics used to sway the jury’s opinion over the defendant’s personality rather than the evidence laid out in front. At the end of the day, everyone held personal opinions about people – those ruled above any fact that someone could provide. It’s why celebrities are so highly revered despite the controversies painting the front page of magazines.

“Let me talk to the wife.” You thread your fingers together, cracking your knuckles anxiously. “I can get through to her. If Temple is the abuser we think he is, she’s been wanting to get away for a while, but hasn’t because of her kids. All I have to do is empathize and bring up her confidence. I can do it,” you insist, embarrassed by the slightly pleading tone lacing your words.

With a heavy sigh, like this conversation was unimportant, Aaron scoots his chair forward, elbows hitting his desk as his body leans towards you. “That’s not going to happen.” His tone is still even, cool, probably as an attempt to be reassuring while he crushes your idea beneath your nice shoes. “If his wife tells him or his defense attorney that we tried to turn her against him, the attorney will use that to their advantage to poison the jury and paint us as the villians. Every move we make has to be careful, I don’t need to remind you.”

Your lips part again to speak, however your words fall short on your tongue when he raises one hand, immediately silencing you. “Please. Focus on the other cases we have. I will work this case on my own and let you know if I need anything. As for the courtroom,” he takes a sip of the coffee you gave him, clearing his throat, “you are allowed to sit next to me at the prosecutor’s bench. To observe and learn, not to participate.” 

His focus finds you again, eyebrow raising in question. “Understood?”

The urge to let your irritation boil over is intense, causing you to bite at the inside of your cheek to silence yourself. The both of you are held in a tense staring contest for a few heartbeats before you nod, standing back up. “Yes, sir.” 

Without waiting for an answer, you turn around, heels clacking loudly against the tile floor as you rush towards your own office.

For the rest of your shift, you try to avoid Aaron as much as possible, dropping off files when he was away from his office and avoiding any meeting room he might be occupying. You’re annoyed, if not hurt, by his instant dismissal of your ideas. Usually, anything you suggested tended to be mulled over by him, accepted with a grunt of approval or denied with an explanation of exactly why. To be waved off so easily on the biggest case of your career so far was so annoying, so demeaning on the work you had put in in the year you had been working underneath him.

After finishing up all of your work for the day, long after the sun had set beneath the horizon, you immediately shut the door to your office before making your way back through the hallway, pulling your bag up higher on your shoulder. You are aware that you look slightly insane, chin tilted up as your feet thunk against the ground at an annoyingly fast pace, but it’s a price you’re willing to pay. You just need to leave the four walls of the office in order to simmer down the irritation before it turns into a grudge.

Unfortunately, you peer into every meeting room as you step by it, only to look directly into the eyes of Aaron. Across from him, you could only make out a mop of blonde hair, recognizing it as Mrs. Temple. Her shoulders are stiff as she keeps her focus on the prosecutor, having not noticed that his attention was now directed over her head. 

Quickly, you turn your attention away, heading straight for the exit. You weren’t supposed to work on the case anymore – it wasn’t your business what he was doing.

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Court days were always extremely stressful days. Every small thing mattered. What time you arrived, if you were too late or too early, what you wore and how you presented yourself. Even if you weren’t the person on the stands, or even one of the lawyers talking, you would be scrutinized. The last thing you needed was to embarrass Aaron.

Pulling your shoulders back, you practically strut into the courthouse, fingers curled around the handle of your briefcase. Your power walk is only stopped by the sight of Temple’s defense attorney, watching as a wicked smile curls on her lip, looking over at you and blocking your way. “I see Hotchner doesn’t have a very good hold on his dog, letting you walk around by yourself. Scared you’re going to embarrass him?”

You narrow your eyes as you look closer at her face, playing innocent. “Did you miss your Botox appointment? Or are you just stressed about how hard you’re going to lose this case?” Your head tilts slightly to the side, the corner of your lip threatening a smile.

Her brows raise in slight surprise at your bite, lips parting to respond, although she’s interrupted by the clearing of a throat. “Counselor. You best teach your paralegal some manners.”

Manicured hand raising, you’re ready to bite back again, only to stop short when you feel a tug on the back of your neck. Without you noticing, Aaron’s hand had slid up the space between your shoulder blades, his index finger curling around the hair at the nape of your neck and giving it a sharp, but brisk tug. The temporary pain sends a slight shudder down your spine, eyes turning towards him accusingly. Leaning down, he murmurs low enough for only you to hear. “Behave.”

You manage to keep your cool long enough for him to straighten his spine, looking back at the other attorney. “The only time you should be speaking to my paralegal is if you are requesting to speak to me. The only time you should be asking for me is if you are willing to discuss a deal. Until then, any conversation you have is not my business. See you in court.” His tone is authoriative and straight to the point, leaving no room for argument before his hand is on the small of your back, leading you away.

“I can handle myself.” You grumble, although you make no attempt to step away from him. You’d spend the next few days by his side in the courtroom, anyways, it wasn’t like you could avoid him. Plus, the warm feeling of his hand through your shirt was comforting the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You always had the worst anxiety on court days. Aaron usually poked fun at you for it – when it was lesser charges and not multiple counts of murder, that is.

He sighs as he opens a door to one of the conference rooms, guiding you in before shutting it. The room isn’t too small, enough to fit a larger table and a group of people, but it feels like he’s looming over you, taking up too much space. “You need to get yourself together. It is a stressful day and you don’t need to make it worse by arguing with the defense. Focus.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the act almost sinful with the way it makes his toned arms press against the fabric. “You aren’t speaking today, but I will be speaking a lot of words you spoke. You will be the one speaking in front of the jury soon enough, you need to take this time to learn, not bicker.”

The way he looks at you, dark eyes searing into your own while he scolds you, makes you feel small. Not insignificant, just small. You’re very aware that you are just one piece of this puzzle. You’re also aware that you are incredibly attracted to the stern version of Aaron Hotchner. 

Sighing, you shake out your shoulders, cracking your knuckle before nodding. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I just need you to make sure the best version of yourself is walking into that courtroom. And stop cracking your knuckles, it makes you look nervous. You can be nervous, but you cannot show it.” His brow raises as he stares you down before his hand finds the doorknob. “Are you ready?”

You nod, adjusting your blazer before grabbing your briefcase tighter. “Yes.”

Aaron nods back at you, opening the door. He holds it open for you to step out before following close behind, his shoulder brushing yours as you make your way towards the courtroom.

Once you’re in, you let every thought not regarding the case fall away. Instead, you go over the facts in your head. There wouldn’t be much today, other than opening statements, but it was vital. The opening statements were the jury’s first impression of your side – and one of the only things they’d actually remember. 

As you settle down at the prosecution bench, you take a quick look around the courtroom. There’s a few faces you don’t recognize, but they’re blurs alongside the faces you do know. The first victim’s kids, the second victim’s parents. It’s almost suffocatingly sad.

Your eyes raise again as the courtroom doors open, revealing Mrs. Temple and her two kids. You note the nervousness on her face, but you chalk it up to the fact that she was walking into a court session for her husband of a few years. That is, until you watch her saunter to one of the benches behind you, settling herself down on the wrong side of the courtroom.

Immediately, irritation prickles at your skin. Accusatory eyes find the side of Aaron’s face, which is perfectly settled and calm as he stares down at the pad of paper in front of him, scribbling notes after notes. If he feels your gaze, which you’re sure he does, he doesn’t react to it. 

Not one bit.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮

The trial goes by quicker than expected. After Aaron cross-examined Temple himself on the stand, digging into all of the worst parts of him in the perfectly suave tone he saved for the courtroom, the defense attorney had practically begged for the plea deal you two had offered long before. It took a couple of days to actually settle the details, but then it was done. Over. Months upon months of work just for it to go away in a couple weeks.

Now, you’re back to normal life. Who knew how long it’d be until you got into another courtroom again, especially since you had been doing everything in your power to avoid him. It was childish, how something so simple had hurt your feelings, but you had never been one to let a bruised ego just get swept away.

You’re nosedeep in a pile of cases late at night, sitting on your desk for a new perspective with your leg crossed over your knee, when there’s a knock on the door of your office. Your head raises quickly, thinking it’s a prosecutor needing something urgent from you, only to take in the sight of Aaron. He’s obviously on his way out, his necktie loose around his neck and the buttons on his wrist and collar undone. You feel dumb for the way your heart flutters.

“Can I come in?” He questions, leaning against your doorframe.

“Depends. Are you going to steal my stapler?” You deadpan. The past couple of weeks, you haven’t been hiding your discontent, nor have you had any intent to. You did your work, you put in the hours and you weren’t outwardly rude – what would he do, fire you?

A shadow slowly looms over you as he steps closer, two palms landing on your desk on either side of you. His presence is so close, so sudden, that you’re automatically leaning back, eyes widening as you glance up at him. “Can I help you?”

“I didn’t steal anything.” Aaron starts, his brow furrowing as he looks down at you sternly. “You had a great idea and I decided to use it. I know I was a bit blunt when I dismissed it the first time, and I apologize for that. I should’ve told you when I changed my mind, and I apologize for that. But I’d appreciate it if you’d speak to me instead of acting like a brat for weeks.”

That word, falling off of his tongue so easily, mixed with the slightly dishelved look he was currently sporting, was enough to have blood quickly rushing to your cheeks, heat gathering there as you stared back at him. There’s a part of you that wants to argue, however you cannot get the words out.

The prosecutor must take your surprise for being upset, sighing as his shoulders fall. His head droops for just a moment, causing a strand of hair to come loose and drape over his forehead. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel any type of negative way.” He sounds the most sincere you have ever heard him – which was saying a lot, seeing as he spoke in a cool, collected cadence most of the time. 

Not wanting to make him beg for forgiveness, you find your words. “It’s okay. I probably was being a bit of a brat.” You admit, raising one shoulder in a shrug.

“Oh, you definitely were.” He stands up straight, removing his hands from their spots beside you as he shoves them into the pockets of his slacks. The air around you feels ten times cleaner now that he’s no longer in your space, although the feeling is bittersweet. 

Aaron is quiet for a moment, eyes flickering to the work on your desk and the ground before back at your face. “You’re the hardest worker here at this office and an essential asset to me. I didn’t intend to offend you and I never will.” His eyes glint with a hint of amusement, the familiar wrinkle on the side of his lips deepening with the ghost of a smile. “Can’t have my best girl leaving me in the dust because I wasn’t clear.”

“Now you’re just trying to flatter me.” You roll your eyes, standing up and setting the files in your hands on your desk. You’re trying your very best to seem calm and collected, although you’re admittedly extremely flustered. For someone who craved to be recognized growing up, you’d never been the best at taking compliments.

“Just a little bit.” He admits bluntly, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest before he turns his back to you, making his way towards the door. “Go home, take a break. Come in late tomorrow. We have a lot to do so I need you at your best.”

With that, he steps out of your office, leaving you to watch him walk past the glass and disappear down the hallway, ignoring the intense thudding of your heart against your ribcage.

You’ve got it bad.

[femmeinvelvet]

I've got the Stone Butch Blues Blues

By Raven Gildea, 2003, originally published on playbutch.com

Leslie Feinberg set me up.

Not set me up as in "set me up with a hot date." Set me up as in Catch 22, as in "any way you play, you lose," set me up.

It all started in 1993, when I first read Stone Butch Blues. Don't get me wrong, great book, I loved it. It meant a lot to me. I'd come of age as a queer in the early '80s, in a college edjumacated feminist-lesbian world where sex and power were evil tools of the patriarchy and butch sexual power simply didn't exist. Really, you had to be there to believe it. We were the Incredible Invisible Butches - but nobody ever used that word. We were so invisible we couldn't even see each other - or ourselves. Ten years of that, and Stone Butch Blues felt like a lightening bolt illuminating the landscape in which I'd been travelling blind. "Hey look, I'm a butch! Wow, that really explains a lot...."

Discovering a piece of butch history didn't just give me a new sense of identity. It also gave me permission to be stone. I mean hell, I thought I just didn't like sex. But once I realized that I could be a top and didn't have to roll over for reciprocation, I liked sex just fine. I liked it a lot. I gladly claimed my stone butch self.

There was just one problem. Other people read the book, too. People I was dating. And what struck them wasn't how stone was a perfectly valid way to be. What struck them was this: a true butch is stone, and anyone less than stone is less than butch. A stone butch will melt in the presence of true love and intimacy. Catch 22 — Feinberg set me up.

Feinberg's focus was butch/femme relationships, but it's not just femmes who got invested in the "I Can Heal Your Wounds" syndrome. True, many femmes who had survived the gender and sexuality vacuum of the '70s and '80s had epiphanies similar to mine when we dykes collectively rediscovered gender. And a lot of us took Feinberg's word as gospel in defining What is a Femme. But I've found that queers of all stripes hold the deeply cherished conviction that butches are broken and need to be fixed. Especially those of us who are stone. After all, we're reclaiming sex here. Isn't being stone proof that something is wrong?

The idea that butches are broken leads us to the idea that all stone butches really want is to find The One - the one who can feel our pain, heal our wounds, and make us whole. This sets up our lovers as well as us: they've got to either be The One, or be failures, and we've got to demonstrate that they aren't failures by ceasing to be stone. The subtext is: "Once I know I can trust my lover, I won't need to be stone, so of course I won't be." Which means, of course, that as long as I am stone, I'm demonstrating that I don't trust my lover. Not a good relationship dynamic if I happen to like being stone, if I choose to be stone, if I find it personally empowering, if that's how I feel sexy. Even less good if I can't be a True Butch in the eyes of my community without being stone, and I can't be a True Lover unless I melt.

It also means, if the one I'm with is The One, I must have been stone with everyone who came before. That might work just fine if you're monogamous. My observation is that someone who's monogamous and a romantic - and I think Feinberg's character Jess qualifies on both counts - can rationalize meeting The One at least four times without having any trouble sleeping at night. But me, I'm a slut. A non-monogamous slut at that, and let me tell you, overlapping saves all kinds of time. I've dated approximately three people a year for the last twenty years. Even if you don't count the relationships that lasted less than six months, it's pretty clear that they can't all be The One.

Oh, but they all wanted to be. Feinberg set them up, too. During seven years as a stone top, I dated only two people who weren't invested in hearing that I'd been 100 percent stone 100 percent of the time until I met them. I dated only two people who didn't want me to roll over and spread my legs to prove it.

Now, let's be real, this is not entirely Feinberg's fault. After all, Stone Butch Blues is a novel. We were the ones who decided it was the word from on high. But who could blame us, really? A long line of butch mentoring had been broken, and those of us who had somehow turned out butch in spite of being maligned, reviled, and rendered invisible were hungry for someone to tell us how it's done. All we'd heard so far was "Butch is an oppressive reproduction of heterosexist patriarchal roles. Shape up and start acting like a girl. Oh, but could you fuck me first? Don't tell my friends, okay?"

It's no wonder that we took the only burning bush in that desert and invested it with the power of gospel. We youngsters were creating a culture based on something we'd never seen before. We failed to notice that there were a lot of different ways of being butch. We took the only blueprint we had, and engraved it in, well, stone.

And the blueprint said: "Thou shalt be stone until you find the one who heals your wounds and makes you whole." But even if you are the coupling type — and let's face it, many of us are not - what if you like being stone?

I'm not stone because I'm damaged. I'm stone because most of the time I like fucking other people a lot more than I like getting fucked. I have more fun that way. Having permission to be stone allowed me to finally really enjoy having sex, and I'm not going let anyone take that away from me. I don't want someone to heal my wounds. I want lovers who can give me room in bed to be sexy, and fully present, and fully myself, all at the same time. It was being stone that made me whole.

For a while I thought that the solution was to date pillow queens. I've heard a lot of talk in the past few years about pillow queens. It's never said like it's a good thing to be. After years of being pressured to flip, I had to wonder: what's wrong with a pillow queen? Hell, bedding someone who doesn't expect me to do things I don't want to do sounds delightful to me. But being stone doesn't mean I don't have needs. It took me a while to figure out that there is a difference between a pillow-munching bottom and a pillow queen. The difference is the word "queen," as in entitlement. A bottom is invested in making sure the top has a good time. A pillow queen is convinced that if she's having a good time, everyone else in the room must be, too.

The girl who expected me to go down on her all night, but wouldn't suck my dick? Pillow queen. The boi who, after I'd spent hours on my knees with my fist in his cunt, wanted me to give him a backrub? Pillow queen.

It's not that I think my lovers should be dripping with gratitude because I deigned to fuck them. I'm just saying that there are a lot of different kinds of reciprocation. I may not want to receive the same things I give my partners - after all, I tend to be a top, and they tend to be bottoms - but I do want my relationships to be equitable. No, I don't want to lie on my back with my legs in the air, and yes, I can have a completely satisfying sexual experience without ever taking off my pants. But I do have needs. I do want my output of energy to be met. I don't want a relationship that's a one-way valve, sucking me dry. But my needs are my needs, and I want them met on my terms. I don't want my partner, guided by some book about someone else's experience, to define them for me.

The narrative of stone butch mystique says that in exchange for sexual pleasure, my lover is responsible for creating a safe space for me to experience my pain. Hold it right there. What if I don't want to experience my pain? What if I don't want to process my emotions? Being expected to give it up emotionally can be as big a problem as enforced sexual reciprocation. Let's face it folks, there are emotional pillow queens as well as sexual ones.

I'm not saying that I'm never vulnerable. I sure as hell am, even though some would take away my butch card for admitting it. But I get the safety to show my vulnerability through lack of expectation. No expectation to be invulnerable, tough, baddass. No expectation to break down and cry just so someone else can be assured that they're being adequately supportive. I don't want to make myself vulnerable on demand just because it's on someone else's agenda. If I'm not feeling vulnerable, or if I'm feeling too vulnerable to show it, it's not a dysfunction. Nor is it an indictment of my partner. In fact, could be it's not about my partner at all. Remember, we are talking about my needs here. If this is about doing something for me, it needs to include things I actually want.

And speaking of needs, I'm pretty damn tired of hearing that stone butches need to be fucked, but we just don't know it. I call this one the myth of rebirth. You know, the idea that once we're properly fucked we'll be suddenly re-born as the penetration-hungry sluts we were always meant to be. Excuse me, but last time I checked, biology was still not destiny. Possession of my very own cunt does not obligate me to put things into it, and the words "I know what you need" are just as insulting when dykes say them as they are when men do.

Actually, I know perfectly well when I want to be fucked. But if and when I want it, it's on my terms, when the time is right, when I'm ready. I can enjoy and appreciate being fucked without wanting to do it very often. Getting fucked can feel good, and it might even make me come. But it doesn't make me feel powerful. It doesn't make me feel sexy. It doesn't make me feel that I'm fully inhabiting my body. Usually it makes me feel terrified. Mind you, I'm a perv. I know that on occasion, abject terror can be a good thing. But only if it's freely chosen and carefully negotiated. If I go there, it won't be on demand, and it won't be to prove my love. When I say in a clear and direct way that stone is working just fine for me, it's a boundary — not a challenge.

Of course, not all butches are tops, and not all butch tops are stone. Nor does stone have to mean all the time, every time, eternally. Far be it from me to say that no bottom should ever offer to flip a butch top, or that a bottom whose offer is declined should never ask again. Desire is slippery and malleable, and I'd like to think we are entitled to a little complexity. But if a butch top does flip, it might not be an earth-shattering revelation of trust and intimacy. It might not mean anything, other than "I want you to fuck me now."

Butch tops who aren't stone got set up, too. I've heard plenty of butches complain: "I told my girlfriend 'no' once, and she never tried again." Well c'mon, guys - let's not let our butch mystery prevent us from getting what we want in bed. Isn't that what it's for? It would be great if our lovers could read our minds - some of the time — but until that day comes, we're just going to have to talk to them. When I want someone to fuck me — and I have done my share of time on my hands and knees with my ass in the air — I let them know what I want in a clear, direct way. Like, for instance, "I want you to fuck me now." Try it, it's very effective.

Effective, but not necessarily easy. Being up front about our desire can be difficult when the common belief is that anyone less than stone is less than butch. Butches who want to be fucked shouldn't lose butch credibility because of it. No, wait: no one who wants to be fucked should lose credibility because of it.

Let's not waste any more time tearing each other down over what we want, in or out of bed. There are plenty of people willing to do that for us. For me, butch pride has been hard-won. Every day I've got someone trying to give me girl lessons. Because I also identify as trans and genderqueer, I often have dykes trying to give me lesbian lessons, and FTMs trying to tell me why and how I should be a man. And then there's the competition between us butches: our favorite game seems to be "Who is the Real Butch?" Not a Real Butch, the Real Butch. After all, it is universally acknowledged that there can be only one Real Butch in any room, virtual or otherwise. Our queer culture's Pavlovian response to butchness seems to be whipping out our yardsticks to see who measures up. Doesn't leave a whole lot of room for mentoring, does it?

Somewhere along the line, butch has become one of the most fenced in, closely guarded identities in the fenced in, closely guarded world of identity politics. I can hear the litany now: "Real butches only date femmes. Real butches are tops. Real butches are stone. Real butches don't cook, sew, cry, read, talk, feel...." Apparently the only two things a real butch can do are fuck femmes and work on engines. Oh, and drink. Let's not forget that one. Butch has become so narrowly defined that it's a wonder anyone claims the identity at all. The liberation I once felt at being given permission to be myself has somehow transformed into a dangerous high-wire act. Step out of line once, and SPLAT! Your reputation is ruined for good.

We've got a set-up that hurts us all, but it's not too late to change it. I want us to stop thinking of being stone as either a requirement for being butch, or some sort of pathology. I want us to stop seeing getting fucked as either a requirement for intimacy, or some sort of breakthrough. I want allies who aren't invested in telling me what I need and how to get it. I'm able to identify and willing to state what I need, and I want some credit and respect when I do. I want allies who will read Stone Butch Blues not as a rulebook, but as a starting place. I want allies who aren't invested in telling me how to be butch. I want allies who will stand beside me while I'm doing what butches have always done — saying, "To hell with the rules, I'm gonna be myself."

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | February 10th-16th 2025

Hope you all had a good Valentine's/Pal-entine's Day! Here we got something like 70cm of snow in four days, which is as much snow as we usually get in the whole month of February 😂

Trying a new formatting, let me know what you think!

Complete

Kiss Me Once Cause You Know I Had A Long Nightby I_still_dont_understand_13 / @dangerpronebuddie (Prompt collection | 36/? | 23K | Teen): 100 kiss prompts.

37. A kiss on the cheek turns into a kiss on the lips

Will You Be My Valentine? by dylaesthetics (Valentine's Day | 1,7K | Mature):

Buck sends all of his contacts an innocent message asking them to be his (platonic) Valentine.

a glint of you in everything by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8B, Magical Realism, Getting Together | 3K | Teen):

A year into living in El Paso, Eddie begins to see glimpses of Buck's life when he looks in the mirror.

Buck Naked and Afraid by paleredheadinascifi (Canon Divergent, Sleepwalking | 6K | Teen):

Buck sleeps naked. Buck also sleep-walks. Buck sleep-walks naked out of his apartment and locks himself out. Fate cackles. Enter Eddie Diaz.

best laid plans by coldbam/ @coldbam (Established Buddie, Marriage Proposal | 7K | Mature):

Buck drops the binder onto the kitchen table with an impressive thud. The front is labeled TAX STUFF, 2011-2018 in simple block letters. “You came over to do…secret taxes? In the middle of October?” “Oh, no, that’s—that’s a misdirect. I keep it hidden but just in case anyone’s snooping. Eddie hates doing taxes, and Christopher would think it’s boring adult stuff.” He opens the binder and flips past the first 3 pages which are actual old tax slips to keep up the hoax. He turns it around to show Maddie the page he was looking for: Proposal Ideas * Buck proposes. For real this time. (Part 2 of proposal series)

u/fuckley's Reddit post history. by dylaesthetics (Social Media fic, Getting Together, S2-S8 | 8K | Mature):

r/Relationships u/fuckley • 4 yr. ago 🔞 NSFW HOW DO I STOP HAVING MORNING WOOD WHILE SHARING A BED WITH MY BEST FRIEND??? [URGENT] I don’t know which sub to use for this, but I need immediate help. OR the emotional rollercoaster of Buck’s Reddit posts throughout the history of knowing Eddie.

🔥faded from the winter by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergence, Amputee Buck, Post-Shooting | 10K | Teen):

Eddie struggles to bounce back after the shooting. Buck starts leaving him with his service dog, Cranberry. (Part 4 of 🔥Buck & Cranberry)

Red Sky at Night by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Established Buddie, Future fic | 10K | Teen):

Buck and Eddie's stress levels are put to the test when a series of inconveniences precede Christopher's prom night, and their subsequent wedding.

you cut out a piece of me, now I bleed internally (left here without you) by smilingbuckley/ @smilingbuckley (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Depressed Buck | 11K | Mature):

And Buck is left standing there. In the rain. He stares at where Eddie’s truck used to be, now gone and out of sight. And he stays there for God knows how long, waiting, because maybe Eddie turns back. Maybe Eddie changes his mind and turns around. And he’ll jump out of his truck and laugh at Buck about how he could never leave his home here. How he could never leave Buck. And maybe he’ll pull Buck in one of those dramatic, movie-worthy kisses in the rain. And Christopher decides to come back and they live happily ever after. But this isn’t a fairytale or romcom. This is real life. And Eddie is gone. And he’s not coming back. And Buck… Buck is alone once again. (Or: After Eddie moves to El Paso, Buck copes. Except he doesn't.)

🔥 slaughterhouse by kithmet/ @kithmet (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Kleptomania, Freak4Freak | 21K | Explicit):

Buck keeps him everywhere. He’s smuggling him into every inch left vacant, because like this, he doesn’t lose him, won’t lose him. Like this, he gets to keep Eddie forever, even if it’s just the pieces and the memories attached. The reminder of him will haunt him and this apartment like a ghost. Because Buck can’t trap him in his apartment and force him to stay, he’d never ask that, couldn’t ask that, but he’s going to damn well do his best to salvage it in some form. He’s kidnapping Eddie’s shadow, no matter how much it hurts, and there’s no choice about it. Or: Buck has resolved to be the greatest friend ever. He’s handling this move so well. And not at all being abnormal about Eddie’s house. Or Eddie’s belongings. Or, well. Eddie.

WIP

🔥 Gentle On My Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Shannon Lives, Buck/Eddie/Shannon | 15/? | 91K | Explicit):

In which Shannon lives, tells a lie, and sends hers, Eddie's, and Buck's lives down a very different path.