#this was started all the way back in march

[hanyaksha]

more idol!Gojo x fangirl!reader please! i require sustenance… maybe him finding out abt other groups you like / other bias and he gets jealous and starts comparing himself to him. “he’s not even good looking, i have a eight pack he only has six.” “???” —“i have more solo music show wins than his entire group combined! you can’t actually like him…” “that doesn’t mean they don’t have good music Gojo.” “uh yeah. it does.”

i got u babes. new part for idol!Gojo x fangirl!reader. ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡

directory: part one

Idol!Gojo x fangirl!reader bcs what the fuck are you still doing in his penthouse? definitely not bcs he looks hot naked beside u. you thought being a fan means that u knew everything about him - only to be proven wrong when he's constantly filled with surprises. Aftercare, cuddling after sex, his butterfly kisses - literally what is this man not good at? what surprised u most was how clingy he could be. his hands wrapped around ur waist, anchoring you on his bed with him. u almost found it cute if it wasn't for the fact that both of u slept until noon and ure admittedly getting hungry. after trying to convince him to get his ass up, he finally let u go. pouting and whining as he sat watching u cook from the kitchen island, grumbling how he was perfectly fine if u just stayed in bed with him. "fuck are you singing to?" he shot u a look and scrunched up his nose when he heard u hum to a song that wasn't his. "it's Geto's new song" u laughed at his sour face, displeased that u weren't exclusively listening to his tracks alone. well, it wasnt funny now that hes marching his way to u, grabbing u by the cheeks and shutting u up with a sloppy kiss, intentionally not stopping until ure clawing his chest for air. "asshole" he let out an airy laugh before pulling u in for a hug, his big hands squeezing ur butt. "you have the nerve singing his song when u were up screaming my name all night" he's so full of himself. u wud be a lying bitch if u said u didn't like that about him. the way his head tilts, the smirk and that cocky look on his face. no guillotine can take away the head ure about to give this man if he keeps groping ur ass like that. "whtvr. it's not like Geto knows me, anyway." u pulled away and set the table for lunch. his eye twitches at the mention of another man's name. fucking cute. but it's true - there's no way Geto would know the likes of u. not like u go to his events - u were fully devoted to chasing the ocean in Gojo's eyes than spare an appearance to see Geto's. u dont mind him sulking across the table. but still, he was unusually quiet. he has his chin propped up on his hand, the other tapping away on his phone. head tilted, lips pressed together like he's holding back a laugh. that meant trouble. u narrow ur eyes, "what are you -"

BZZZZ

your phone lights up once, then again, and then it was a goddamn buzzing machine that could pass as a vibrator. what the fuck? notifs after notifs, mentions, tags, follow notifications and your jaw drops. THE Gojo Satoru followed you on instagram. He has ten. million. followers. following? one. none other than you and your humble account that didn't even come close to 1% of his amount of followers. u panic, frantically trying to suppress ur phone and running to private every account you own. "what the fuck did u just do -" he's smiling so sheepishly as he crossed his legs. "just making it clear," he shrugs, "now Suguru knows you," he leans forward, his big blue eyes glinting like he's so proud of himself.

"but he'll know ure mine."

IM GIGGLING AS I WRITE THISSS ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

[sayyestoheav3nn]

Withered 🥀

roman x black!oc

warnings: angst

word count: 1.1k

a/n: this is short i wrote a few days ago. been sitting on it and debating if it’s even worth posting… but, my goal this summer is to put my writing insecurities aside, and push myself…so, here we are lol.

if you would like to be added to my tag list, click here :)

“It’s always going to be her…isn’t it?”

Roman remained silent as his fingers slowly unclenched the doorknob. His gaze redirected back to his wife who now had tears forming in her eyes.

“Amara….”

“It doesn’t matter how many times I apologize…or try to fix things…” He watched as her fingers trembled while she nervously fiddled with her wedding ring, her voice was low and strained. 

He lowered his head as he ran his hand down his beard, “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth….that you want her not me,” her soft voice broke as she began to wipe tears from her eyes. 

The truth was something he had been refusing to admit or acknowledge for a while now. He wasn’t just lying to his wife…he was lying to himself.

If he was being completely honest, there wasn’t a fucking day that went by where he didn’t think of her. He missed waking up and looking into those beautiful hazel eyes that bore into his soul, or feeling her curls on his chest as he ran his fingers across her soft skin.

She was the only person who managed to make him smile when his life went to shit. The night he told her his last goodbye in an attempt to save his marriage, was easily one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. Months have passed since he’d last seen her, and every day he wonders if she thinks of him as much as he does of her. His chest grows heavy at the thought of her finding someone and moving on, though deep down he knows it’s what she deserves. He wants her to be happy. Yet, a selfish part of him, wants to be the only man to give her that.

He memorized the saltiness of her tears as he kissed her for the last time. He lost count at the amount of sinful nights they spent entangled with one another, never forgetting the way she held him close as he fucked her like no one else but them existed. From the moment Mia whispered her name in his ear, he was enamored with her. What started as a distraction and resentment towards his wife, turned into something completely different. 

Something that would change him forever.

Amara studied him in disbelief, her bottom lip trembled as her tears increased, his silence said more than words ever could. Yet, that wasn't enough, she needed to hear the words leave his mouth, “Roman, answer me. Just fucking say it!”

She watched as he sat at the edge of the bed, his gaze focused on the ground as his jaw clenched the way it usually does when he’s stressed or pissed. Something that once turned her on, now made her sick to her stomach. 

Her anger and frustration grew to the point where she began to march in front of him, forcing him to look at her, “You’re really going to let that whore get in between us?”

At that his attention was fully on her, irritation quickly forming on his face, “Don’t do that shit.”

“Don’t do w—”

“You don’t get to make her the villain, our relationship was fucked before I met her. You did that Amara, not her.”

She knelt in front of him placing her shaky hand over his, “You said you’d give me a chance, that—that you’d give us a chance—”

“Amara, all we do is fucking fight. It’s clear that you don’t trust me, and that I don’t trust you...”

“I—I can’t lose you…I love you.”

He chuckled humorlessly, “Then where the hell was that love when you decided to fuck my cousin, huh?’’

Her eyes instantly shut, “Roman, if I could take it back, I would.”

“But, you can’t can you?” He jerked his hand away, “He was like a brother to me… do you know how that fucking feels?”

Amara sat on the floor pulling her knees towards her chest, her tears and sobs no longer held back, “I can’t turn back time and undo what I did, I—I don’t know what else to do… just tell me, tell me and I’ll do it.”

Seeing his wife cry, hurt him. But, sleeping with one of the closest people to him, someone who he truly believed would be by his side till the day he died, was something he finally realized was unforgivable. 

The situation between them was to the point of no return. What they had was toxic and unhealthy. A part of him will always have love for her, and it’s for that exact reason he needed to do what was best for them. 

He needed to leave, and this time for good. 

Roman reached out a hand towards her helping her to get back on her feet. She looked up at him slightly confused. He used his thumbs to wipe her mascara stained tears. Her eyes locked on his as he used his fingers to gently hold up her chin.

“I tried to forgive you, Amara, I really did. But, I can’t…just the thought of you and him, hurts me in the worst fucking way imaginable…” 

She held him tightly as she began to sob into him, Roman’s hand held the back of her head as he pulled her closer, “That doesn’t change the fact that I hurt you too. I shouldn’t have gotten revenge, you didn’t deserve that either. I don’t think the love I have or had for you will ever just disappear, but we can—”

“Then why can’t you fight for us?” Amara let go of him, slowly pulling away to look him in his eyes, “Don’t tell me that…that you love her?”

His eyes closed, “It’s not that simple…”

“Leave.”

“What?”

She reached for the nearest lamp quickly throwing it in his direction, missing him by literal inches, “Get the fuck away from me!”

The damage between their marriage was irreversible, there was no point in arguing anymore. He didn’t say a word and turned to walk away, her sharp voice cut through the room, “When you walk out that door…there’s no turning back. We’re done.”

Roman paused before slowly walking back towards her, he carefully placed his wedding ring on the nightstand next to her, “Our marriage died a long time ago. I was just too fucking blind to see it…”

[itsabouttimex2]

Static Shock

(Platonic Yandere Tenna x Reader)

The controller has gone cold.

How long have you been holding it?

It’s starting to hurt. It feels stuck, like the chill has frosted it to the flesh of your fingers.

Not just “room-temperature cold” or “unplugged cold”. Not “like no-one’s touched this thing in years” cold.

“Left outside in late December” cold.

You fiddle the right joystick until the playable character, an 8-bit approximation of you, stumbles forward and onto the next screen. It flickers, for a moment, and the loading screen, pitch with the exception of one white circle, glints.

How long was it on-screen?

Long enough. Your reflection appears in the black, and you see a tired, gone-pale face. Gaunt.

How long have you been here?

“Sorry for the hold-up, folks!”

Mr. Tenna’s voice is electronically sounded, equal parts digital sugar and crackling tin foil. It splits the silence like tissue paper.

All angular charm and outdated commercial jingle energy, he’s beside you now, standing beside the couch in his cherry-red suit and black pants, giving a static-stiff smile, a frame-perfect loop of corporate cheer, one gloved hand on his hip and the other pointing straight out at you.

“Say, you’re lookin’ a little dim there, buckaroo. Pale in the pixels! When’s the last time you slept? Ate? Took a breather?”

You wouldn’t know. You couldn’t know. How could you? In his desperate attempt to maintain an all-encompassing facade of control over his little slice of this world of shadows, Mr. Tenna has gone out of his way to remove every last aspect of “time”, from analog chronograph to pixel hourglass to pastiche sundial.

All that remained were pixel clocks, built for flashy, show-stopping countdowns.

Time, passing not in hours, but in segments. Blocks of broadcasting, neat and clean.

So you can’t give an answer, aside from “more than a dozen game boards”. Not that he was actually waiting for one, anyhow.

“Well, have I got just the thing for little ol’ you! Do you find yourself craving simpler days? Longing for a taste of your old life? Of those sweet, careless nights spent special programs made just for you?”

His hands come together in a soundless burst of static, a resounding, snapping “clap”. Your vision whites out for a moment. When it clears, the room has changed, and you’re sitting in a high-backed chair, pressed into crushed-velvet cushioning. The table seems to run lengthwise for miles, but by width is thin, barely a foot from start to finish.

“You liked this one when you were little, right?”

Mr. Tenna asks, sitting in the chair parallel to yours, impossibly light for his size, as if he’s made of broadcast signals and stage lights.

“…liked… what…? There’s not anything-“

His screen twitches into a smear of static, just for a second. It resets to display his usual smile, only offset by a bundle of nerves popped into the corner, a vague approximation of weary frustration.

“It’s coming, kiddo! Don’t go getting your pixels in a twist!”

…it seems a little unfair that you’re getting scolded for asking a very relevant question in regards to his own prodding.

There’s not time to complain. There’s never time to complain.

Two of Mr. Tenna’s Pippins- no, three, stacked together to give the facade of filling out a snazzy black suit. One Pippin for each leg, and one for the tuxedo. It’d be cute, under any other circumstance. They’re rolling along a meal trolley, polished to a gleam.

They roll (they’re trying so hard… but even the one on top can’t see past the cart) the cart up to the table- wheels clicking neatly in a rhythm, fuzzy ka-click after fuzzy ka-click, like old static that learned how to march. It only stops when the bar of the trolley smacks into the table. The platter- there’s just the one- it slides off the carrier, and across the table.

The Pippins skitter away, eyes wide. They don’t bother to grab the trolley.

Mr. Tenna’s hand stops it from going past you, and he gives an exaggerated half-bow as a sort of over-the-top presentation.

It’s… whatever it is, it’s covered by a silver-garnished cloche, shaped like your captor’s head, complete with antenna and pointy nose. It’s… “cute”, sort of, but lacks a convenient lifting spot. For lack of holes, steam spills from… the top, some form of cartoon logic that only the Dark World could get away with.

“Go on, sweetheart! Pop that shiny bad boy open before our viewers fall asleep!”

The lights dim. A spotlight hits the tray. He leans in close.

You reach for the cloche.

With some effort, you press your still-freezing fingers into the seam where the lid meets the plate, and with a sharp squeal of static- like an old dial-up modem trying to scream- it lifts.

There’s a square of black plastic, sealed with semi-permeable cling mesh.

A… a TV dinner.

The kind you buy a child. The kind that used to come with a dessert (chocolate pudding with chalky star sprinkles, or a giant chunk of brownie) in the top right corner, half-frozen and half-pocket of plasma no matter how long or quick you microwaved it.

Your throat tightens at the sight, each portion of the tray a little harder to look at.

“Ta-da!”

Mr. Tenna grins, spreading his arms with the grandeur of a magician who just pulled trauma from a top hat.

“Just like Mom never had to make, huh?”

Even through the moisture gathered below the translucent packaging, you can see four sections. Top right with a dark chocolate brownie. Top left with four soggy chicken nuggets. Stretching three-fourths of the bottom is a chunky swath of mac-and-artificial cheese, nuclear yellow. Bottom right, a tiny pocket, holding two plastic packages. One is a tube of squeezable chocolate fudge, and the other is a packet of unbranded ketchup.

It’s very familiar.

“Familiar” is too kind a word to describe this feeling, though.

You’re not sure when the shaking started. There’s an invisible tremor that runs through your jaw, rolls down both shoulders, and blooms out from your spine.

You remember the taste of powdered cheese and chicken skin, with a mild heat that never reached to the center.

You remember eating every bite because no one would be there to make you something else if you didn’t.

Lonely nights. Screaming fits. Tearful meals.

Wetness builds behind your eyes.

Mr. Tenna, smile gone sharp, leans in to pop the tray open. A mixture of smells (you want to say “waft”. that’s too gentle. so-) escape the tray.

“You used to love these, kiddo! What’s the hold-up?”

The room feels smaller. The ceiling drops closer. The crushed-velvet imbedded in the chair is crushing back.

“Go on,” the showman says again, more quietly this time. The artificial sugar is dripping out of his voice, leaving something bitter. “Just a bite. For old time’s sake. For me. For your old pal, Tenna.”

You want to tell him you can’t. The words do not find your throat.

His fight tightens around the tray like an electric vice, tearing the mesh so hard that macaroni sloshes against the side, spattering melted cheese onto the table.

His volume pitches back to the regular booming crackle, forcing you to cower away and cover both ears.

His free hand; veined with frustration lines that pop through even his gloves, grabs the spork packaged with the meal.

He lifts the plastic scooper like a spear, and sharply skewers it into the mound of sticky yellow paste with too much force, little rounded tines bending under the pressure.

There’s a smear, and a static crackle, and he’s on you.

One hand conforms to the curve of your throat, thumb pinned to your chin to hold your lips apart.

He laughs.

Not a show laugh. Not a cheery “ain’t-I-a-stinker” chuckle that’s backed by manufactured studio applause and canned jingles.

This one’s… raw. Human.

And it’s horrible.

“Aww, kiddo, I forgot! You need me to show you how well I can take care of you!”

He shovels the spoonful in, snarling in frustration as it smears over your cheeks, dribbling from your lips.

You try to turn away, hot tears bubbling over until they’re spilling down your face. They mix with the cheese, and pass onto Tenna’s red sleeve, staining it. If he notices, he doesn’t care.

His grip tightens.

Another lump is forced into your throat. Then another. Three. Four. Five.

Your body revolts, stomach heaving in rebellion, mouth twitching against the artificial salt and curdled nostalgia. Every bite is a battlefield, your gag reflex against his insistence, your blurry thoughts against his jagged focus.

There’s a very notable gag, bulging your throat uncomfortably.

He pauses, only pulling back to survey your face with an eyeless stare, snaring a cloth to scrub your face with. He folds it over to conceal the macaroni mess, then, more gently, dabs at your tears.

The moment doesn’t last long, because the napkin goes into the bin, and then he’s got a chunk of brownie on the spork, hissing with heat.

“You will eat what I made for you. And you’re gonna eat- Until. You. Like. It. And if you don’t like it the first time, buckaroo? We’ve got seconds.”

[mwagneto]

survived <3 i wasn't part of the march i was too scared of the face recognition software so i just hung around the beginning area for like an hour then went home then went to the ending area to try and hear the speeches (failed, crowd was too big). the police were clearly told to be as nice as possible and spent most of their time trying to make the antiprotesters leave, good ending

[omaano]

SW Hades AU MAY-JUNE Update

Some links and previous updates: May - June - July - August - September - October/November - December - January - February - March-April - everything else in this AU

Would you look at that! I managed to put together an update post with more than just May the 4th Boba :D Happy Pride, happy last days of June, and please enjoy the fact that I finally added 2 more ladies to the Hades AU. Full renders will come.... eventually ^^; I feel like I'm really super overdue to one though...

We're making this a girls thing >:3

I've drawn a younger, cockier Boba in the style of Hades 2 (instead of the usual Hades (1)) for May the 4th, because I am very much obsessed with the game and I desperately wanted to draw Boba again.

It's been deeply unfair to him that I had drawn him way back in 2022 (Jesus Christ! am I taking my sweet time) and never again ever since in this style. But when he wears it so well!

I also have a surprise Leia! And Satine as well!

If you recall I'd had the hardest of time for months to come up with anything for Leia, which I can only partially blame on whatever shape of artblock/burnout/exhaustion I had been feeling recently. Then one night - BAM! I was just messing around, looking at pose references on my pinterest boards and sketching and all, and suddenly I had a "businesswoman in a rush between meetings not having enough time for your shit" pose and look for her that I was very happy with. Might have been shortly after I watched (and had a great time while doing it) The Phantom Menace. Or the end of Andor. One of these two.

Originally I wanted her to appear as if she was on a holo call with Din, projected by R2, because she is busy and in a rush (like Hermes), but I'm undecided if I will want to go through with that in the end. Mainly because I'm not very thrilled by the idea of having to draw a portrait for R2 as well for that.

I also had a surprisingly great time coming up with a getup for her!

I believe that I finally started slipping along the double edged sword of how it's both a hindrance and liberation that I don't have to come up with character designs of my own for this AU to most characters. It takes a lot of pressure off me that I can treat this as a style and coloring exercise, but at the same time it's very limiting. I think I have already bemoaned how Star Wars character designs can be so grey and same-y at times (especially in the Outer Rim, and seriously, why is everyone so blue? Or black and grey) whereas Hades is so beautifully and colorfully designed!

I did a tiny bit of research on Wookiepedia - nothing major, as this was still just a past-midnight-waste-some-time sketch - and set out to merge some design and wardrobe elements from Breha, Bail and General Organa. If you can make out my handwritten notes, you might see some of these design elements, and to whom they shall refer to (like the bracers and belt to Bail, the braids and bun for Breha and Leia's own future). Ultimately more of the "Bail" elements won out if you wanted to weigh them against each other. I feel like that would fit Leia, her fierceness, and pragmatic strictness and determination best.

I'm a little regretful about the veil, but I worried that it would be too much flowy fabric next to her sleeves/cape. Very sad.

So it really was a relief to get into some designing with Leia, and to add some more colors and intricate details to Satine.

I don't have that much more to say about Boba and Satine tbh. Mostly because Boba is still a bit of a miracle I'm still unsure how he happened and how he looks so good (although not shiny enough compared to the latest update of Hades2 where all the gods, and really all the characters, are suuuuuper shiny. like. seriously). While with Satine my only goal was to make her look less willow-y (because it drives me insane how everyone in TCW is so damn thin), and might have fallen off on the other side of the horse (I'm pretty sure that's not the actual English idiom, please excuse me), and she's got some real massive shoulders and sleeves XD also how does she keep her head up with all that on her head? ^^;

Anyways, I love her with all her faults, and I just really wanted her to look beautiful and sad, and Mandalorian, and let her wear beskar heart elements in her design.

-

.

Taglist of anyone who wants to be pinged once a month for these updates <3 If you want to be added to the list send me a message, or just reply to this post (a 👀 would do, nothing fancy required ;))

@elwinged @yeehawgeek @velsayshi @lionsaint @hastalavistabyebye

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If you want to be taken off the list just message me and I’ll take you off, no hard feelings :)

[itsnotyouithink]

PRIDE

PAIRING: jenna ortega x fem!reader

SUMMARY: you go to the Pride Parade.

WARNINGS: none

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Happy Pride! Keep fighting. Keep dancing. Keep kissing people in the middle of the street.

——————————

The city bloomed.

That's the only way to describe it. A bright, magnificent blooming. Concrete cracked open and color spilled out—spilled upward—like a riot of petals and paint. Every building wore flags like jewelry. Fire escapes were crowded with people waving, laughing, throwing flower crowns and condoms like blessings. The sky stretched above, cloudless and bright, reflecting off the windows like glittered glass.

And in the middle of it all was her.

Jenna.

One hand in yours, the other shielding her eyes behind tiny oval sunglasses. She was wearing a loose, vintage rainbow tee—threadbare and soft with a tiny hole near the collar—tucked into oversized khakis rolled at the ankles. Her sneakers were beat-up. Her nails were chipped lilac. Her lip gloss shimmered when the sun hit her face just right.

She looked like she didn't belong and also like she'd been born in this exact moment. A paradox in sunglasses. The kind people couldn't help but look at twice.

"You sure you're good?" you asked, squeezing her hand.

She nodded, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in that subtle Jenna way. "I'm with you. That's good."

The sound of the city was different today—less like traffic, more like a heartbeat. Whistles. Drums. Laughter spilling like soda cans cracked open on the sidewalk. Music burst from every corner—Charli XCX, Lady Gaga, MUNA, a dozen remixed versions of "Dancing Queen." The pavement was hot beneath your sneakers, already coated in melting popsicle syrup and confetti. Bubbles floated past your face, delicate and iridescent, catching in Jenna's dark hair like tiny glass planets.

You both stopped to watch a group of queer elders slow-dancing under a rainbow umbrella. There was something in Jenna's eyes when she watched them—a softness, yes, but also something sharper. Hunger. Grief. Longing. You didn't ask what it meant. Not yet.

You kept walking, shoulder to shoulder, navigating through packs of bodies glittering like human disco balls. Every few steps, someone noticed her. A quick double take. A whisper. A phone half-raised. But the crowd was too euphoric to care for long. Today, the main character was everyone.

Jenna paused near a street vendor and bought you both tiny flags. She tucked hers behind her ear with a sly grin, then reached up to do the same to you.

"There," she said, leaning in. "Now you look perfect."

"You have confetti in your eyelashes."

"I'll wear it for you."

You could feel it then—something rising in your chest, warm and high and dangerous. Not just love. Not just lust. Something louder. Something that felt like freedom.

Eventually, you reached a spot near the barricades, shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty strangers who were singing at the top of their lungs and crying and holding each other like the world wasn't broken. The sun beat down mercilessly. Someone handed you a water bottle wrapped in a rainbow koozie. A drag queen in heels taller than your dreams winked at you both and blew a kiss.

Then the drums started.

Deep, rolling, bone-vibrating.

Jenna pressed close behind you, arms wrapping around your middle, chin resting on your shoulder. Her hands were warm. Her grip was firm. Her breath tickled the back of your neck in the most exquisite, unbearable way.

"I've never been to one of these before," she murmured.

"Pride?"

She nodded.

"How?"

"Always working. Always hiding."

You turned to look at her, your noses almost touching. "And now?"

A pause. Then: "Now I just want to live."

The drums grew louder—syncopated, furious, joyful. A wave of people marched past like a cavalry, draped in leather and lace, flags tied like capes, faces lit with something untouchable. The beat pulsed through you, primal and grounding. You felt Jenna sway behind you, subtly, unconsciously. Like her body was learning a new language and saying yes.

You turned in her arms. You didn't even think. Just turned.

And she kissed you.

Right there on 5th Avenue. Under a sky of flags. In the middle of strangers. Her lips were soft and slow and searching. Not hungry, not greedy—just real. Her hands found your face like she was afraid you'd disappear, and when she pulled away, she looked ruined in the best way. Eyes glassy. Smile crooked.

"Wow," she whispered.

"Yeah," you said, breathless. "Wow."

You stayed like that for a while—just holding each other, while the city danced around you. Jenna's forehead against yours. Her thumbs brushing your cheeks. A temporary stillness in a world too loud to ever really stop.

When the parade wound down, you wandered the side streets barefoot, your shoes tied together and slung over your shoulders. You bought overpriced popsicles from a queer-owned food truck. Sat on the curb. Shared bites. She let you wipe a sticky streak of red from her mouth with your thumb, then kissed it clean from your hand.

And later—much later—you ended up on the rooftop of her rented brownstone, far above the echo of drums and chants. Your flags were still tucked behind your ears, your bodies tangled together on a picnic blanket, and Jenna traced stars on your collarbone with fingers still glitter-dusted from the afternoon.

"I want a thousand days like this," she whispered, voice low.

You turned to her, heart thudding. "Then stay."

She didn't answer with words.

Just kissed you again.

Longer this time.

Like the city had cracked open for her too—and inside, she'd finally found something soft enough to call home.

[ak319]

🌹 anon at your service

Hosea has to leave camp to do stuff so Arthur is in charge of making sure reader and Dutch don't fight each other, so Arthur ends up following reader the entire time. I can't decide if it's more humorous for him to try to hide it and do a bad job or for him to not bother hiding it and tell reader that if she tries to wander off they WILL be holding hands until Hosea gets back.

┆ ⤿ ❀ m.list

Hosea sighed as he saddled up, clearly not thrilled to leave. "Arthur, I’m trusting you with this one thing."

Arthur crossed his arms. "She’ll behave."

"You will make sure she and Dutch don’t kill each other?"

Arthur paused. "I’ll do what I can." He knew full well how you liked to stir up chaos the second Hosea was out of sight , just enough drama to cry about later to Hosea, claiming camp was a living hell. If this was your strategy to convince Hosea to leave with you for good… well, damn. You were playing the long game.

"You’ll have to do more than that," Hosea muttered. "Just… keep her busy. Distracted. Away from Dutch’s voice and his face. Preferably out of his line of fire entirely. Also the others too."

Then Hosea rode off, leaving behind the unspoken weight of parental despair.

The next hour was peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful.

You wandered off toward the supply wagon, sorting through the spices, humming to yourself, already planning to salt the stew twice just to watch Susan lose her mind. Maybe you’d "accidentally" dump someone’s coffee. Or better, maybe you’d find Dutch and make some offhand comment about how Micah’s beard is starting to look more trustworthy than his plans. Simple. That oughta spark something. Mhmmm. Aren't I a genius? But somewhere behind you....you swore you heard a grunt.

You took another few steps, and something clinked. A clumsy shuffle.

You spun around.

He was crouched behind a crate. A very small crate.

"Arthur."

He blinked. "Howdy."

You glared. "You’re following me."

"Followin’? No. Shadowin’, maybe."

You raised an eyebrow. "You’re crouching behind Pearson’s pickles."

"Don’t question my process."

You turned sharply and marched off. He followed in full stride now, abandoning any illusion of stealth.

"I told Hosea I’d keep you from fightin’ Dutch. This is me. Keepin’."

"I’m going to the lake."

"I’m goin’ to the lake too."

"I’m going to the outhouse."

"I’m not lettin’ you get ambushed by Dutch in there either."

You stopped. He stopped. You squinted at him.

"This is what we’re doin’ now?"

Arthur let out a slow exhale, pinched the bridge of his nose, then stepped forward, grabbed your hand, and laced his fingers with yours. Tightly.

"There. Problem solved."

Your mouth fell open. "Are you seriously-"

"Yes. If I gotta babysit you, I’m doin’ it proper. You wander off again, we hold hands. That’s the rule."

"I’m not five!"

"No. You’re worse. Five-year-olds don’t deliberately try to piss off Dutch before breakfast."

You huffed, but your hand stayed right there in his , warm, calloused, steady.

He looked sideways at you. "You keep makin’ that face, and I’ll damn kiss it next."

"Don't!"

"I'll do, in front of the whole damn camp."

You’re halfway toward the lake with dragging his weight when that voice cuts through the air.

"Well, well. Look who’s finally found a way to keep the girl from throwin’ chairs at me."

Arthur grunts, mumbling. "Wasn’t for you...."

Dutch raises an eyebrow, grinning wide. "Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t. But if I’d known all it took to get her quiet was a little hand-holdin’, I’d have sent you after her sooner."

Your eyes narrow. "Next time, I’m throwin’ the chair at you, not near you."

Dutch tips his hat, thoroughly amused. "Ah, there she is, my child. Sometimes I wonder how a sweet little baby that we brought to camp, turned out to be such a loudmouth. Arthur, you’re doin’ the Lord’s work."

Arthur groans under his breath.

You roll your eyes, but Arthur tightens his grip just enough to be noticeable. Not possessive, but grounding.

"Just makin’ sure things stay peaceful while Hosea’s gone," Arthur says evenly. "She agreed to a truce."

“Did she now?” Dutch’s tone is smug. "And here I thought it’d take a miracle. Turns out all it took was hand-holding."

You open your mouth to fire something back , but Arthur steps forward, just slightly in front of you, hand still locked with yours.

Arthur doesn’t blink. "She’s had enough pokin’ for one day. Let her be."

Dutch eyes you both for a moment longer, lips twitching like he wants to say more , but then, surprisingly, he just nods once and walks off with a lazy, "You two behave now."

When he’s out of earshot, Arthur mutters, "Next time he opens his mouth, I swear to God-"

"You gonna hold his hand too?"

Arthur shoots you a glare. You cackle.

Still holding hands, you both head toward the lake, Dutch-free and finally at peace.

[writingdevil]

Yippee! Requests are open again!! :D

I think it could be cute if Hunted fell in love with Cheated but doesn't realize it at first and starts getting SUPER protective of him. Like, trying to protect him from all the things that upset him (which for Cheated is a lot lmao) and everyone else (including Hunted and Cheated) is just. Really confused about what the hell is happening.

Then maybe Hunted realizes what's happening eventually and feels guilty about it, but then Cheated also realizes what's happening and actually thinks it's really endearing and they both get all flustered about it :>

(That's so funny and cute!! I love the idea of Hunted being in love but not realising it, and having Hunted be protective of Cheated is adorable as well- just two oblivious idiots in love. Enjoy!)

Hunted felt a lot growl crawling up his throat, seemingly out of nowhere.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of his strange reaction, focusing on the bustling of the flock in the living room instead.

But then he lifted his head and saw Cold annoying Cheated again.

Hunted bared his teeth, before quickly covering his mouth, getting a weird look from Paranoid for a moment.

Hunted saw the way Cold was poking fun at Cheated without any regard for his feelings, and Hunted took one look at the frustrated tears forming in Cheated's eyes- and he marched over to the duo.

He put himself between the two, craning his neck to look at Cold, and bluntly said, "Leave him alone. You're making him upset."

"What?! I'm fine!" Cheated protested, but Hunted was more focused on the way Cold was looking down at him.

"We were just talking," Cold said, and Hunted took a step closer, making Cold back up.

There was a flash of surprise on Cold's face, before it morphed to interest. "Why are you getting so defensive over him?" he asked, clearly taunting him. "It's not like he's in danger."

But it felt like Cheated was in danger. Just seeing that upset look in his eyes had Hunted bolting over in panic for his wellbeing. Hunted didn't like that look. He didn't like seeing Cheated unhappy.

Hunted didn't give Cold the grace of an explanation, and just said, with a hint of violence behind his words, "Play nice, or else."

Then he grabbed Cheated's hand and dragged him to the middle of the couch, not even waiting for a response from either of them. Hunted ignored the bewildered look on Cheated's face in favour of sitting him down on the couch.

Hunted refused to let go of Cheated's hand, sitting beside him and snuggling up against him, until he finally felt his instincts relax, sighing in relief.

Cheated's body was tense for a moment, before it melted against Hunted's with a chuckle, resting his chin atop his head, and Hunted's eyes fluttered shut.

Cheated was safe. That's what this warmth in his chest was about- just being able to keep Cheated happy and safe. It was as simple as that.

-

Hunted didn't think it would become a routine of his, to protect Cheated, but it was something he found on his mind quite a bit- Cheated.

Hunted's nerves would always worsen when Cheated entered his thoughts, which could only mean that the other was in danger.

He would run off to find Cheated seconds away from either injuring himself or about to get upset by something or someone, and Hunted's mind would go haywire with protecting him, until he was safe and sound, usually cuddling with Hunted in his nest.

Spending those quiet and calm moments with Cheated were the best part of Hunted's day, until it was all Hunted could think about- spending time with Cheated.

Cheated always made sure to take the time to thank Hunted for his efforts of protecting him and the flock. Although Hunted didn't do these things for praise, hearing those compliments come from Cheated made his heart beat faster and his feathers puff up. He wasn't sure what that was about, though- all he knew was that he liked being around Cheated.

What Hunted didn't like was the amount of things that could hurt Cheated.

Being persuaded into brawls with Stubborn, almost getting his wings caught in doors, even running too fast seemed to be really harmful for Cheated.

So many things could hurt him, and the thought of Cheated in pain made Hunted's instincts go crazy with fear and stress. Hunted couldn't stand the thought of Cheated in pain, not when he should be smiling brightly and laughing loudly.

A certain bird wasn't getting the message, though.

Hunted had been in the kitchen at the time, when his ears flicked, and he suddenly heard a very familiar voice getting increasingly louder.

Hunted's feet moved before he could properly come up with a plan, taking him running down to the end of the hallway, where Cheated was arguing with Cold again.

Hunted hadn't processed what they were talking about. All he could focus was the way Cheated's body was getting more and more tense, and the smug look Cold was wearing.

Hunted growled, loud enough for both of them to pause and turn to look at him, and Cheated opened his mouth to speak, but Hunted was already by his side before he even uttered a word.

All Cheated could do was splutter in shock as Hunted picked him up bridal style, and Hunted held him close as Cheated clumsily gripped his shoulders.

Once he was sure Cheated was secure in his arms, Hunted's head snapped up to glare at Cold, who had arched a brow in amusement at Hunted's aggressive entrance.

"Can we help you, Hunted?" Cold asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "We were in the middle of a conversation, you know."

Hunted bared his fangs, then snapped, "I told you to play nice."

"Is talking not considered nice?" Cold asked with a curious tilt of his head.

"Not when you do it," Hunted argued. "You just want to get a reaction out of him."

Cold shrugged. "It's not my fault he gets upset over meaningless things."

Cheated made a noise of outrage, leaning forward to exclaim, "Fuck you! You just came up to me and started annoying me on purpose!"

Hunted growled, but still squeezed Cheated to his chest to calm him down, and Cheated did indeed relax in his hold.

Cold chuckled in amusement, eyes flicking between the two of them, before landing back on Hunted. "Why do you care what happens to Cheated?"

"I don't want him to get upset or hurt. It's my job to protect the flock."

"Yes, but you seem to get particularly aggressive when it comes to Cheated. Why?"

"Because I don't like seeing him upset." Hunted felt Cheated tense up in his hold, feathers ruffling against Hunted's own, and Hunted took a second to rub his face against Cheated's cheek in the hopes of helping him relax.

He turned back to Cold with a glare as he said, "I don't want anything to hurt him. I feel happier knowing that he's not hurt."

"Is that all?" Cold asked, a knowing glint in his eyes, but Hunted couldn't figure out what it meant.

Cold must have realised that, because he rolled his eyes and said, "That's the only reason you're being so protective over Cheated and only Cheated? Because you like him being safe?"

Hunted nodded, but he didn't feel confident in it.

Cold sent him a teasing smile and said, "You feel happy to be near him? Almost- warm, maybe?"

This time, Hunted nodded with more certainty, and said, "Yes. I like it when he smiles and laughs, and it makes me upset to see him upset. He makes me feel warm and safe and I just want to return the favour and-"

Hunted stopped, and then the realisation dawned on him.

He wasn't just being protective of Cheated. He was in love with Cheated. That's why he had gone so crazy with his safety.

Then the reality of the situation hit Hunted. He was standing there, holding Cheated in his arms, interrupting his conversation with Cold because he didn't believe Cheated could handle himself.

Immediately, the guilt hit Hunted, and he lowered his head in shame, feeling awful about the way he had behaved. Cheated was more than capable of fighting his own battles, and who knows how many times Hunted had gotten involved in instances where Cheated had everything under control. No matter how Hunted felt about Cheated, he didn't have the right to do that to him.

He lifted his head to apologise to Cheated- only to find the other with a flustered and sheepish smile on his face. His eyes flicked up to Hunted's, before looking back down in embarrassment as he mumbled, "I didn't- mind you having my back. I thought it was kinda cute, actually."

Hunted's brain froze, while his face was on fire, and he had no idea how to navigate this situation now, but Cheated pressing a soft peck against his cheek seemed like a good start.

Cold rolled his eyes at the couple's awkwardness, but there was still a hint of fondness in them.

[paperclips37]

I am already enjoying my week off from work.

So enjoy another little snippet of Mel being a sexy photo expert.

-----

‘Okay I’ve been helping Samira take photos.’ She blurted out. Wincing at how loud she was. ‘Sexy photos.’

Frank swallowed heavily still quiet. His knuckles turning white against the glass.

(A part of Mel’s brain began panicking that Frank was one of the many who assumed that she was Sexless.)

(Anyone but him please.)

‘Oh.’

‘Abbot was dragging his feet.’ Frank huffed a laugh at that. Mel ignored the implication and ploughed on. ‘So I suggested Samira make a move.’

‘A photo.’

‘Started small obviously just casual but excellent shots. Then... progressing as time moved on.’

‘To....’

‘More suggestive ones.’

Samira was going to murder her.

Frank swallowed again. Her phone lying between them felt like a beacon, or a bomb. Did Frank like Samira? Mel had never seen anything of the sort between them. Then again Mel wasn’t exactly the most clued in to sexual attraction at the best of times. All her previous partners had had to be explicit with her. I want to have sex with you blunt. Which was good. Why couldn’t people say what they wanted? The games and implications were a minefield.

Another reason why Mel didn’t date much.

(Most people were too messy and not patient enough for her.)

‘Suggestive. Suggestions.’

‘Yeah. She asks for ideas or to see if hers are any good.’

‘She sends you the photos?’ Frank blinked rapidly at her. This was new. Frank was a known non blinker. Mel had in fact tried to track his blink rates during some conversations.

(He’d found it hilarious when she’d show him her count.)

‘Peer review.’ It had become a joke between her and Samira. Mel was very good at peer review after all.

(He had this look on his face. Mel cannot figure it out.)

‘Seriously?’ His voice sounds weird. Not bad. Deeper than usual? A thrum of heat flicked at Mel and it has nothing to do with the heat in the August air.

‘A second set of eyes is always helpful for these things.’

‘Fuck.’

‘What?’ Frank was barely speaking. Silted sentences and one words responses and Mel is getting increasingly confused. And worried.

This isn’t how they communicate. Frank was one of the few who had learned innately how to communicate best with her.

(He was the first.)

Never speaking down to her or getting irritated with her overly literal way of thinking. Even enjoying her view of the world. Somehow he’d even adapted his off beat humour to sync with her. Walking through his (very weird) jokes until she got it like it had been his style all along.

(It definitely wasn’t.)

Mel needed clear words and no implications. Honesty always worked for her.

When she’d returned to The Pitt for her next shift and found him gone it had hit twice as hard as the day before. Asking Robby gently when he was coming back. Getting nothing but an angry grunt which had Mel panicking she’d done something wrong.

Abbot had been the one to take her aside and explain that Langdon was taking a sabbatical due to personal issues. His eyes gentle and worried.

All of Santos’s questions had hit home for Mel.

Oh.

(Her heart broke for him.)

That July 4th when he’d walked through the door as though marching towards his execution. More tired than she’d remembered but clearer.

(There had been a moment she’d panicked that the only reason he’d understood her was the benzo’s)

But he’d spied her and grinned so broadly his face looked like it was about to split open.

‘You’re here!’ Her words from her first day echoing back at her from him.

(It had felt like home.)

Frank coughed again. Taking a sip of his coke. Clearly trying to work out what to say.

‘Do... do you-’ For the first time in a long time it seems that Frank is unable to keep eye contact with her.

(It feels cold.)

‘What?’

‘Reciprocate?’

‘Not really. It’s more if I have an old one that fits what I’m suggesting I show her that. We’re not exchanging photos per say. We’re just friends. I’m offering her advise. Nothing more.’ Frank face did that thing it did when he was trying to work out a diagnosis. Eyes narrowing but never quite closing. His mouth slightly open and Mel didn’t examine how nice his lips look. Nope. She wasn’t used to that face been aimed directly at her. Like she was a puzzle he was trying to work out.

‘Oh. Wait.... an old one that fits?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve sent people...’

‘Explicit and spicy photos? Yeah. Who hasn’t? I’ve never shown my face so that’s safe.’ Mel curled up on her seat, sipping at her rapidly warming drink. Wrinkling her nose at the lukewarm liquid. Frank continued to sit there completely flabbergasted. She didn’t get his reaction. It was fairly common in this day and age.

‘Is it really that shocking to you?’ Mel allows herself to sound peeved with him. For the first time she was feeling small around him. It wasn’t a good feeling. ‘I am an adult Frank.’

‘What? I know that! Believe me I am fully aware of that.’ That flame burns just a little brighter inside her. She can feel her shorts sticking to her a little more.

Franks face is a mixture of things that Mel again can’t quite figure out. Typically when someone was unreadable Mel would be so nervous she’d done something... Well inherently Mel. That uniqueness that it seemed most people couldn’t handle. Frank never had that issue with her. He always took the time to talk things out with her. But there’s too much in his face, his body language and he isn’t explaining.

‘Then why are you so surprised? It’s like Santos assuming I was a sexless virgin all over again.’ Mel pouts and stares out at the sky. Hunching over herself. Frank spluttered, nearly knocking his coke over.

‘She what??? Is she fucking blind?’ He’s telling the truth. Mel knows. Since he came back on July 4th she’s gotten to know him as well as she’s known anyone. Like he can’t really get moving in the morning until he’s downed a red bull. He prefers black tea to coffee. He is absolutely obsessed with reddit stories that are clearly fake. It’s such entertaining writing Mel! The fact that he always texts his kids at the start and end of the day so they bookend whatever he is doing. He’s a non fiction reader, but adores fiction podcasts. On learning that the King sisters know ASL-

(When Becca was younger and overwhelmed she’d preferred sign language. On a bad day she’ll revert back. Those were fewer and fewer as time went on.)

-Frank had immediately gone to get lessons.

Therapist recommended learning new skills. Also imagine the things I could sign behind Robby’s back!

He was even teaching Tanner and Taylor little things.

(Glitter was their favourite. Because it was Becca’s and Mel’s favourite sign.)

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 102: Fitz's Idea

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control

December 1925

Fitz wasn't surprised when no one came to meet him on the docks. It was bitterly cold with patches of treacherous ice on the streets, and if he weren't a vampire he would have been severely underdressed for the weather.

He didn't bring much with him on the ship, which he was only able to board at the last minute by mesmerizing some poor soul out of his ticket. He certainly didn't bring Roger. Roger, thankfully, had nearly all of his mind and was easily independent enough to survive without him. He'd be fine if Fitz never returned. Better off, maybe, especially since Fitz left most of his money behind as well.

It had been a miserable voyage for many reasons. The seas were rough this time of year, and the constant movement of the ship kept Fitz sick and weak, without even the small comfort of his thrall's blood and warmth. Halfway through he gave into temptation and snatched a handsome passenger off the deck, drinking too much and leaving him close to senseless. He couldn't afford to do it a second time -- if he were caught, he might be tossed from the ship, doomed to sink in the ocean, drowning but deathless.

More than once he thought that it might be a better fate than the one he was walking towards. Even now, he could feel the compulsion to walk forward in the back of his mind, the same one that made him abandon his flat and board the ship.

Fitz couldn't resist his sire's command, of course, even with all the distance between them. He rarely thought of Lex as his sire, but of course this command hadn't really come from Lex. It had been compelled out of him by the Maestro, and he somehow doubted it was because the old terror had decided to turn over a new leaf and apologize to Fitz in person.

So here he was back home, a twice-dead man as he walked down the streets.

He was chilled to the bone when he finally arrived at Lex's manor. He knew from the shared bits and pieces of Lex's mind that Oliver had been taken, so there would be no warm meal waiting for him. He was also keenly aware that Lex had spent the entirety of the past few days in despair, a foul mood that leached into all of Fitz's thoughts.

Fitz's icy hands fumbled with the keys, but he managed to get the door open. There were no lights on, of course, and the place smelled as though it had been abandoned. He tossed down his bag and marched up the steep stairs to Lex's room.

There he was, in the pitch blackness, in a jumbled nest of blankets and pillows and books. He sat up as the door creaked open, and Fitz's keen night vision could see his blue eyes opening blearily. "Fitz?" he asked.

Fitz picked his way through the piles on the floor, torn between the urges to comfort him or knock some sense into him. He knew which one he would need to do for even the smallest sliver of a chance at freedom.

"Hello," he said, sitting on the side of the bed. "I take it, then, that your sire is angry."

"Furious."

"And he forced you to bring me here."

"You know I wouldn't have done such a thing unless I had no choice."

"And he's taken Oliver."

"Yes."

"Well." Fitz tried to steady his nerves, even as every part of him was screaming of danger. "This all seems less than ideal."

Lex laughed, and Fitz laughed too. A small ward against the darkness.

But then Lex started to weep bitterly, and Fitz, having had plenty of time to weep already in the ship's cabin, found he had no patience at all for it.

"Lex, you're going to have to pull yourself together."

"For what?" he demanded. "My sire means to take our freedom -- yours, mine, Oliver's -- and plunge us back into hell and torture. He plans to do it after his wretched ball, which is less than a week from now, and this time he means to alter both of our minds into something as horrific as his. There will be no more blood, no more music or books, no more fresh night air --"

Fitz grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him up. "And if that's so, is this how you intend to spend your last few nights of freedom? Wallowing in misery?"

"How can you bear to do anything else, after hearing his plans?"

"What about your plans? He may plan to imprison and torture us, but you planned to end him."

"It's no good," Lex said, shaking his head. "I haven't worked out the correct rune yet. And even if I could, when would I have an opportunity to perform the deed? I've already been made to deliver his refreshments, he won't accept any other visitation while he's preparing for his gala, and afterwards, that's the end of both of us. I wanted to visit with Lily to ensure his attention wasn't solely on me, but…"

"The solution is simple then, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"We kill him at his own ball."

Lex's eyes widened. "Are you mad? Kill my sire in front of all of vampire society?"

"And who in vampire society will lift a finger to save him? They all either fear him or hate him, and either way they'll be glad to see him gone, as long as they're not the ones who have to do it," said Fitz with some satisfaction. "You were hoping to find a time when your sire was inattentive or distracted. There will be no better time than when he's surrounded by guests, trying to work out the best way to terrorize them."

"He… does barely notice me at these events…" Lex muttered.

"That's right, and it's the perfect reason to have me, you, and Lily all near him at the same time, without rousing suspicion. Even Lily's new pet hunter would be permitted to go. Not to mention how trivial it would be to create a distraction with so many vampires in his house. Perhaps someone could release some of his captured humans, or begin a fistfight…"

"Perhaps…" Lex grimaced.

"Do we have any other choice?"

"No, I suppose we don't."

"Then it's settled! Let's call on Lily tomorrow, make sure she agrees."

Lex nodded slowly. As Fitz had expected, it hadn't been difficult at all to convince him of this change of plan. Fitz could just imagine it -- the look of shock and despair on that rotten old monster's face as he disintegrated in front of all of the vampires he disdained, undone by the spawn he tortured. Nothing could be as satisfying as to see all of the Maestro's illusions of perfection crumble to dust as he went straight to hell.

And if they failed again?

Fitz's chest tightened as he remembered freezing, dread gripping him just before he delivered the blow that could have solved all of their problems.

Well, that was why Fitz would make a point of carrying a hidden stake. He'd rather go to hell himself than endure an eternity under the Maestro's thumb. At least Satan seemed to have a sense of humor.

Previous > Masterlist

Next week, Lex and Fitz experiment with the rune. Thanks for reading!

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@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

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@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

[whitelotusherald]

I think it's safe to say the 30th Budapest Pride was the largest in the history of this event.

The govt basically stated it's banned, the mayor of Budapest did some legal gymnastics and so the event did not fall under the category of banned gathering, the police said it's still banned, so yeah, the whole situation was as controversial as it could get. Moreover, a far-right party and an organization announced demonstrations along the way, which were all approved lol.

When I left home, I packed all my Pride stuff safely in my bag, not wanting to risk meeting some neonazi scum along the way but in the bus stop I could already spot 4 different flags.

When reaching the starting point, the subway stop was literally FULL. I haven't seen this many people down there EVER. It took 10 minutes to get upstairs when it usually takes 2-3 minutes.

The starting point was also already full. I donned my armor of trans and demiguy flag and despite not having any previous plan of meeting anyone I checked a trans&nb group chat and joined the team. (All fantastic people, seriously I don't know a single trans person who is not cool. Though, when someone told me during the march that "omg you're so cool", I did not know what to do with this compliment, like, I'm not cool at all but thanks, awesome stranger? Lol. It was most probably the trans flag or cap. Idk. I'm still trying to process that someone thinks I'm cool.)

There were so many people it took us a solid hour to walk just 400 meters at the beginning.

All I could see were smiling faces, friendly people, many flags hung from the windows, and everyone kept their good mood despite the heat and crowd. There were only 4-5 protesters with a huge cross trying to preach but were quickly dealt with by the organizers. Other protesters (just a handful of them) waited on the bridge we'd cross so we took another bridge in the end, leaving them hanging lol. It took around 3 hours to arrive at the finish only 2 km away. I swear I have never seen such crowd in person. It felt awesome. To have the backs of so many people.

And it felt so freeing, to wear my flag, to be this much out, without any fear, without any regret.

And it was great to march all the way in a fantastic company! I'll try to keep being this open towards others because it's extremely rewarding.

Oh and the mayor of Budapest, Gergely Karácsony won this round against the government with a knockout!

[stellargh0ul]

Pretty ghoul? Starlight? More of La Creatura? Please?

Part 1, Part 2

If this gets any more parts, i'll turn it into it's own fic lmao.

Also, to the anon who called me Starlight, congrats on impersonating my husband so well I thought he was the one who sent this. That's exactly how he talks to me.

-

it’s become something of a nightly thing, you seeing him around your house. sometimes he’s lurking in the woods and the only sign you get of his presence is the glowing red eyes between the trees- sometimes he comes closer and you think you catch him lurking in your windows, staring through the glass as you watch a horror movie.

so you experimented. starting putting on some reality show shlock a couple times and found that he only seemed to come close enough to watch through the window for horror movies and cheesy romances.

la creatura had his favorites, it seemed.

it’s one night where you’re particularly lonely that you turn your head, see those eyes in your window, and make your mind up. you get up, march to your backdoor, and throw it open.

“do you want to come in and watch a movie with me?” you ask before you can second-guess yourself. grave-keeping wasn’t a business that lent itself particularly well to human interaction, and while you’re pretty sure he doesn’t actually count, it’s been long enough of peace between the two of you that you don’t think you’re likely to get eaten.

and he really seems to like movies. maybe that alone will keep him from chowing down on your head.

“eh?” he tilts his head at you and you suppress a shudder as it rotates a few degrees beyond what a human neck should feasibly be able to turn.

“come inside. watch a movie with me instead of just staring through my window.”

“…oh! inside?”

la creatura cocks his head to the other side before he scuttles forward on those long, spindly legs. you take a step back, and then another as he crawls forward, following your movements as you step back inside your house without ever taking your eyes off of him.

seeing him in your house is strange: he picks his way across the kitchen floor delicately, rising to two-legs when it’s clear that moving on all fours through the cramped amount of space will not be possible. it’s odd, to see him move like a human might and yet be still so utterly alien to you.

“thank you! I have never been in a house before,” he says cheerily, perching on the edge of your couch. you inspect him for dirt and dried blood and find that he’s relatively clean, all things considered.

“…no problem. I just figured, I… I knew you were going to be watching anyway. might as well be in here.”

you pause, considering.

“want popcorn?”

“I do not know what popcorn is!”

everything he says always sounds so damn cheery- you aren’t sure you’ve ever seen anything but that unsettling smile on his face.

“…I’ll make some. you’ve seen me work the remote, you know how to do it, right?”

“the plastic rectangle!”

he reaches for the remote and you decide to let him figure out which buttons to press, stepping into the kitchen to start the popcorn. this is going to be… interesting.

[andy-15-07]

I REALLY REALLY LOVE UR WRITING FOR DANNY RAMIREZ CHARACS, COMPLETES MY DAY EVERYTIMEEE. Can I make a request on Ash Graver in a College AU? Could be enemies-to-loversss

Tysm <3

From Rivalry to Right Here

PAIRING: Ash Garver x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1762 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

You glared at the back of Ash Garver’s head as he breezed into the lecture hall ten seconds before class started,again. You tightened your grip on your notebook, resisting the urge to stomp your foot. Of course he was here to steal the best seat, the comfiest spot by the window, the one you’d been gunning for all semester.

“Save a seat for me, Y/N?” he called over his shoulder with that trademark smirk. His dark curls bounced as he sat down three rows ahead of you, fully expecting you to march up and lecture him on civility.

Forget it. You weren’t giving him the satisfaction. Ever since you’d both been assigned to the same Political Science seminar, he’d made it his life’s mission to needle you,correcting your out-loud annotations, raising his hand before you could, and giving you that smug half-smile whenever you stumbled over an argument.

Professor Chen strode in, tapping the microphone. “Good morning. Today: interest-group theory. Let’s,”

Ash raised his hand. “Professor, would you clarify the way collective action models apply to our local chapter example?”

You rolled your eyes. Of course he had to steal the first question, too.

Later that afternoon, you headed to the campus coffee shop to drown your frustration in a triple-shot latte. You pulled out your laptop, determined to finish your seminar paper on women’s suffrage lobbying. Your fingers danced across the keyboard until,

“Y/N?”

You looked up to see Ash holding his own coffee, giving you a tentative half-wave. Your heart lurched,why was he here? The coffee shop was huge. You were in your corner for a reason.

“What do you want?” you asked, punctuating your words with a glare.

He glanced at his latte, unscrewing the lid. “I heard you’re behind on that group project for Poli 302.”

Your jaw dropped. “That’s none of your business.”

He leaned in closer. “It is if we’re partners.”

“Partners?”

He nodded, discomfort flickering in his eyes. “When I got the email, I thought there was a mistake. But apparently you and I are the two ‘most prepared and motivated students’,Chen’s words,so he teamed us up.”

You stared at him. “He called us motivated?”

He shrugged, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. “Don’t look at me.”

You closed your laptop with a snap. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Ash smiled,genuinely,like the world had momentarily righted itself. You hated that smile.

You met two days later in the deserted library wing. A stack of journal articles lay between you. He offered you a seat.

“I looked at interest-group strategies for environmental policy,” he said, launching right in. “What angle are you thinking for campaign messaging?”

You crossed your arms. “I’m focusing on demographic targeting and media framing for women’s rights.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

“Necessary.”

He considered. “Okay. So environmental and women’s rights. We could do a comparative case study,examine how both groups used social media, rallies, and direct lobbying in 2018.”

You blinked. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

He grinned and slid a spreadsheet across the table. “I made a draft outline.”

You blinked again. “You’re organized.”

He shrugged modestly. “I know my weaknesses.”

A pause,then you realized he was looking at you. Really looking. His green eyes were curious, almost gentle. You swallowed.

“Thanks,” you muttered, clearing your throat.

He straightened. “Let’s divvy up the sections.”

Over the next week, you discovered unexpected things about Ash. He was the kid who volunteered at local shelters. He read novels,Tolstoy was a favorite. He remembered your coffee order without you reminding him. And he worked late in the library until it closed, sometimes nodding off into his laptop.

You, in turn, surprised him. He learned you’d grown up writing letters for your grandmother’s nonprofit, which sparked your passion for policy. You were an ice-dancer,your summers spent training on real ice, dreaming of Olympics that never came. He’d always assumed you were just a studious bookworm.

Late one evening, you stayed behind at the library to finish editing your section. Ash came in, rubbing his eyes.

“You locked yourself out again?” you teased.

He gave you a half-smile. “Copy/paste error. I didn’t see that duplication until just now.”

You scooted over. “Here,let me help.”

He sighed and let you. You pointed out missing citations. He nodded, gratitude soft on his face.

He closed his laptop. “I owe you dinner.”

You laughed. “In your dreams. I’m not your research assistant,”

He cut you off with a grin. “What about as gratitude for saving my grade?”

You bit your lip. “Tell you what: if my part gets an A, you buy dinner. If yours does, I buy.”

“Deal,” he said, and the weight of his handshake sent a thrill down your spine.

Presentation day arrived. You and Ash stood before the class, nerves humming in your bellies.

“This study examines comparative strategies used by environmental and women’s rights groups in 2018,” Ash began. His voice was strong and steady. He clicked slides showing campaign timelines. You watched him, admiration curdling into something warmer.

When your turn came, you stepped forward, laying out messaging frameworks with the confidence that only long practice could build. Ash caught your eye from the back of the room, giving you a subtle thumbs-up. Your heart sped up,and not just from nerves.

You finished to applause. Professor Chen beamed. “Impressive work. A.”

You exhaled beside Ash as students filed out. “I think we both get A’s.”

He smirked. “Guess you owe me dinner.”

You punched him lightly. “Go pick the place.”

That evening you met at your favorite taco truck, laughing at spilled salsa and awkward tofu choices. Your shoulders brushed, and you felt static,a current you could no longer pretend wasn’t there.

“Here,” he said, handing you a spicy mango taco. “Your victory taco.”

You bit into it, flames of chili dancing on your tongue. You squealed. “Too spicy!”

He chuckled, offering you a milk shake. “Here. Peace offering.”

You took it gratefully, smiling around whipped cream. “Thanks.”

He watched you eat, smoky lamplight accentuating his features. He looked… soft. Vulnerable.

“Y/N?”

You looked up at him. “Yeah?”

He cleared his throat. “I,uh,I had fun tonight.”

You grinned. “Me too.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing yours. “I was wondering… maybe we could do this again? Outside of academic obligation.”

Your breath caught. “I’d like that.”

Over the next month, you worked side by side and flirted in between research. You borrowed his hoodie; he stole your fries; you stayed up debating constitutional amendments until the dawn. The more time you spent together, the more your rivalry melted into something tender, something deliciously complicated.

One crisp evening, you walked the campus quad under golden streetlamps, the autumn air sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You crossed your arms, shivering despite your layers.

Ash fell into step beside you, eyes flicking to your trembling shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he said, his tone soft.

You forced a laugh. “I’m fine.”

He reached out without warning, slipping off his leather jacket and draping it over your shoulders. The warmth spread through you instantly. “No, you’re not.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the gentle concern in his eyes. “You don’t have to,”

He cut you off, placing a finger under your chin to tilt your face toward his. His breath ghosted over your lips. “I want to.”

You caught the jacket’s scent,his cologne mixed with leather,and your heart fluttered.

“Is this… okay?” you whispered.

He smiled, brushing the back of his thumb across your cheek. “More than okay.”

Your breath caught as his jacket settled over you, bridging the space between rivalry and something undeniably tender.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then gently took your hand in his and led you silently through the dorm to your room. The door clicked shut behind you and the corridor noise faded as he turned to face you.

His gaze was intense, hungry yet tender. He reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re all I want tonight.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “Then show me.”

He needed no further encouragement. His lips found yours in a deep, searing kiss, hands roaming your back as he pulled you toward the bed. You melted against him, hands tangling in his shirt as he lifted it over your head.

You shivered in anticipation, and he responded by trailing kisses down your collarbone, each one igniting warmth beneath your skin. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, and he helped, lowering both your layers simultaneously until you stood before him in delicate lace.

His breath hitched as he surveyed you. “Beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick.

You stepped closer, hands sliding down his chest. “Ready?”

He nodded, cupping your face. “Always.”

He guided you onto the bed, positioning himself above you. Slowly, deliberately, he entered you, giving you time to adjust to the exquisite fullness. You gasped, lifting your hips to meet his.

He began a rhythmic pace, each movement strong and sure, building a delicious tension that pulsed through your body. You met him in every thrust, gasping his name, nails tracing his back.

“Y/N…” he groaned, voice rough. “You feel perfect.”

You arched into him. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Instead, he picked up speed, hands gripping your hips as he drove you both toward the edge. Waves of pleasure crashed through you, and you cried out, clinging to him.

He flipped you gently onto your stomach, kissing a line down your spine before pulling you up onto your knees. “I want to see all of you,” he murmured.

You whimpered as he thrust into you from behind, the angle even deeper, overwhelming. His name spilled from your lips with every movement.

He reached around to rub tight circles over your clit, the double sensation making you shudder. “Come for me,” he whispered in your ear. “Let me feel it.”

You came undone with a scream, body wracked with waves of pleasure. He followed moments later, voice broken and needy as he spilled into you, holding you against his chest as you both came down.

He collapsed beside you, arms tight around your waist. You turned in his embrace, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, breath still shallow. “Never better.”

He kissed your forehead. “I love you,” he murmured.

You smiled, sliding your arms around his torso. “I love you too.”

He held you close as sleep claimed you, rivalry now a distant memory. All that mattered was here and now,right in his arms.

[charliegyrth]

I'm Too Cold - Part 2 of 2

A Gay Gainer Romance

Read Part 1 here.

By New Year’s, I’d gained thirteen pounds from all the treats Jet was feeding me. That meant I’d gone from too-skinny to healthy. I felt great. The cold didn’t bother me at all anymore, but that didn’t stop me from complaining constantly.

I’d lost track of how many donuts I ate in a day. The numbers varied, but some days were definitely in the double digits. I’d become addicted to the sugar, but it didn’t feel like an addiction. It felt like I was just listening to my body for the first time.

Jet and I went to a New Year’s party on the roof of our apartment. It was freezing, of course, and even with my extra insulation, it still bothered me. I didn’t shiver anymore, though.

We mingled with our fun neighbors and avoided the annoying ones. A few people told me I looked good. “Healthier,” one guy said.

At midnight, fireworks lit up the sky and Jet gave me the perfect kiss to usher in the new year. As everyone celebrated, he pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket. It had a bunch of small lines across one side. “Seventeen,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I kept a tally of all your complaints tonight.” He looked at me hungrily, held my hand, and led me back inside.

We spent the rest of the night in our bed. By the time I drifted to sleep in his arms, all seventeen donuts were inside my packed stomach.

***

“What does it say?” Jet asked. He could look at the number for himself, but he wanted me to say it out loud

“162,” I said. I was 129 pounds in early December. It was the end of March, which meant that it had taken me less than four months to gain 33 pounds. My belly was rounded (not hanging yet, thankfully) and my legs and ass had really thickened.

I still sat on Jet’s lap a lot, but it felt different now. I was really weighing down on him, and I loved the way he constantly pinched my soft sides and explored my widened hips.

I never pictured myself getting fat. When Jet had first brought it up, I couldn’t imagine my body changing at all. But our “complaint equals food” game was so much fun. And once the pounds started to stick, I felt pretty neutral about the changes. The feeding excited me, but the gaining didn’t really affect me. It just felt like a natural byproduct of the fun part.

But when I was about 150 or so, I was on my hands and knees in the kitchen, trying to find a baking tray in the cupboard. Jet walked in and gulped. Before I knew it, he took my picture.

And when he showed me the picture, when I saw how my new stomach was hanging off me, so loose and shapeless it was, I finally realized what Jet had always known. Bellies were hot.

And now, 12 pounds later, I looked even hotter.

I stepped off the scale and Jet kissed me. He squeezed my sides again. “Do you wanna put your shirt back on?” he asked.

The question surprised me. I thought he liked what he saw. Then I realized the implication behind his words.

And I gave him the response that I knew he wanted: “I really do. I’m so damn cold right now.”

He grabbed a muffin from the table.

***

For my birthday in August, Jet and I went to visit my parents in New Mexico.

They followed me on social media (plus we video-called a lot), so they knew what I looked like. But I guess they weren’t prepared to see me like this in person. Mom actually flinched when she opened the door and it took Dad less than five minutes to “casually” mention how fun it is to go to the gym.

The entire time we were there, my parents never straight-up mentioned my weight gain, but it was obviously the only thing they could think about.

Thank God my sister wasn’t there. I knew she wouldn’t give me grief the way that Mom and Dad did, but just her being there would make me look so much bigger by comparison. We used to be the same size, and now I outweighed her by sixty pounds. No, seventy.

And the worst part was, I was sweating like a motherfucker. I didn’t realize that insulating myself from the cold would have the opposite result in the heat. I was miserable, with sweat pooling between my rolls and plastering my hair to my forehead.

I guess I looked pretty red-faced and horrible, because Jet asked me how I was doing.

“This house is like a sauna,” I said. “My God.”

For the entire weekend, I couldn’t stop talking about how ridiculously hot I felt. This was so much worse than the dead of winter.

By the time we said our goodbyes and drove back to the airport, I was more than ready to get back home. I grew up in New Mexico, but now that I was fat, I don’t think I could handle a New Mexico summer every again.

When we were sitting on the air-conditioned plane, Jet surprised me with a piece of paper that he’d been hiding in his pocket. I saw all the lines that he’d drawn, and I knew what it was.

I gulped.

“Sixty-four,” he said.

“I did not complain 64 times this weekend!” I argued.

He shrugged. “Pretty sure you did, babe. Sorry.”

But he didn’t look sorry. He was grinning from ear to ear.

***

I looked out the window. The snow had finally stopped falling, leaving the street gleaming white.

It had taken me a whole year, but I could finally see what Jet saw. Winter was beautiful. Snow was beautiful. And I couldn’t wait to go outside and appreciate it.

“Jet? Almost ready?”

“One second!” he called from our bedroom. “I’m trying to find our scarves.”

“I don’t think I need mine,” I called back. “My chins are thick enough.”

I heard him laugh.

A few minutes later, Jet came out in jeans (with thermals underneath), a sweater, and a thick jacket. He’d really layered up, especially compared to my light coat.

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” I said as I waddled over and adjusted his scarf.

This winter was the coldest our town had seen in decades. And yet, I could handle it just fine. Being 310 pounds and only 5’5” meant that I had more than enough blubber to protect me on our walk through the park.

Of course, it also meant that we’d have to walk pretty slowly and take lots of breaks, too. Small price to pay.

I had to lean on him while we navigated the icy sidewalk outside our apartment building. After that, we walked together through the thick, soft snow. The morning sunlight reflected off the ground in tiny sparks of light.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said.

I hadn’t complained about the cold all winter. I was way too grateful that the heat of summer was finally behind us. Jet still fed me constantly, but he no longer did it in response to my complaints. That was fun while it lasted, but we’d both moved on. Besides, at the rate I was eating, I’d literally run out of ways to say “I’m hot” or “I’m cold.”

As we walked through the park, as my chest wobbled and my hanging gut bounced against my thighs, Jet had his arm around my wide shoulders. I could feel his body trembling against me.

“You want to head back inside?” I asked.

He stopped walking and squeezed both his arms around me. “Not yet. But I need to stop for a second so you can warm me up.”

The End

Thanks for reading! Check out my stories and ebooks for more stuff like this.

[augment-techs]

Okay, here's the thing, I have a LOT of wips, but most of them are for boom!PR; so just assume that's what they're for since this is a very long word:

D: Do not take it too hard when Skull flinches and stills when you try to hold his hand or touch his face. He's not disgusted with your true form, he's just coming down from the high of you being alive and unharmed and realizing you need to have a deeper conversation about what would have happened if Zartus hadn't been evil and her job was exactly as entailed? What was the end game with him if her mission went on to its natural conclusion?

I: It didn't hit 'her' because even when they were in the mood to cater to his emotional outbursts, it would never last. The shaker spun the air before the Purple's face for a moment, 'her' motioning it to loop and loop, before giving Drakkon a smile with far too many teeth, shadows pooling in 'her' eyes as 'she' sent the salt back to its place at their table and settled on playing "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette. Off to check on the food being made by one of the Masks, leaving them to themselves.

S: She was practically on the verge of hissing that last weird, all fury and bite in her stance, but...then sort of snapped out of it when she heard Skull contemplating better ownership guideline comparisons between Rita and Drakkon gently with Jason; adding a couple sugars to the other's tea and then looking up to find Scorpina pointing a finger at him this time. "...What?" Scorpina grabbed the back of the straightjacket she'd bound Drakkon in and turned him around so he could look properly for a moment.

"Except that one. That one basically tricked you into taking it in to give it opportunities to steal and mess with your stuff."

P: 'Poison...the bastard's poisoned me...'

Skull leaned against the open door of the cell and crossed his arms as the effects of blood loss continued on, his little Orange Coin in the morpher he'd borrowed from Zordon's hidey hole warm with full awareness of what was going on. Skull wouldn't Morph, not yet, but it wasn't because he wanted to gloat.

"Yes, but we both know I'm a very good liar when I have to be."

A: Alpha panicked so hard that he made an unnerving silo kind of noise when the hard light beast in the form of something a bit like a mix between a squirrel and a wolf--the Coin was its face, so the head looked a bit odd with the body branching out of it, but Trini had commented she saw something similar in a Ghibli movie and some board games--struck right through the metal container and popped out onto the console; bright Purple and seemingly annoyed with the robot if the way it jumped onto his head and whacked his flashing lights with tiny paws and thudding tail were anything to go by.

T: The position gave something in to the illusion of Tommy being taller, when if they were both standing at full height Bulk would have been three inches up. But as such, he just spread his thighs and let Tommy lean in to press against him--denim of Tommy's pants making a whispered hiss as he thrust into the soft curve of belly barely covered up with a cotton t-shirt that itself started riding up with his insistence. One of Bulk's arms reaching between Tommy's legs at an angle, wrist brushing the denim that covered balls and big hand--huge in comparison to the martial artist, like a bear--cupping his ass to give more friction to Tommy's humping motions. His other hand spiderlegging up under Tommy's shirt to feel at the ridges of stomach muscles and the prick of nipples beading with goosebumps.

C: "Come on, come on, what's he saying? Why's this on mute?"

"Because it's illegal to record public areas without a permit," Kim found herself saying, recalling hundreds of hours of trashy crime dramas she'd watched in not-too-distant days past when she'd just moved to Angel Grove and did her very best to ignore her parents steadily increasing times of bickering. She squinted at the screen as Skull marched away from where he'd dropped Tommy, immediately, her eyes tracing the little drops of red falling from his arm as he bent to pick up Billy, tossing away the Sword of Darkness like a shitty party favor at a useless, grotesque gender reveal party, "But maybe we can read his lips?"

H: He did not flinch when the brittle weight of body settled more fully down on him, pressing his scarred back to the rags of bedding, the edges of his vision fizzing and popping black as the hand at his face tightened and the blank reach of crotch covered in fur--or scales, he couldn't tell--undulated in humping motions along with a most unfortunate and familiar sound of moaning in his ear.

tagging: @lordkingsmith @mouthful-of-glass @regaliasonata @madhare0512 @ajgrey9647 The word prompt is GLOSS

Tagged by @eriquin with the word SYMPTOM

Rules: You will be given a word. For Each letter in that word, share a snippet from a WIP, then tag some friends with a new word.

Since I'm editing the final(-ish) draft of Ancient Hearts Emergence currently, we'll pull from that while I edit! I'm going to go to the end of the paragraph, starting from whatever sentence starts with the related letter.

S

She focused on the feeling, skin on skin, heat to heat, felt the magic building under the surface, and let it in, let him in.

Y

“You don’t trust carnie engineering?” They came around a corner, through a fog of bugs congregating around the funnel cake truck’s too-bright lights. He pointed to the closest ride, with a sign that proclaimed it to be the Gravitron. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t ride that thing?”

M

Madison wasn’t sure how she’d gotten so lucky. He leaned in, whispering into her ear, “Or maybe you’re looking to lose?”

P

Putter and ball connected just right, she knew it immediately; a dull thunk, the rustling of cheap astroturf, bumping off the edge and flying right between the blades, just like her lola showed her. She followed close behind, casually of course; silently, Nick was on her heels, ducking around the giant miniature building just in time to watch her ball arch gracefully up the embankment. Hanging for just a second, it dropped back down and plunked right into the hole, circling a couple times before settling into place.

T

The smile she gave him, so big it crinkled up her eyes and showed her gums, mouth full of half-chewed grape, that was maybe his favorite smile in the world.

O

Or maybe it was the–

M

"My twin senses tell me Vida’s hatching a plan and that’s never good.” He nodded and allowed her to lead.

and tagging... @sentinelofstories @regaliasonata @lordkingsmith @augment-techs and anyone who sees this and wants to play along

Your word is DISPATCH

[oldkamelle]

Do you ever get stuck in a routine of the past?