#writing is copeing

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

I have made a mistake.

Little old me, who narrowly avoided spoilers for months has finally finished Red Dead Redemption 2. After taking a day to grieve, I restarted the game and am currently roaming around Chapter 2, in denial and trying to spoil my favorite cowboy as much as possible while exploring everything again.

The urge I have to dance on the burning tents of Micah, Dutch, and Colm while scurrying the rest of the gang away to Tahiti or California is so dang high.

My brain is now rotten. Rotten with the mental image of my little embodiment of chaos and comedic vengeance riding in and doing what she does best. I want Ashlyn Moore to enter RDR 2. One A.M. to meet the other A.M.

I want Dutch to meet someone who points out the repetitive and cultish manner of his speeches while complimenting his sense of style.

I want Micah to meet someone crazier than him, someone with the strangest luck that just can't stay down.

I want someone to join Charles out on the plains, watching the world with wide-eyed wonder and seeming like an oblivious child as they learn about the wild. I also want that person to surprise the hell out of him when a "dainty innocent city lady" is fine with butchering a rabbit and throwing the entrails at the O'Driscoll who wanted to turn a hunting lesson into a shoot-out.

I want someone to join Sadie out on a girl's day, getting a few bounties and racing horses through a firey horizon.

I want someone to joke around with Sean, pulling pranks. I want someone to hang out with Lenny and take pictures of that bar mission. I want someone to sit by Jack and tell him stories that haven't even been written yet. I want someone wild to roam the world of rdr2 and throw a wrench into the tragedy of the Van Der Linde gang.

I want Ashlyn in rdr2.

ALIENS AND TIME TRAVEL ARE CANNONICAL! I CAN DO IT IF I WANT TO!!!! There is nothing to stop a chaotic and comedic fix-it-canon divergent au

*looks at current works in progress*

[nonebinary-leftbeef]

DEVASTATING the lyric you've been mishearing is better than the real one

[satoruxx]

you're sweating when you wake up, skin sticking painfully to your bedsheets as your bleary eyes dart around, attempting to make focus of your surroundings. the room is still dark, barely touched by the slight bit of moonlight that attempts to peak through the closed windows—defiant. it takes a minute to realize that the sounds that are breaking the silence are actually coming from your own throat—breathy, wheezing gasps of terror.

your stomach drops when your fingers grip cold and empty fabric. he's gone he's gone he's go—

"what are you doing up, pretty?"

your head snaps to the doorway. satoru stands there, sweats hanging low on his hips even as his hand remains curled around a glass of water. his hair is tousled with sleep, but his cerulean eyes are sharp and lively.

as soon as he sees the panic lacing your expression, his eyes widen, long legs practically tripping over themselves as he stumbles towards you.

"what happened?" he asks sharply, frantically placing the cup on the bedside table to take your face into his palms. shades of blue dart back and forth across your features as he perches one knee on the mattress and peers down at you. "are you okay?"

his touch sends electricity through your veins—a splash of ice water pulling you away from that painful reverie.

your heart both clenches and soars, the idea of what you saw being terrifying, and yet finding out it wasn't true being that much more relieving.

"i just—" your voice comes out choked, and satoru's fingers twitch against your skin imperceptibly. "had a bad dream."

you think your brain must be cruel for conjuring up a dream in which satoru could suffer to such abhorrent extents.

"oh sweets." satoru's sigh is sympathetically soft, thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek just barely. "it was just a nightmare."

"i know," you swallow, voice shaking. there's an uncharacteristic wetness pooling at your waterline. "i-it just felt so real."

"baby..." satoru immediately pulls you against the steady planes of his chest, thick arms snaking around your waist to eliminate any measly amount of distance between you two. you prop your chin on his shoulder, sighing as you feel his snowy hair tickling at your cheek.

"it wasn't real, sweetheart," he says, pulling back just slightly to push a piece of hair from your face. his thumb then drags under your eyes, wiping away the unshed tears. "see. you're here, i'm here. everything's all good."

"yeah." you're nodding, unable to take your eyes off of him because he's real and alive and so breathtakingly perfect. "yeah, you're right."

he gives you a lopsided smile, eyes bright and glowing. "i don't like to brag, but i usually am."

you snort out a laugh, missing the way his expression turns pleased at the sound. "hilarious. you love to brag."

"you got me there," he shrugs, grinning as you stick your tongue out at him. the lighthearted banter solidifies the fact that satoru is fine and unharmed and completely yours, but you can still feel the apprehension coursing through your veins. chills run up your spine—you try not to show it.

but of course, satoru has always been able to see right through you.

his teasing smile goes soft, and he inhales deeply.

"was it about me?" he asks, climbing into bed next you. you lay back down carefully.

"yeah," you mumble, watching him tug the blankets over your body and tuck you both under a cocoon of warmth.

"hm." something in his tone tells you he's not unfamiliar with the feelings you seem to be experiencing—his body shifts closer to yours. ocean eyes carefully asses you, deep and calculating and so concerned even as he smoothes a warm palm over your shoulder blades. "wanna tell me what happened?"

the truth is you do want to, because satoru has always understood you better than you've ever understood yourself—you have no doubt he'd be able to comfort you just as well as he normally does.

and yet...

"no," you answer, pressing your nose into his neck. a deep breath in, the lively scent that is so inherently your gojo satoru filling your very soul. "it's okay. i think i'll be fine."

when you shut your eyes, images flash behind them—of bloodied bodies and stitches and swapped souls. yet a chaste kiss to your forehead pulls you back to where you're supposed to be, warm and grounding.

"i know you'll be fine," satoru murmurs, lips tickling your brow as he speaks. you think you can hear the gentle smile as he says it, and your grip on him tightens—never letting go. "i'm right here after all."

[animentality]

[technically-human]

THEY CANCELLED DEAD BOY DETECTIVES :(((

Guess they belong to me the fandom now

[mobfrog]

 sorry im so obsessed with mob loving the monkey shirt. as if its my fault.

inspired by a post i can't find that said mob and dimple fighting over the monkey shirt is an important bonding activity for them, thank u to op of that post u are so right.

[katsu2ji]

homesick — k. bakugou

a/n: to everyone going through a season of change, no matter how big or small, i love you :')

katsuki does a lot of stupidly annoying things sometimes, but one thing he will never, ever, do, is make fun of you for being homesick. he might joke around at first, but the moment he noticed you going silent and getting too lost in your own head, he makes a mental note to keep his mouth shut. he doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything for fear of making things worse for you. he just lays down beside you, holding you up a bit and letting you cry as much as you need to. he doesn't care if you soak his shirt—it's you, for crying out loud. "it's just some damn fabric, it'll dry."

afterwards, he's doing everything he can to distract from the loneliness you may be feeling. he's grabbing a weighted blanket, arranging it so that most of the comfortable heaviness lays on you just right. he's getting you some water, making sure you get the rehydration you need so that you don't end up with a headache. "i don't wanna hear you complainin' later," he carefully teases with a small smile, glad to see you faintly return it. he's moving back into bed with you, resting comfortably at your side, a silent reminder that he's here. you're not alone like your mind is trying to convince you.

when he feels like the floor is open again, he's trying to bring back that smile. he's reminding you of all the good reasons for this change, the goals he knows you have and are capable of accomplishing. in his own katsuki-bakugou way he's trying to get you to focus on the positive side of things, something that you're usually doing to him. but he's willing to switch roles, because if there's one thing that makes him feel more helpless than anything else in this world, it's seeing the people he loves upset.

the feeling of homesickness can be hard, that he knows. it's a that feeling like your heart is squeezing in your chest and you can't stop it, and he's not gonna pretend like he hasn't felt it before. but at the end of the day,—and as cheesy as he knows it would sound coming out of his mouth—you've both got each other. he's not the biggest fan of change either, but he'd gladly go through a thousand different lives with you. he vows right then and there to make as much of a home for you as possible, whatever it looks like. he knows he can't make the uncomfortable feelings go away, but if he can loosen the painful tightening in your chest just a little, he'll do whatever it takes to see you smile again.

katsu2ji © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything of the sort with my work! i work very hard and you simply do not have my permission.

[deadsetobsessions]

Bruce didn’t come here often. Perhaps that was terrible of him but he couldn’t bear to visit his son’s resting place. It was difficult to equate his high-spirited son, bright as the sun itself and endlessly brilliant despite the more he grew up in, to the cold and lifeless stone engraved with his name and words that did not encompass everything his son was to him.

His hands were full of flowers, Jason’s favorite books, a round rock, and his son’s favorite foods.

Bruce didn’t come here often, because it broke his heart even more when he did, but today was a day that love and grief triumphed over his need to avoid.

He walked down the winding pathway, Alfred a silent sentinel behind him. He hated it, but he understood. Today was the only day Alfred allowed himself to be emotionally closed off. He’d lost a grandson.

Bruce didn’t come here often, but his son’s birthday was a day Bruce would remember how to love and live again, just for Jason.

“I will be over here, Master Bruce.” Alfred stopped at his designated spot, where Bruce had added a bench and a draping tree to shade Alfred as he stood vigil.

The first time they’d- it was April, and the sun- after the funeral, Bruce was lost in the throes of grief and had kneeled over the freshly tilled dirt for hours. Alfred had stood there, in that same spot, in the city’s rare blazing sun until Bruce came back to himself.

Bruce had almost lost his second father that day, and what good was wealth if it could not prevent that? And so, water, shade, a bench, and a space heater was added.

Bruce knows better than anyone how stubborn Alfred can be, when it comes to matters of the heart. After all, he didn’t have to raise Bruce after Martha and Thomas died.

“Alright, Alfred.”

Bruce splits from the haggard butler with pointed looks at the water bottles he’d prepared for today for Alfred (who manages, this time, a faint but amused raise of an eyebrow) and walks towards Jason Todd’s grave.

Here where his son is buried, the grass is kept green. In April, Forget-Me-Nots bloomed and dotted the place where Bruce’s world collapsed with bright colors. In August, it is still green, but the tin engraved with the names of the deceased stood out without the flowers.

Bruce kneeled and quietly arranged the flowers before placing them in the tin. He set the platters of food down and uncovered them. The scent of chili dogs made his heart stutter, flashes of a bright smile and book references blinding Bruce with their nostalgia.

He swallowed, grief building, and placed the stone he’d brought atop the gravestone. He sat back, gripping Jason’s book with white knuckles.

Bruce didn’t turn around when clothing rustled behind him. Alfred would have verbally cut down anyone that dared to approach them today, especially here. That he didn’t do so was telling of who it would be.

“I’m still mad at you, for not telling me as soon as you knew.” Dick Grayson sat down, hand over one of Jason’s school bag pins he had carefully attached to the front of his jacket.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“He deserved better. I should have been there.” Dick whispered, placing another bundle of flowers into the tin. It fit, but barely. “I would have dropped everything to come find him. Even if it wasn’t on time, even if it wasn’t enough, I deserved to be there when he was buried. We were family.”

“I know.” Bruce repeated, no less regretful. In his grief, he had wronged his loved ones. “I’m sorry.”

Dick casted a quiet, assessing eye at him. Bruce stayed quiet.

“It’s too dreary,” Dick said. He took out paints, little statutes of robins, bright birds, and bits and bobs Bruce knew Jason would have loved had he been alive out of his pockets.

“It should be more colorful,” Dick murmured as he placed them artfully against the headstone.

They sat there, for a while. Dick glanced at… at Bruce’s hand, and settled down.

It’d been a while since they’ve spoken, but he knew what the man intentioned to do today. This will be the most Dick will have heard Bruce speak outside of his civilian obligations.

Bruce took the cue and gently opened Jason’s book. He’d bought it for Jason- the first gift- and he’d read it to Jason every night. Dick had a similar book.

“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse…”

——

A boy with black hair and blue eyes wandered amongst the graveyard. They’ve been here for a while, and the man’s low rumble was soothing to listen to. The shades that hung about the graveyard settled as he read out loud from the book as his son sat quietly beside him.

As the boy, invisible and intangible, brushed his hand against the gravestone, he wondered why they were reading to an empty grave.

——

Dick had left long before Bruce did.

And when it was time to go, as stars began to climb and as the cold began to nip at his fingers, Bruce heard a quiet voice.

“Do not stand at his grave and weep,” and Bruce turned, recognizing the poem. “He is not there. He does not sleep.”

But there was no-one.

[bluerosefox]

Joker Messed Around and Found Freaking Out.

Okay hear me out..

Class trip to Gotham, class gets held up by Joker who actually can scare the class cause they are still teens and they know Joker has a high kill rate, like yes they're used to ghosts and junk but none of them wanna die yet or at least die outside of Amity, if they die they wanna have a chance of coming back as a ghost at the very least.

Anyways, Danny feels pure dread when Joker takes Jazz hostage, who was elected to be a chaperone for Danny's class since her volunteering would look good on college recommendations, and finds her little mutters about his mental health reminding him of Harley before she left him. He even jokes about needing a new partner and wonders how long it'll take to break her like he did to Harley.

Danny is frozen in his spot but something snaps when he hears Jazz cry out after Joker backhands her. Before anyone, even the Bats, realize it Danny is on top of the Joker beating his face in, he only gets up once, takes Joker's discarded crowbar and slams it over his head, barely grazing the dazed man but it does destroy the flooring behind him, while screaming to never ever touch his sister. That he will destroy Joker if he even thinks about coming after her. That even in the afterlife he'll never be safe from him.

All this happens so fast that by the time the Jocks from Danny's school, Red Hood and Nightwing get Danny off, Joker is beaten badly. He's still feral screaming at Joker though, calling him everything under the sun, spouting off about how the dead are ready to rip him apart when Joker (or you can have Danny call him by his actual name if you wanna strike some "the fuck? How'd he know that?") Finally passes away, that even death will not save him from Danny's wrath. Danny is squirming hard in their holds, nearly breaks free a few times when he hears Joker groaning, but only stops when Jazz, after getting looked over by Red Robin comes running over and just..

Hugs Danny.

And like a kitten getting scuffed by the neck he goes limp. Just breathes heavily, eyes burning from anger, fear, tears, and relief, before he returns the hug. He starts crying and mutters low that he can't lose her, that he almost lost her again and "is this even a fraction how Dan felt when he lost you?"

And Jazz just shushes him and does what she can to comfort him...

[whispersfromaeons]

wherein you decide to buy a red lipstick solely to mark your kisses on sunday's face. wc 610

another day of looking at paperwork, another day of meetings. it was a repeated cycle gnawing at sunday’s head more and more — a being said to be so utterly perfect at the brink of collapsing. it was am ugly sight he didn’t want anyone to see, couldn’t afford to, if the halovian truly craved to be a symbol.

though you managed to break in just the way you always did, so sweet with that persistence of yours. the angel he had always craved yet didn’t deserve, not a single bit. even if you saw the ugliness within him, all you returned was a love he had never found, perhaps never had tried to.

resting his head on your chest while you both held each other amidst the plush pillows, he memorised the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each breath you took, your heartbeat nothing short of a euphonious prayer by a divine being itself. oh how divine were you. his fingers lazily trailed up on your arm before stopping once he felt your stirring, half lidded eyes staring at you curiously.

“i bought somethin’ that might look cute on you.”

your words made him rise up so he could give you some space to fetch the little shopping bag placed on the bedside table, a little bit displeased that he had to separate himself from your warmth, even for a few seconds. he never dared to admit just how clingy he could be, the heat from your body just the solace his soul craved.

to his surprise, you took out a red lipstick, opening the lid up excitedly. it was always adorable in his eyes how your face would light up whenever you would open something new. he watched you apply the lipstick on your lips, the red tint soon adorning your lips in just the right way.

“it looks lovely on you, my dear.” his voice softly rang, though it grew quieter once he felt you crawl up towards him, this time positioning yourself to plop down on his lap, facing him.

“i wanted to see how it’d look on you.” leaning forward, you carefully pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, a wide smile soon etched upon your visage at the sight of your victory, the red lipstick mark on his skin a result of your little mischief — one he truly adored. unable to handle yourself, you pressed another, another, another, until your lips soon reached the end where his fluffy white wings were relaxed, fluttering with undying affection.

you reapplied some lipstick on your lips once your kiss marks were less visible, cheekily pressing a new kiss on his wings, causing them to stiffen in delight, his eyes widening.

“y-you know i am sensitive there.” it was strange to see him pout as he grumbled that out, a visible flush bloomed on his cheeks. there were rare moments where he would get shy like this, all relaxed in your arms. the weight of you on his lap distracted him from the inconveniences of the week, his brain naught but a little puddle by now.

“you’re enjoying this too much, aren’t you?” he couldn’t help but giggle breathlessly, flustered by the bombardment of little kisses you blessed him with. the wings on each side of his face twitched, dressed in red lipstick marks that matched the ones on his cheeks and face.

“yes, i am.” you joined him in his laughter, pressing one more on his lips. it was messy yet so sweet, both of you gently kissing one another through the shaky words and muffled giggles.

this really was the heaven sunday sought to achieve.

[brynn-lear]

Yandere rancher!Gallagher vs Yandere cowboy!Boothill over a mail order bride!reader fic when? When I'm done with the event probably-

Tentative fic title: Holding A Wedding On Top Of His Funeral

“Let my spouse go.”

“Or what, eh? Send a herd on my way? Chuck that flimsy shot in my direction? Don't act tuff when I can put a bullet on your skull.”

“You know nothin' about Penacony. Let (Y/n) go. Now.”

“Ha. Well I'll be. Time to get serious.”

[uzurakis]

in the face of uncertainty and despair, two hearts confront the possibility of loss, grappling with the question of what remains when yuuta okkotsu is gone.

n. wrote this to cope with whatever fucked up mental shit going on in jjk261. god please take away his suffering and triple it to gege. comfort? angst if you squint. the theme is similar to canon. please be safe my glorious morally grey king.. we will miss u..

“what will you do if i’m gone?”

yuuta's shoulders slump, his eyes reflecting the weight of his thoughts. you notice the tension in his posture, the way his hands fidget nervously in his lap.

“huh?” you ask softly, the sound very audible in the heavy silence that surrounds him. “what kind of question is that?”

he turns to you, expression a mixture of exhaustion and despair. “what if something happens to me, what will you do if i’m gone?”

the weight of his emotions bears down on you as if it were a tangible force as you sit next to him. his breath escapes him in short, jagged gasps, each one laced with doubt.

“then i’m gonna be sad. really, really sad,” you murmur, reaching out to touch his stiff hand. a lump forms in your throat, the thought of losing him too painful to bear. “and i will miss you, every single fucking day.”

“i don’t want to live without you, yuu. i can’t live without you.”

he shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “but what if i’m not myself again? there’s nothing—“

“shh,” you interrupt, placing a finger against his lips. you pull him into a gentle embrace, hoping to offer some small measure of comfort in the face of his pain. “even if you change, even if you’re not yourself anymore. who gives a damn about that?”

the man’s eyes enlarge, a kaleidoscope of feelings tumbling through their depths. his eyebrows wrinkle slightly as shock leaves its mark on his appearance, resembling cracks in a fragile facade. you can see the desperation for reassurance battling with the unknown.

“so what? i’ll always love you nevertheless, yuuta okkotsu.”

with a hesitant breath, he leans backwards, away from your touch with his hands on your shoulders. his gaze locked onto yours with such intensity. it's as if he's searching for something, something elusive yet vital, within the depths of your soul. you can feel the weight of his scrutiny, the silent plea for truth in the midst of everything uncertain.

“my love for you will always stay the same, yuu. nothing matters beside that, ‘kay?”

and then, like a dam breaking, understanding floods his expression, washing away the shadows of doubt that had clouded his mind. tears began to form at the corners of his eyes slowly, barely noticeable.

and yuuta's breath hitches, his grip on you tightening. "but i don't want to leave you…”

"then don’t you dare die on me, dumbass,” you say passionately. "you’re not leaving me, yuuta. we’ll go through this together, i fucking swear." softly brushing his hair, attempting to provide some comfort in this time of turmoil.

"i need you here with me."

@uzurakis

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

(separation anxiety)

when ian gets home from his trip with lip, he expects mickey to be all up in his business because it's mickey and it's them and it's true, after a lifetime of fighting for it, when they're not glued at the hip, shit just feels off.

so he expects mickey to b-line it to the front door when he finally steps in. he expects the way he helps himself into ian's space, his hug literally and beautifully immediate. and he expects it to linger - wants it to, frankly. getting to hold his husband again after a week apart is damn near orgasmic. he's been counting down the hours for this very moment.

what he doesn't expect is for mickey to not let go.

it's not a bad thing. ian will gladly hug him until the earth stands still. it's just...

"hey..." he softly chuckles, rubbing mickey's back as he tries to duck his head to get a good look at him. beside them, his luggage lays as forgotten on the floor as when he ditched it on impact. which is good. he's sick of it. it's just... "missed ya..." he smiles, abandoning the impossible task of trying to loosen mickey enough to see his face, and committing instead to a full back rub. "damn baby, you been workin' out while i was gone...?"

because mickey is fucking squeezing. his man is taking this shit seriously, both arms snuck under ian's jacket and wrapped around him so snugly that there's nowhere else for his face to go than pressed firmly into ian's chest. "mm..."

it's not a bad thing. ian loves it. it's just... "wanna hear about whatchya got up to," he says, in hopes of coaxing them into a little movement. "gotta fill me in." as if they haven't been texting at every reasonable, waking hour in his absence. (and as if lip hasn't had something to say about it.)

mickey does this little hum of affirmation into ian's chest. which is...oh so cute. fuck, he really missed him. but they're still not moving. and...

"okay," he chuckles again, kindly and very very gently trying to take a step. and mickey lets him! he does. it's just...he comes with him. takes the step backward with him, still vacuum-sealed to his front. "mick..."

"what..."

"you okay?"

"fuckin' great," he states, and he absolutely means it. it's obvious. and ian's fucking great too, now that he's with him again, it's just...

"feel like i got a layer of airport grime on me," he admits, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he's still in his jacket and plane sweatpants. "gonna let me take a shower?"

"no."

"real quick."

"mm."

a grumble! face pressed possessively into him. staking claim again. "you can come with..." ian floats, his tone lifted high at the end in suggestion.

and...

"fine."

they make it into the shower. their beautiful, familiar shower with their beautiful, dogshit water pressure and ian kinda daydreamed their reunion fuck to be in bed, but he'll definitely accept some slippery, soapy sex.

they don't fuck. literally not an issue. romantic, nasty reunion sex in bed is still on the table because instead of pouncing on him like he thought he would, mickey actually lets ian shower. lets him get all the airport gunk off from his spot standing behind him, warming his back like a perfect little jetpack as ian tells him about his flight in.

it takes longer than necessary but it's not bed. ian loves it, actually. he'd almost feel bad about putting an end to it if he wasn't already coming to a couple conclusions. connecting some dots. about his husband.

because when they're all dried off and clean and comfortable, ian barely has to reach a hand out to him from his spot on the couch before mickey is dropping down into his lap and assuming position.

he wraps his arms around ian's middle, shoving them between his back and the couch. slots his thighs up nice and snug a little lower. buries his face in ian's neck, and he stays there. he commits, his body melting into ian's like it's supposed to be.

and in hindsight, ian feels like a fucking dumbass to not expect this. maybe it was the rush of the trip. the stress of traveling. it had him all one step removed from what was happening at home. but the signs were all there.

all of mickey's texts. 'when you in for the night?' and 'the fucks he got you doin' and 'yo big guy whats the plan for the day' and 'call me when youre back'.

how most nights when they would hang up their facetime call, ian would barely get his phone down before it was lighting up again, mickey on the end with some thinly veiled thing he forgot to tell him, just enough light from their nightstand lamp revealing which of ian's shirts he's wearing that day.

when it was happening, he just thought it was endearing. felt his own sentimentalities validated. but now...

ian wraps his arms around mickey, one hand smoothing up his spine before holding the back of his neck. holding him close. "love you, baby..."

in his lap, mickey makes no moves. but he doesn't need to. he's getting exactly what he needs. and ian wants to give it to him. "glad you're home..."

"yeah... me too..." he's felt that edge of discomfort. that panic. it's not fucking fun. and he's about to do whatever he needs to get his husband feeling right again. "kinda planned on taking you out tonight, but... how'dya feel if i just ordered something in for us...?"

not leave the house.

not leave this bubble.

stay velcroed onto each other, soothing over everything that needs to be soothed over. filling everything that's been emptied.

in his lap, mickey hums in thought. and this time, ian doesn't miss it. he sounds pleased as fuck. "pizza..."

there he is. "yeah?"

"yeah..." he murmurs against his neck. "fuckload of meat..."

and wow, it's got ian smiling. has his chest filling up with this warm, satisfied light. "sounds great, mick..." even as he slides his hands down to support him under his ass. "come get the menu with me, huh..?"

as if mickey has any plans to move from his spot until the pizza gets here. as if ian isn't prepared and eager to carry this man around baby koala style for the rest of the evening.

and as ian hauls his husband up and into the kitchen - as he casually sifts through the junk drawer with one hand, the other holding him up - he can feel it pressing into his neck.

mickey's smile.

it's good to be home.

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

It Chooses You by Miranda July

[bamsara]

I didn't realize it until now but the most recent chapter (17) I updated for TROD puts it at 250,683 words while Solar Lunacy is at 225,814

This means The Rehabilitation of Death is my longest written work yet, beating Solar Luncy for about 24,869 words (so far)

and we are barely halfway through the story lmao

[fic-over-cannon]

I think dating Jason would mean never peeling your own oranges. It’s not that you can’t or won’t, but he likes doing it for you. Simple as that. You could easily snatch your oranges out of his hands, with their long fingers and scarred knuckles, but you choose to let him do this for you. You protest at first — you’re a big girl capable of doing this for yourself after all — but he brushes it off, tells you that he likes taking care of you with an earnestness about him that you can’t deny. Doesn’t that just have your insides turn into something warm and soft? So you accept his care with the graciousness it deserves. Lean into his side as he makes the first cut into the skin, releasing a mist of juice and citrus oil into the air. Sweetly thank him for every segment he passes into your fingers. He always keeps a few wedges himself as payment, but it’s no steep bargain. If you’re alone, sometimes he’ll feed each piece to you. Press the wedge against your parted lips and wait for your teeth to catch hold. And if sometimes you’ll lick his fingers clean of the dripping juice, well that’s a secret between you and his darkening eyes.