#Code @ Seattle Times

[anghraine]

My best friend and I moved in together with his closest friend from his MA program, and while I had met her before (the friend; my bff is a man), we hadn't spent much time together because I've never lived away from the West Coast (and only two years out of the PNW) and she's never lived outside of North Carolina and only briefly visited the PNW once, when she went to Portland last year.

It's been a delight to show her around the PNW and realize we need to explain things that are just sort of omnipresent in our lives. The bff and I were casually griping with each other about having to run an errand to Trader Joe's at an inconvenient hour, and were telling her, "it's okay, you can stay in the car and avoid the people if you want" and she was like "NO I MUST SEE IT, I'VE ONLY HEARD OF THEM" and nearly ascended to another plane when we showed her around the store.

The bff and I grew up in the same town in NW Washington (him for his first 18 years, me from 9 to 19) and he lived in Bellingham and Seattle for years before he went to NC for grad school (I went to the SF Bay Area for mine, a very different experience). Both of them are hardcore coffee aficionados, but he struggled with the different Coffee Ways of the South, so for the true PNW experience they want to tour various indie coffeeshops next.

Also, she adores Kaidan in Mass Effect and we were like, oh, is your passport up to date? We could take a trip sometime and show you your boyfriend's beloved English Bay. It's very beautiful :)

her: O_O

me: Actually, it's worth going to Vancouver BC for its own sake as well, it's truly spectacular. We used to go all the time as kids.

bff: And Victoria!

her: O_O

[navree]

twin peaks is an autumn show to be watched in autumn, but it is NOT a halloween show

[hedge-bones]

sometimes Tape Roulette means a totally unlabeled tape with upwards of an hour of atmospheric rock with unintelligible lyrics, no names, no logos, just the cassette and an insert that looks and feels like it was cut from a photograph or glossy paper. zero idea if that was the intended cover art or something that got included somewhere in the tape's lifetime

and then

sometimes Tape Roulette gives me the debut tape of a very well-known hip hop band i've never heard of because my pop culture knowledge is spotty at best loool

[iwatcheditbegin]

More codes coming out

[daddy-ul]

As i expected, it's too hard to decide!!!!!

Unfortunately, you can go only to one night of the No Repeat Weekend, so your set list will have only one of these songs

[claramelooo]

CHECKMATE (1/20)

See? I'm here and you didn't even waited that much😋

I hope you can enjoy the first chapter!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, angst and semi-public sex.

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Accepting the date with your friend Carol cost you more than you imagined.

Music recommendation:

Pawn

noun

1. a chess piece of the smallest size and least value. Each player has eight pawns at the start of a game.

Staring at the mirror for the sixth time, obsessively applying yet another layer of lipstick. You sighed—you still didn’t feel grown-up enough.

A little more mascara, even though your lashes were already heavy from previous coats.

But it didn’t matter.

You still weren’t pretty.

You weren’t worthy.

Checking your teeth, you spotted a smudge of lipstick on them. You exhaled sharply, grabbing your toothbrush to scrub away any imperfection.

You brushed a single tooth exactly twenty times.

Fuck.

The lipstick smudged.

You could feel hot tears prickling the corners of your eyes in frustration, as your reflection seemed only to highlight every flaw on your face.

You hated mirrors.

Three sharp knocks startled your muscles into tension.

“Bear, we’re gonna be late!” your roommate’s voice rang out—loud and impatient.

Bear. As if you were special, as if it were affection. But this was only when no one else was around.

It had been three months since you arrived in Washington. Three months of a new city, new university, new social codes you were still trying to decipher. And tonight would be your first off-campus party.

It felt like some kind of rite of passage into adulthood now.

This wasn’t Westview. Back there, the parties were small, familiar. The big city turned everything into a spectacle, and you didn’t want to be part of it—not even a little.

“Wow. You look… stunning!” Carol’s voice made you smile as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Carol Danvers.

Tall, blonde, with that air of someone who always knew what you were about to say before you said it. The girl of your dreams, your nightmares and your vices.

Having a crush on her wasn’t new—you had always liked them.

Girls.

But especially the tall, popular ones—and maybe, just maybe, the ones who were a little mean to you.

However, Carol… she’d always treated you differently. One night, she snuck into your room and kissed you.

And in that moment, you felt like the only one.

But you never were. And you knew that. Carol asked to keep things a secret, said it would be... weird.

The ambiguity of that word haunted your nights, often stealing your sleep.

“Thanks,” you said, your cheeks flushing under her gaze.

She stepped closer. Close enough to cup your cheek in her hands, a sweet, innocent gesture. One that melted you inside, like everything she always did.

“Okay!” She dropped her hand. “Here’s your ID! Don’t worry, it’s totally legit. A few dollars work miracles…” She smiled with her tongue between her teeth—mischievous, cocky.

You took the card from her hand.

“Melinda… Nox?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Amazing, right?” She beamed. “Tonight, you’re someone else. Give Melinda the chance you never gave yourself, Bear,” she whispered it with her lips close to your ear, planting a soft kiss behind it—warm enough to melt your common sense.

You tried to smile.

Pretended to believe her.

Pretended it didn’t hurt.

[...]

“Shit! Deep breath. If you keep staring at him like that, he’ll get suspicious,” your situationship said.

You were in line to enter Lux, an expensive bar in Seattle. You didn’t even know how you were going to pay for it.

Your thoughts spiraled toward the worst. They’ll find out. You’ll be expelled. Arrested. Or worse—you’ll be sent back to Westview.

To your mother.

Oh God.

The thought alone made you want to vomit.

“Carol, how are we even going to pay for this?” You looked at the people in line—it felt wrong.

You didn’t belong here.

“I’ve been working on a project,” she said cryptically, and before you could ask more, a very tall man said:

“ID!”

You handed him the fake ID, which he barely glanced at.

“Enjoy the party,” he returned the papers, leaving Carol confused.

“Excuse me, sir. You didn’t even look properly,” she said with a nervous laugh. “How can you be sure we’re not underage?”

Fuck. Carol. No!

She was being impulsive again.

“Are you?” he asked, peering over his glasses.

“No!” you both answered at once.

“Then enjoy. Next!” He turned back to the line.

Rolling your eyes, you pulled her by the arm.

“What were you thinking? Are you insane?” you hissed.

“Do you know how much those damn things cost? Too much not to be at least looked at!”

“Forget it, okay? We’re in. That’s what you wanted, right?” you softened your tone, trying to calm her.

“Yeah… yeah, whatever.” Her eyes scanned the bar, like she was looking for someone. “Don’t do that again, okay?” Carol warned, and you nodded, ashamed.

Normally, alcohol only amplified what you spent your life trying to suppress—the smothered affection, the unresolved longing, the neediness spilling through rehearsed smiles. And you knew that. Knew that two shots were enough to make you even more desperate than you already were when sober.

Carol probably thought you were unbearable. Too fragile, too dependent, waiting for a kind of love she never promised and deep down, never intended to give.

You watched her walk away again, disappearing into the crowd, into the lights and noise. And still, even with the absence scraping at your chest, you didn’t follow.

You stayed.

Alone.

A sudden bump against your shoulder jolted you back like a harsh tug to the surface. Your body reacted before your mind: your lungs faltered, the air grew thinner, and everything around you felt both distant and overwhelming.

Panic was an old acquaintance, a silent visitor who always knew where it hurt.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your fists like you were trying to hold the whole world inside them. You could feel the edge drawing near with the precision of a step in the dark.

But not tonight.

Not with this name.

Melinda wasn’t you. She didn’t shake. She didn’t break. She didn’t cry at fancy parties or beg for scraps of attention. Melinda wanted to live, to have fun, and feel something other than fear.

You raised your chin, fixed your smudged lipstick, and ordered some shots of tequila. Drank the first without breathing. The second burned, and you almost smiled.

The alcohol slid down warm, spreading through your body like an unwelcome hug—comforting and fake, but effective.

You looked around, your eyes wandering over silhouettes dancing under pulsing lights.Some laughed loudly. Others whispered before smiling drunkenly.

You wondered, as you always did, if they were happy. What was the story behind each of those figures? Did they also feel small sometimes? Did they watch, too?

Or were you the only one carrying this absurd desire to be seen, this ridiculous need for approval?

Another shot.

This time, a slower sip. The world seemed to dissolve into soft tones and disjointed rhythms and then, your eyes landed on someone.

A woman.

She was surrounded by voices, yet didn’t seem to belong there. She laughed naturally, but there was something rehearsed in it —something too practiced.

The kind of smile a powerful woman wears like a weapon.

You smiled too, without realizing it.

A foolish and childish reflex, almost ridiculous.

And when you opened your eyes again, she was looking back.

Two blue eyes, so intense—but from where you sat, the color shifted. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, deep, almost violet, like precious cold stones carved into a face too sculpted to be real—and you wanted to get closer, to find out the true color of the mysterious woman’s eyes.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just that raw and wild look.

Aimed at you.

Your heart skipped a beat. Shame came first, hot and treacherous. But it was quickly replaced by something more primal: curiosity. Fear. Fascination. You should have looked away, you knew that.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were being devoured by that gaze. And somehow, you wanted it.

You wondered if she saw something in you too—or if she was just playing, like everyone else.

You laughed to yourself.

It was a stupid thought—a woman like that would never look at you... Not really.

Not the way you wished she would.

You downed your last shot in one go, the taste burning your throat, your stomach, what was left of your judgment.

The world spun a little—but honestly, you didn’t care anymore. It was past 3 a.m., and the heat of the dance floor felt like it was choking you. Sweat glued the dress to your body like the fabric was punishing you for every misstep.

You needed air.

You got up with effort, ankles a bit unsteady, and pushed through the crowd. Shoulders bumped into yours like no one had time to acknowledge your existence. That was fine. You were used to going unnoticed.

The first door in sight was the emergency exit. Narrow. Empty. The cold concrete outside contrasted with the heat from inside, and you felt the thermal shock ripple across your skin, up your spine.

Seattle's lights blinked on the horizon like promises never meant for you.

The cold air froze the tip of your nose and bit at the bare skin of your arms, but still… it was better than the suffocation inside.

You leaned your back against the wall and sit on a concrete stool, lettting your head fall back, eyes fixed on a starless sky.

For a moment, you thought of your childhood summers back in Westview. Those days when the world was small and kind, when the sound of the ice cream truck’s bell was enough to make you run barefoot, lighthearted, laughing freely.

God, how you missed that.

When you were just a girl and that was enough. When your father’s love was all you needed to fill the empty spaces—Before he died.

Before the world crumbled at five years old.

Since then, ice cream never tasted the same again.

Your mother never looked at you the same. Or maybe she never looked at you at all.

You were always the mistake.

The disappointment.

She said it with her eyes—and sometimes with harsh words—you weren’t enough. That everything you did could have been better, prettier, more useful.

But she smiled at your brother with that pride that never belonged to you.

So when the letter from UW came, it was your chance. The chance to prove to her that you could, to find your own path.

The chance to run.

A city where no one knew your flaws. Where you could be someone— anyone. But even here, you brought the same fucking broken pieces.

The same hunger that now made you accept Carol Danvers’ scraps like they were feasts. She kissed you in secret, called you “mine” in a whisper, but never in public.

And still, you waited—like a fool.

Because deep down, being with her hurt less than admitting that maybe no one would ever truly choose you.

You bit your lip, tasting the metallic sting of frustration. The alcohol made everything feel more distant, more confusing.

The truth was you didn’t know who you were or who you wanted to be.

You just knew that… maybe you needed a little love.

Was that too much to ask?

The door behind you creaked open.

You turned slowly—thinking it was some janitor asking you to leave.

But no.

It was her.

The woman with the mysterious eyes.

The feminine silhouette in front of you was imposing, exuding importance. Her long dark hair fell like a rope, framing a strong face—and yet, the redness in her cheeks—from the alcohol or the cold gave a softness to such a harsh figure.

Your eyes locked for a while, too long, but neither of you dared to look away.

You swallowed hard. Should you say something? Your lips trembled, parted to speak, but her voice came first—strong, rough:

“Are you alright?”

The question cut through the silence like a blade.

Her voice was firm, almost impersonal, but there was something there...

You nodded, a gesture too small to mean anything.

Of course you weren’t alright. But what could you say? That you were trying not to cry over a woman who didn’t know how to love? That the bitter taste of tequila still burned in your throat, but what really stung was the absence—of everything?

You looked away, pressing your shoulders against the cold wall behind you.

“Just needed some air,” you finally said, almost in a whisper, like the words were being swept away by the freezing wind between you.

She stepped closer with careful strides, sitting down beside you. Not too close, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of her body. And her perfume, too—something woody, discreet, sophisticated.

You knew she was special. Rich, very rich—from the leather heels to the minimalist jewelry.

“I figured…” she said, drawing a breath with some care. Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to steady her thoughts more than her steps. Her hands buried in the pockets of her cream colored coat—expensive, heavy, pristine like her. “It’s crazy in there.”

Her voice, though touched by alcohol, still carried strength. But you noticed the subtle crack in her posture, like a piece of porcelain that only fractures under the right light.

But the question circled her mind and refused to fade away. What was she doing here? Had she followed you? Had she come here just because of you?

"Why are you here?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

You didn’t want to sound rude to her—not at all.

She didn’t answer right away.

She just turned her face toward you—and there was something in her eyes that froze you in place. A contained glint, sharp, like wet steel under the moonlight. And now, up close, under the moonlight, you could tell. Her eyes held perfect shades between green and blue.

It was like saltwater meeting freshwater in a single gaze.

The woman was truly stunning.

Her jaw clenched, as if she were fighting her own words. Or the impulse to say them.

Your stomach turned. Chills ran down your spine, and it wasn’t just the cold.

It was her.

How could someone look so dangerous and so hypnotic at the same time?

"I don’t know," she finally said. The sincerity in her voice was a near wounded whisper, and it caught you off guard. "I saw you leave. And... I came."

Silence returned, but now it was a different kind of silence.

Alive.

Dense.

You looked down for a moment, feeling your heart beat too loud in your chest. It was scary. Not her—not exactly. But what she awakened. 

The way she looked at you. Like she saw something even you couldn’t name. And still, she didn’t look away.

"I don’t usually do this," she continued, and there was something restrained in her voice. Almost self-directed anger.

And you understood. Fuck. How you did understand!

That feeling of doing something against your own instincts just because, for some inexplicable reason, you have to.

That stupid war between protecting yourself and letting go.

"Me neither," you confess with a laugh, still feeling her now-blue eyes cut through you. Your voice came out small, almost like a shared secret.

You felt naked under those eyes. Like every layer of you was being unfolded with unsettling precision.

She didn’t smile.

She only looked deeper, and for a moment, you had the impression she was going to say something. Reveal something.

But she stopped.

The blue-eyed woman seemed to be battling her own body. Her own impulsivity, as if every inch of the space between you had been measured, restrained, smothered by something she refused to name.

You could feel her breath. The woody scent of her perfume. You wanted to get closer.

She turned her head sharply, like it would stop her from doing something reckless. You noticed her jaw tightening, her hard swallow, and her hands—now out of her coat—clenching into fists.

She rose from the concrete bench, stumbling elegantly in her heels to face the city.

"You’re... different," she said, as if spitting out the word with difficulty.

And she didn’t sound like she meant it in the usual way people try to impress someone at a party. There was real weight behind it. As if that “difference” was dangerous—or worse: unacceptable.

Your eyebrows furrow.

"What do you mean?" you ask, standing up with some effort.

She hesitated. A small pout formed on her lips, as if annoyed that you had asked. Or that she didn’t know how to answer.

Her eyes drifted to your mouth. A subtle, restrained motion, but not fast enough to hide it.

You held your breath.

"I don’t know," she said, but it felt more like a confession. Her hard gaze stayed fixed on you, but there was something different now. Something raw. More... human. "But I despise it."

The words came out like poison caught in her throat—not necessarily to hurt you. But as if the mere idea of someone unraveling what she thought was solid was intolerable.

You swallowed hard, your heart beating so fast it hurt. You stood there, between impulse and fear, trying to figure out someone who seemed made of thorns and glass.

Too beautiful to touch without getting cut.

But maybe, getting cut would be worth it.

"Why?" you dared ask, your voice low. You were afraid of the answer, but more afraid of the silence.

She turned slightly, her eyes meeting yours with something close to fury—but it wasn’t at you.

It was at herself.

A clash of wills sewn by years of restraint. Everything about her was control, you realized that now. Every gesture, every word, every space between blinks was meticulously guarded.

Except here. Except now.

"Because I hate losing control."

The phrase hit you with the force of an intimate confession, almost an apology, and at the same time, a warning.

The wind blew stronger at that moment, tossing her hair across her face. She didn’t brush it away. She stayed like that, partly hidden, as if she didn’t want you to see what her eyes were saying.

But you saw anyway.

"Maybe..." you began, not knowing exactly where you were going. "Maybe that’s not such a bad thing."

She laughed. Softly. Without humor. A bitter, restrained laugh, like you’d told a joke too cruel to be funny.

"You have no idea what you’re saying."

You stood up to face her. 

Now there was no space between you. Only tension. A magnetic, cursed field. Hot and cold at once.

Your eyes searched hers, and in them, you found a wound no one should’ve ever touched.

But you wanted to.

You wanted to enter that pain and know it like someone opening a forbidden book.

"Then tell me," you whispered. "Make me understand," you pleaded.

She was so still, she looked carved out of air.

"I can’t do that." Her voice broke, and it was the first time that had happened. She stood up. Stopped at the door to leave, to run. Run from you. "You should go back too. You’ll freeze out here in that outfit," she said without looking at you, still facing the door and holding the handle.

And she seemed to be waiting.

You studied the silhouette of the much older woman leaning against the door. She was undeniably elegant, and the heels made her seem even taller next to you.

Those eyes seemed so dominant, always in control.

And maybe you were the one who had to take the risk here, after all, she looked like someone who had much to lose...

You stepped closer.

Each step measured, deliberate, until you could hear her breath change. A subtle, trembling exhale, as if your nearness had broken something in her.

Carefully, your fingers touched her dark hair, sliding through the strands like someone caressing a secret.

She let out a soft sound through her mouth—a stifled noise, somewhere between a moan and a protest.

And you smiled.

She was trying to resist, but failing.

"Please..." you begged, your mouth so close to her skin your warm breath touched her.

She turned sharply. Her back against the iron door. Breathing fast and looking like she might kill you if she could.

But you were too far gone now to care about dying.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she growled, her jaw tight, her breath short like she could barely stay on her feet.

You didn’t answer.

You just let your lips touch her neck. Slow kisses, warm, like promises you didn’t even know if you could keep.

"Please, please, please," you begged between the kisses, the words staining her skin like fever.

You lifted your face until it was level with hers. Your lips brushed against hers in an almost-kiss.

Burning, cruel.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice so low it barely made a sound.

But she heard it.

The woman finally leaned in, ready to be kissed—but you pulled back.

Just enough for her to feel the absence.

Her blue eyes burned with something primal.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

And then she kissed you.

Like she was breaking a promise. Like she was diving off a cliff, not expecting to survive.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It was ravenous.

It was need, despair, fury.

The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen, but it did.

And you knew—right there, with her back slammed against the cold metal door, lips crushing yours with a hunger that felt decades old—that nothing would ever make sense again.

Her mouth was hot, urgent, and her tongue claimed yours with such authority it made you moan into your own teeth.

She took control without asking, without waiting. Like she was quenching a thirst that had gone too long ignored.

Her hands—big, firm, experienced—grabbed your waist with such force that you lost your breath.

And you let her hold you.

Let her brand you.

It was insane to be there.

In an emergency hallway, in an uncomfortable position and the wind bit at your exposed skin.

But honestly? None of it mattered. Because the heat came from her—that tall, mature body carved by time.

She could’ve been your mother’s age.

And fuck, why did that make it even hotter?

The way she held you, like she already knew every path to pleasure before you even knew their names. The way she kissed, without hesitation, without the impatient rush of someone just chasing release.

Nothing like Carol.

Your hands moved up her back, feeling the expensive fabric of her coat, then pushed it gently off her shoulders to reveal the heat her skin carried.

Your fingers moved on their own, hooking into the waistband of her linen pants.

She moaned against your mouth, a muffled sound, and a shiver ran through both of you. She broke the kiss violently, her breath ragged, like she’d just run a marathon. 

“No,” she whispered, resting her forehead against yours. “I can’t...”

You whimpered at the sudden distance and pressed into her, needing to make sure she was real.

“Why not?” you whispered back.

“Because...” She inhaled, trying to think, to erase your scent and your kiss from her mind. “Because this is wrong.”

“This?” You smiled, dragging your tongue across your lips. “Well... You don’t have to do anything.” Your voice was soothing. “I can do it for you.”

You brought your lips back to her neck.

Yes. You’d do it. You’d do anything.

She melted under your touch, letting out a desperate moan as your hands traveled lower down her body.

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Shh... Just feel.”

You stole her lips again, this time taking the control that seemed meant only for her. You explored every curve, alternating between squeezing her waist and her ass.  

“Can I do this?” you asked, resting your hand over her panties, waiting for a reply.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. And she just nodded.

You smiled.

Unbelievable.

You slid to her clit, and she gasped. She looked so beautiful, so ready...

You moved your fingers in figure eights, making her moan and grab the back of your neck.

Then, without warning, you slipped two fingers inside her, dragging a cry of pleasure from her lips.

“Fuck, it’s been so long,” she moaned, delirious.

You kept thrusting, fingertips massaging the soft flesh inside. She throbbed and clenched so tightly around you...

“More!”

You brought your thumb to her clit, stimulating both spots at once. You felt her legs tremble. “I can give you this,” you whispered into her ear, biting her sensitive earlobe. “I’m a good girl.”

And when you heard her moan loudly, you knew she was the kind that liked dirty talk.

You looked at her again.

Fuck! How is she this beautiful?

Cheeks flushed, spit escaping her lips, hair tangled in your fingers, one leg wrapped around your waist—the tip of her high heel digging into your back—while the other leg stayed grounded, giving her that precious balance she seemed to crave.

This time, she was the one who stole your lips—and the moan that escaped you was shameful. Her tongue moved wildly, like it was saying something.

She was going to come.

“God— I—” she cried, bouncing on your fingers.

With one final thrust, she came.

Watching those once-cruel, dominant eyes roll back in bliss was something you would tattoo into your memory, forever.

And when she opened them again, you saw two oceans—still shimmering with pleasure.

Your chest burned with pride, you could die happy.

But all that feeling was devoured by three words:

“This never happened.”

The words hung in the air like the toxic smoke flooding the city, seeping into you.

You needed a second to process. Then two. And on the third, your stomach turned.

Your blood boiled.

“What?” Your voice came out as a choked disbelief.

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She just straightened her coat, then her hair, staring past you at the buildings like you were a mistake she needed to delete.

Like you weren’t worth her time.

“You heard me.” she said coldly, sharply.

Her blue eyes locked on yours—and this time, there was nothing in them.

No desire.

No warmth.

Just a shadow of disdain.

You stepped forward. “Are you serious?” Your voice cracked midway, but you stood your ground.

She sighed, like she needed patience to deal with you and that only made you angrier.

“It was a mistake,” she said, dry. “One I don’t intend to repeat.”

Your chest cracked.

You laughed, bitterly.

“Of course. Because God forbid someone like you be seen with someone like me, right?”

“It’s not about that, girl.”

Girl.

Said like that.

Like you were too small to understand.

“No?” You stepped closer, so near you could see her spit on her own chin. “Then what is it? Your last name? Your reputation? Whoever you think you are!?”

She glared at you, like she wanted to reduce you to dust.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Silence.

A bottomless void.

It hit like a punch to the chest. A blow full of condescension and venom.

You stepped back, tears welling in your eyes.

“Yeah. I’m nothing,” you nodded, smiling with eyes full of rage. “The nothing that made you moan like a desperate whore in a dark corner.”

Her jaw clenched. She took a deep breath, but said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like you’re better than me,” you went on, your voice shaking with fury and adrenaline. “You’re just a lonely woman fucking the void inside you with someone else’s fingers. And fuck, you love it. Every second. So spare me the performance.”

“If I were you, I’d watch that tone.” she replied, tense—but not with the same fire.

You laughed again, bitter, haunted by the echo of that damned phrase.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Like a low blow.

Like a rejection letter.

Like Carol.

Your chest tightened in that familiar, because you already knew that taste: the taste of abandonment that comes right after the touch.

The touch that makes you feel wanted.

The touch that lies.

You pulled away like you'd been burned, as if every second there had started to scald you. Swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in your throat, the salty taste that threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Go fuck yourself,” you said, but your voice came out too soft to hurt.

You brushed past her, your body still hot, still trembling, but already feeling the cold swallowing you whole again.

You stormed out the emergency exit like fleeing from a fire—even if now, the fire was inside you.

The dawn air hit you like a slap—cold, harsh, indifferent.

You descended the emergency exit steps with heavy steps, feeling the concrete vibrate beneath the thin soles of your shoes, but it was like every step was a surrender.

As soon as you returned to the dance floor, you saw your “friend with benefits” grinding on some guy while his hands roamed her sculpted body.

Fuck this.

Fuck her.

Fuck all of them.

A retreat on the board.

A pawn.

The smallest piece. The most predictable. The one that only moves forward and dies first.

You laughed again, alone, with that irony that rises from your gut. The bitter laugh of someone who realizes they were just a convenient move in someone else’s game.

Just a pawn advanced out of pure whim.

You stumbled outside, like a mistake hidden behind the scenes of a party that was far too expensive.

The wind whipped against your sweat-damp skin and unshed tears. And you swallowed hard again, throat tight, the acidic taste of humiliation rising like bile.

You thought of her.

A stranger—eyes sometimes blue, sometimes green, but always vivid.

Of her touch.

Of the rough fingers gripping your waist. The way she moaned greedily for more, even if only once.

The way she came with her face turned toward the sky, as if you were some kind of gift.

And even then… “You’re nothing.”

Fuck.

Why do those words hurt more than they should? Why does part of you want to go back, just to scream? Just to force her to admit that you gave her the best orgasm of her life?

But you didn’t go back.

You just clenched your fists, walking the dark streets like someone running from their own shadow. Like someone who finally understands that some people were made to move the pieces… and others were made to be moved.

And you swear to yourself—somewhere between the step and the regret—that next time, God, if there’s a next time, you’ll play the game before it plays you.

Because being a pawn is exhausting.

And you weren’t born to die in the first move.

~*~

UHhhh... Agatha's such a bitch... I'm sorry!! Y-Y

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4

[sweetestcaptainhughes]

Please # 51 “I’m your husband. It’s my job.”   ☁️For Quinn Thank you !

ooo this is very Quinn Hughes - eldest daughter, protector of everyone coded for sure!

Drabble Masterlist.

"I'm your husband. It's my job."

You were sick, sicker than you have ever been. It was some type of stomach bug that was going around and for some reason your body just couldn't shake it. This was one of the first times in your entire life that you truly had relay on someone fully to help take care of you.

Quinn was amazing throughout the entire experinece. He brought you soap and made sure you ate things that you could actually keep down. Since you felt so sick he kept a bucket next to your side of the bed for you to throw up in if needed, he never complained when he had to clean it out even though if roles were reversed you defintely would. Your body was so fatigued that you even had to get Quinn to help you to the bathroom. He helped you shower, he made sure even though you felt like crap you still showered everyday because he knows that's important.

He made sure you took all your medicine on time and listened to all the doctors instructions. Even though you told him not too because he would get sick, he never left your side almost always cuddling you as you watched whatever you wanted on T.V. You were so out of it you didn't even realize at one point you were watching a Canucks game and Quinn was cuddling up next to you instead of on the ice in Seattle. But once your mind realized you gasped in shock.

Quinn tore his eyes from the t.v. quickly, "what's wrong?" he asked frantically ready to jump up to help in anyway he could.

"Quinny! That's your team!" you tried to raise your voice but it came out more dry and raspy then you would of liked. A smile slowly creeped on his face.

"Yeah that's why I'm watching it gotta make sure Brock and Petty are doing a good job for me." he chuckles still looking down at you.

"No. Your suppose to be there not here. It's your job to be there! People are counting on you. If you leave now you'll make the Kings game for tomorrow." you argue, you try to push him so he leaves the bed but even if you weren't weak from being sick you wouldn't be able to move Quinn unless he wanted you to.

"Yes it's my job. But I'm your husband. It's my job to take care of you. Remember, sickness and health, they'll be okay for a few games without me." grabbing your and pulling you so you were pracatically laying on top of me. "Both are my job, but your my most important job. Okay?" he asks making sure your paying attention even in your delirious state due to the stomach flu.

"okay." you whisper, turning your head trying to focus on the game on the t.v. but you fall asleep before the current shift was even over.

[sl-ut]

Going to a music festival with Abby

also in response to this ask and references this fic

more college!abby

abby was a hostess at heart. there was something about being the one to organize group trips and activities and making an effort to make sure that everyone had a good time that really tickled her fancy, even when it was something that she was not entirely interested in herself.

she's not much of a drinker, and everyone knows that. but, what she lacks in a party spirit during the school year, she makes up for it on holidays and during the summer break.

it's rare for her to be able to let loose that often so when she does, she is the life of the party fr fr and always wants to make sure all of her friends are having a good time.

coachella was a bi-annual trip for her and her friends. they liked to do some sort of trip after they've all finished their exams, but coachella is expensive af and they're not all as rich as abby is (though she usually takes on a larger cut of the cost to make sure everyone can go i love her smmmm)

after what had happened during their new years getaway, abby understood that her gf was not rearing to be put in another confined space with owen again, but when he and mel announced their fourth break up of the year (and yes, it's only april) and both decided not to come, abby couldn't deny that she was relieved.

now she was able to relax and chill w her girl without having to keep an eye out for any micro (or macro) aggressions

they don't camp. abby wouldn't be caught dead allowing her girl to stay in such conditions, and she's wayyy too much of a clean freak to survive a weekend in those campsites.

instead, abby rents a boujie spanish style airbnb for her an her friends, a nice place to avoid the heat during the day with the ac and private pool before they headed to the festival for the evening.

abby and her gf drive down from seattle, making a cute little getaway out of it as they stop to stay at small bnbs and see the sights on their way to coachella valley, but it only takes them about two days with a few stops added in for fun, so it was rather fun for the pair of them.

everyone else flies down and meets them at the airbnb, all exhausted and glad to have agreed on a chill night by the pool rather than doing much excessive partying.

so after a quick run to the nearby grocery and liquor stores, they're all sipping some drinks and enjoying a little bbq around the pool.

as the evening is winding down, they all hear the sound of the front door's code being put in, all turning to find owen appearing with a large grin on his face.

"hey guys, guess i could make it after all. good thing you all put the address and code in the group chat, right?"

they all looked at each other in surprise, all of them having admitted to being glad that there would be no drama, but they all awkwardly greeted them.

"yeah, abs told me how upset you all were that i wasn't gonna make it this year so i figured i could work something out."

abby could tell her gf was PISSED

she was suddenly eerily quiet, and no longer interested in the movement of abby's fingers along her inner thigh

yes, she had said it to owen when she'd bumped into him at the gym, but she hadn't expected him to make a last minute decision to come. truthfully, she just didn't want to make anything more awkward when he'd said that he was bummed about not going.

while owen caught up with the group, y/n went inside to take a quick shower, wanting to remove the sweat and chlorine from her skin

she made herself scarce while owen settled in, not wanting to have to play nice with him or pretend that she wasn't annoyed with abby.

owen cornered her in the kitchen when she finally reappeared, coming over to "clear the air" but she could clearly see how smug he was looking at her.

"i'm literally here to hang out with everyone except for you, owen. fuck off."

he def played the "she's just insecure cause i'm abby's ex" card all weekend but literally no one cared.

she tried to give abby the cold shoulder for the rest of the night, but after abby apologized and explained what happened she ended up giving her the warm finger instead (that sounds so gross but im laughing so im leaving it in.)

they end up having fun, lazing in the sun all day and then getting dressed up to go to the festival at night

abby would hold her gf on her shoulders so she could have a better view

abby also looked soooooo sexyyyyyyy

her outfits were pretty tame for coachella but she still looked so hot

day one she wore a slutty little vest, only buttoning the top two to cover her chest while her abs were able to peek through, and a pair of denim shorts. she alternated for the other days but they all generally had the same vibe.

at the end of every night, they were all pretty tipsy when they got back to the airbnb so they would spend maybe an hour or so more drinking and having a good time before she and her gf would sneak off together

but they weren't very sneaky at all bc the rest of them could hear exactly what was going on

abby was hitting it from the back, the side, the front, from below, from above, and every other possible angle

thank GAWD she packed her fav strap

but overall this sounds so much fun even tho i generally don't love music festivals i love the vibes and i love abby smmmm

[nerdykeppie]

Okay listen.

I am too tired after Seattle Pride to go downstairs and get on my computer and take the Tops and Bottoms collection down, but I can easily extend the sale on my phone, so... guess what we're gonna do instead?

Yeah. Until midnight 7/2, use code TOP2BOTTOM for 69% off the 3rd item when you buy 2 from the Tops & Bottoms collection.

Also! We didn't hit our goal, but we still have every intention of sending a donation to @queerliblib - and we'll count everything sold until midnight Pacific Time tomorrow towards the goal and towards the donation.

Davos is very happy that we're home.

- Spider

[bloodrvvvsh]

Code Red, Code Blue. | Spencer Reid x Lexie Grey

Synopsis: When the BAU is led to a case in Seattle, with Seattle Grace Mercy West as the focal point. And after an unfortunate incident involving two cups of hot coffee and a ruined pair of scrubs, Spencer meets a girl that changes his whole life.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Lexie Grey

Warnings: Typical CM discussions of violence and gore, also typical Grey’s discussions of gore and medical talk, TL inconsistencies (I do try to keep things as canon complaint as possible but it doesn’t always work and I’m only human after all please have mercy 🙏), mentions of death, swearing, eventual smut, warnings to be added as chapters go on!

Notes: I have never been so excited to make a series in my entire life. I have adored the idea of Spencer x Lexie since I started watching Grey’s and I got attached to Lexie. I was worried this series would be too niche for others to enjoy but seeing the support I got from just a little teaser genuinely made me so excited and motivated me to write it. Anyways I hope you all enjoy!!! Also feel free to send in asks or requests for blurbs or oneshots regarding this universe! All things related to Code Red, Code Blue will be tagged under CRCB/CRCB Series!

No release dates for chapters because I like to work at my own pace. Being on a deadline makes me feel rushed and between my own life happening and my disabilites and all that comes with them, I cannot write on a schedule.

Chapter 1: Acquainted.

Chapter 2: Don't Forget To Call Me.

Chapter 3: Almost Love.

Chapter 4: Naked in DC.

Chapter 5: Out Of Time.

Chapter 6: Does Me No Harm.

Chapter 7: I Feel Like Prey.

Chapter 8: Cut Me Deep, Leave A Scar.

Epilogue: Say Yes.

[onegayastronaut]

Through Your Eyes

Requested by @edgessunflower: Can I have Amelia Shepard x Fem reader with the prompt "You're not like the rest of them" where Amelia comforts the reader who is autistic and shows her that she's beautiful?

Words: 1250

Amelia Shepherd strode into the coffee shop, her leather jacket slightly damp from the misty Seattle weather. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint hum of conversation, creating a cocoon of warmth against the dreary chill outside. She was there for a brief reprieve from the chaos of Grey Sloan Memorial, and she’d already decided on her usual order. But as she approached the counter, her attention was caught by someone seated by the window, partially obscured by a tall stack of books.

You were scribbling furiously into a notebook, your brow furrowed in concentration. A cascade of notes, diagrams, and color-coded tabs spilled out from the pages, creating a labyrinth of thought that Amelia couldn’t help but admire from afar. You seemed entirely engrossed in your work, your fingers tapping a rhythm on the table that seemed to ground you. She noticed the way you tilted your head slightly, a quiet self-soothing motion that only someone observant might catch.

Her curiosity got the better of her. Coffee forgotten, she found herself moving toward you. “Mind if I sit?” she asked, flashing a small, genuine smile.

Your head snapped up, startled by the interruption. You blinked at her, taking in her striking features and the way her blue eyes seemed to hold an ocean’s depth. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out right away. Social interactions weren’t your strong suit, and this beautiful stranger’s sudden appearance didn’t make it easier.

“Um… sure,” you finally managed, shifting your books to make space. Amelia slid into the seat across from you, her movements casual but deliberate.

“You look like you’re working on something important,” she said, gesturing to the organized chaos on the table.

You hesitated, unsure how much to share. Most people didn’t understand your passion for detail or the way your brain worked in patterns and layers. But something about Amelia’s demeanor put you at ease. “It’s… a research project,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “I’m trying to map out how different environments affect sensory processing.”

Her eyebrows lifted in genuine interest. “That sounds fascinating. You must have a brilliant mind to tackle something like that.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at the compliment. “I don’t know about brilliant,” you murmured, looking down at your notebook.

“Hey,” Amelia said, her tone gentle but firm. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’m a neurosurgeon. I know brilliance when I see it.”

Your eyes darted back to her, surprise flickering across your face. “A neurosurgeon?”

She nodded. “Amelia Shepherd,” she said, extending her hand. “And you are?”

You gave her your name, your hand brushing hers in a quick handshake. Her grip was warm, grounding. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen—not just noticed, but truly seen.

Over the next few weeks, Amelia found reasons to frequent that coffee shop, and it wasn’t long before your paths started crossing regularly. She’d ask about your research, and you’d tentatively inquire about her work at the hospital. A rhythm developed between you, a dance of questions and shared stories that neither of you wanted to end.

One rainy evening, as the coffee shop began to empty out, you confided something you’d rarely shared with anyone. “I… I’m autistic,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why I’m so focused on sensory processing. It’s something I live with every day.”

Amelia leaned forward, her expression softening. “Thank you for telling me,” she said sincerely. “That must take a lot of courage.”

You shrugged, fiddling with the edge of your notebook. “Most people don’t get it. They think I’m… weird or difficult. Like I’m too much or not enough at the same time.”

“They’re idiots,” Amelia said bluntly, making you blink in surprise. “You’re not weird or difficult. You’re… you. And you’re not like the rest of them. That’s what makes you extraordinary.”

Her words hit you like a warm wave, melting away some of the walls you’d built over the years. But there was still doubt lingering in your eyes. “I don’t know,” you said. “Sometimes I feel like being different means being alone.”

Amelia’s gaze softened even further. She reached across the table and placed her hand over yours. “You’re not alone,” she said firmly. “Not while I’m around.”

As your connection deepened, Amelia made it her mission to show you just how beautiful and valuable you were. She learned about your preferences, the things that made you feel safe and calm. She respected your boundaries and celebrated your quirks, never once making you feel like you had to hide any part of yourself.

One evening, after a particularly overstimulating day, you found yourself at her apartment. She’d noticed your overwhelmed state and quickly suggested a quiet night in. Now, you were curled up on her couch, a weighted blanket draped over your legs as soft music played in the background. Amelia sat beside you, her presence grounding and reassuring.

“You know,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I think you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met.”

You turned to her, startled. “Why would you think that?”

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you see the world in ways I never could. You find beauty and detail in places most people overlook. And you care so deeply about understanding the things that matter to you. That’s rare. That’s beautiful.”

Tears pricked your eyes, and you looked away, overwhelmed by her words. But Amelia gently turned your face back to hers. “Hey,” she said softly, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Don’t hide from me. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself believe her.

The turning point in your relationship came one sunny afternoon, during a trip to the botanical gardens. Amelia had suggested the outing, knowing how much you loved nature and its calming effects. The vibrant colors, intricate patterns of leaves, and the soothing rustle of the wind through the trees were a balm to your overstimulated mind.

You walked side by side, your hands occasionally brushing. Amelia was patient, matching her pace to yours and giving you space to process your surroundings. When you stopped to admire a particularly intricate flower, she watched you with quiet admiration.

“You see the details,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “Things that most people don’t even notice.”

You glanced at her, surprised by her observation. “It’s just how my brain works,” you said with a small shrug.

“It’s a gift,” she countered firmly. “The way you notice the world makes it more beautiful.”

Her words lingered in your mind as you continued your walk, and by the time you reached a secluded bench surrounded by blooming flowers, you felt a surge of confidence you hadn’t experienced in years.

“Amelia,” you began, your voice steady despite your nerves. “I want to thank you. For seeing me, for accepting me… for everything.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “It’s easy to accept someone as amazing as you,” she said. “But you don’t have to thank me. Just promise me you’ll start seeing yourself the way I see you.”

You nodded, your heart full. For the first time, you felt like you could.

As months turned into a year, your relationship deepened. Amelia became your rock, your confidante, and your biggest advocate. She celebrated your wins, no matter how small, and held you through the tough days.

[cosmickid-inmotion]

Beyond a blank slate reader

Hello everyone! There's been some wonderful discussions about inclusivity in the PPCU recently and I highly encourage them to keep on! A lot of it how certain phrases can code a reader as white, like "you blushed" etc. It's important to try and make your reader as inclusive as possible!

But I wanted to share some stories that aren't just a blank slate reader, but are my attempt to make people not only not feel excluded, but specifically included.

A lot of this is stuff i wrote because I wanted to see myself, like jewish or transmasc readers, in fics. Others I wrote because I want others to have that same feeling. That not only can you put yourself in the story, but you can actually see it clearly there.

I'll be honest, this came after getting an anon calling me not one but two slurs (three? They repeated one with a shortened version lol) and I wanted to be EVEN MORE LOUD about writing trans characters. i figured why not highlight all sorts of things that readers might like to read that are hard to find!

I've also included anything I think is under represented, like Boston!Joel with no age gap reader, or plus sized readers.

Below will be fics with readers and OC's with different gender identities, race, ethnicity, religion, and disabilties.

Most are Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac, but there's some with the other triple frontier boys <3

And to be clear, there is NOTHING wrong with a blank slate. MOST of what I write is blank slate. But you can absolutly be descriptive as long as you are tagging properly! And you can write for more than just no descripters. I am white, but I have no desire to only ever write white characters. We can all branch out and learn.

I've asked this before, what representation specifically do YOU want to see? Drop in my inbox, and I'll consider it, as going forward I think I'm more interested in x oc rather than x reader.

Last year I tried to compile a list of explicitly non-white fics by other writers and only got two people replying so it didnt go anywhere, but I'm going to try again this weekend! That way I can highlight not just myself.

Moon Knight

Seattle (Series): Marc Spector x Jewish!fem!OC. Marc trying to help Rebecca leave an abusive relationship.

Both of Us: Marc Spector x muslism!fem!Reader. Reader and Marc expecting a baby <3

The Times, they are a-chang'n: Marc Spector x Jewish!fem!Reader

Steven With A Non-Verbal reader: Steven Grant with selectively mute reader.

Marc with a Plus Sized reader: Marc Spector x plus sized! reader. Reader

Her Hair Reminds Me of a Warm Safe Place: Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly. I didn't add every Marc x Layla here but I wrote this one specifically for my friend Clem who is arab and curly haired like Layla and has so much joy seeing Layla and her curls on screen, so I emphasized Marc finding safety in her.

Moon Boys with an agoraphobic reader: Headcanons of a reader with agoraphobia

I wrote one with Steven with a reader with ocd but i cant fucking find it so if you see it lmk lol

Triple Frontier

If You Wanna be Wild: Javier Pena x Latina!fem!Reader/oc x Santiago Garcia. Javier gets a new partner, a young Santi, and they go after Lorea together. He does not account for both of them sleeping with the same prositute. Partway through, "reader" became more of an oc, but the description is clear. She's latina and Colombian, curly hair. When I start moving everything to my new blog I'll just edit everything as an OC.

Big Boys Don't Cry: Trans! Santiago Garcia x transmasc!reader

Santi With a Curly Haired Reader: Just what it says. Not explicitly POC but can easily imagine if you have curly hair no matter the race.

See more at the bottom about the leather and lace universe

The Last of Us

Darkness on the Edge of Town: Joel Miller x older!fem!reader. By older, I mean she's the same age as Joel in boston, post-menopause. Joel saves a woman from FEDRA guards and they are stuck together in his apartment during a lockdown.

Lights: Joel Miller x jewish!fem!reader. Jackson!Joel asks out Jewish!reader

About a Girl: Joel Miller x trans!fem!reader. Joel, a single dad of a kindergarten aged Sarah, meets Blue, and is instantly attracted, but he doesn't know she's trans yet. Heavy on themes of found family, domestic abuse to Joel, addiction, transphobia.

Joel Takes a Strap: Joel x trans!masc!reader. Is exactly what it says LOL

The River: Joel Miller x black!fem!reader. Sarah's mom reader, Joel and you lose your virginities together, Sarah is conceived.

Happy Birthday, Joel: Trans!Joel x male!reader. You and Joel pic out a new name for him.

Santa Joel-y: Joel Miller x plus sized!Fem!Reader. Joel is feeling down about his weight gain, reader cheers him up.

Narcos

If You Wanna be Wild: Javier Pena x Latina!fem!Reader/oc x Santiago Garcia. Partway through, "reader" became more of an oc, but the description is clear. She's latina and Colombian, curly hair. When I start moving everything to my new blog I'll just edit everything as an OC. Javier gets a new partner, a young Santi, and they go after Lorea together. He does not account for both of them sleeping with the same prositute.

Leather and Lace universe (Triple Frontier)

Putting this at the bottom because it's my baby and i know I promo it a lot so I wanted to give people a chance to see the other stuff.

Leather and Lace universe started with Just writing the series leather and Lace. I wasn't ready to let go of the characters i created, so I branched off with Frankie and Jana's story. now it's an anthology.

Each series can be read seperately, but are best all together because there are side arches. Each series is a different TF boy and their OC, each OC is wildly varied.

The full LaL masterlist with chronological pieces here if you want to read it all to date, OR you can look below for one that fits your tastes.

Please be mindful of warnings of each. heavy themes of domestic violence, rape, addiction, and child abuse are present.

Leather and Lace: Santiago Garcia x oc, Laci. The Tf boys find laci in Colombia, a victim of sex trafficking and they rescue her. She's deeply traumatized, but Santi is there to help her every step. Santi is coded to be autistic and is non-verbal often (more in the begining, she talks more as her anxiety eases.) and she has severe PTSD.

Take Your Time: Francisco Morales x oc, Jana. frankie is struggling to stay sober. Despite his attempts to push people away, Jana won't allow him to lose himself in addiction and depression, for his own and for their daughter's sake. Jana is a bisexual icon, and Afro-latina.

For the Longest Time: William Miller x OC, Lorelei. Lorelei and Will keep accidentally meeting. Suspicious and often judgmental, Lorelei is hesitant to let Will and his friends in. She learns she can trust them, and they learn she has a heart of gold and is the most loyal friend you could have. Lorelei is Vietnamese.

Coming soon... No Surrender: Ben Miller x oc, Cam. Join the tag list! Stuck in an abusive relationship and drinking heavily, Ben is just trying to get through this harvest and sell the family farm. Will calls in the only person he thinks can help his brother. Cam is Scottish and part Vietnamese (1/4), and has a hearing aid.

If any incorrect, outdated, or offensive langauge was used in any of these descripters, please let me know! I do my best to research and ask people in any groups I am not a part of, but I know things can slip through and I will never be above being corrected

Thank you for taking the time to read my works! If you are so inclinced, check out my event, disability visibility, to highlight disability awareness!

Follow @cosmic-kid-in-motion which will be my new blog! Im going to start moving things over there. Don't worry, ill keep things up at this blog for a long while, but if by chance you are seeing this list and links dont work, go over to that blog and i'll hopefully have this list with SO MUCH MORE I have planned, like marcus acacius x muslism!reader, and wheelchair user Santi!

[scarlettohairdye]

Home Ownership Was a Mistake

This is for @trickybonmot, who may or may not use some of these stories in a fic.

Okay. So.

In the year of our lord 2010, my wife and I were lucky enough to be gifted $20k by my parents, which in those days (given it was a historically low point for real estate prices in Seattle) was enough for a down payment on a house. It was an astounding confluence of luck and privilege that led to us being homeowners, because if they gave us the same money now it would go precisely nowhere.

Anyway, it was not enough money for a large house, or a fancy house. We looked at a lot of places, only some of which were move-in ready (and one of which was absolutely just a tear-down) and eventually settled on our current place, which is a 1910 bungalow with a detached garage that was finished and turned into a studio.

Was it the most aesthetically pleasing house when we bought it? No. The walls were white, the carpet was light beige, and the paint had seen better days. That said, it was move-in ready and the owner was pretty desperate to sell, so we took it!

The inspector let us know that some of the wiring was still the old knob-and-tube, so we'd want that updated sooner rather than later, but it looked pretty good. About half the outlets were grounded, so it didn't stop us from plugging in three-prong appliances. We just had to use more extension cords than maybe we'd prefer.

The Electrical

The first big house thing we paid for was to have the entire place rewired. Our circuit breaker was a mystery, we didn't have enough outlets, and we were tired of being stuck with specific layouts of our stuff due to the lack of grounded outlets. We were expecting about half the wiring to be up to code, and the rest would need an update.

Spoiler alert: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

The rewiring took about a week, and every morning the electrician sat down with us and told us what new fire trap he'd uncovered.

"Yeah, so the knob and tube wiring going to the lights in the ceiling? Knob and tube gets hot when it's running, and yours is under three layers of insulation."

"You know how you thought your outlets were grounded? They weren't, actually, the ground wire just went elsewhere into the house and wasn't connected to anything."

"So there's wiring in your crawlspace? Whoever put that in nailed some sheets of wood paneling over it, so we had to rip the wood paneling out to access it."

I think the job was about $15k when it was done, we had many many more outlets, and our house was no longer one bad day from lighting itself on fire. Victory, I guess?

The Studio Window

This was leaking a bit, and we knew it was leaking when we moved in. (South facing walls get all the weather in our region.) We were not handy enough to replace it ourselves at the time and we also didn't have money because I got laid off shortly after we bought the house and was making my living doing costume commissions. Solution: Trade costuming work to an acquaintance who did carpentry.

The window, we discovered, was not so much a finished window as it was a single sheet of glass sandwiched between some boards.

Badly.

The carpenter was not entirely she that she was qualified for the job, but she did manage to remove the single sheet of glass and replace it with a window that was insulated and actually capable of opening. She used caulk around it. It was way better than we had before. Maybe someday we'll have both studio windows replaced by a contractor who actually does windows, but this is not that day!

The Siding

The cedar shingles were no longer cutting it at a certain point, so we had the house resided. (Houses are money pits, in case you didn't know.) This was a $30k job (MONEY PIT!) and had several layers of badness.

Bad: Our house had no insulation. It was cedar shingles over the original siding, with nothing in between that original siding and our INTERIOR WALLS. There was occasionally a newspaper. Our PM asked if we wanted insulation? And we said yes, please!!! We did not have a lot of time to think about insulation or research the best type, so it's just sheets of the pink fiberglass stuff in there, but it exists and we have it now!

Worse: Underneath our laundry room was a horrorshow. The laundry room is an addition that was added to our house probably sometime in the 50s? And, uh...

Well, the siding guys pulled off the siding, took a look at what was under it, and immediately called the project manager. The project manager came out, took a look, and then called us. He said that the siding guys thought it really needed to be reinforced and stabilized before they re-sided it, which is very fair, because I think the people who built it originally were drunk when they did it. It was a fucking Wild West cowboy construction situation under there.

Yes, you heard that right: A LOAD-BEARING SHINGLE.

Our project manager also informed us that the siding guys couldn't do the reinforcement, because they're just siding guys. They don't do structural. This is very fair.

It also needed to be done by Monday so we could stay on schedule for the siding work.

We learned this on Friday.

I immediately called my general contractor dad and got his voicemail, because (I remembered belatedly) he was in Mexico getting dental surgery. There was absolutely no way we could get another contractor out to do the work over a single weekend.

It was up to us.

My wife and I (mostly my wife) went HAM on it. We rented big jacks from the tool library to prop the laundry room up while we replaced one of the entirely rotten support poles. One of the big telephone poles was so wrecked with dry rot we could kick it out of place. (It didn't even touch the BIG ROCK that was supposed to be its foundation!!! It was floating!!!) Several of the joists were also fucked, so we ran new joists alongside them and married them together. My wife dug holes while crouched in a 4' high space, filled the holes with gravel, compacted it by putting a piece of wood on top of it and hitting it with a mallet, and then installed an entire additional support system from 4x4s and deck blocks. She actually attached the support system TO THE FUCKING HOUSE, which was a big improvement from the way it was originally held on by vibes and paint.

Here's a tasty little before and after:

(Yeah, see how that visible joist at the front just... stops at the far left? There's a new joist right behind it now.)

This was completed with resounding cries of, "Good enough!" and "It's better than it was before!" The siding guys thought it was fine and sided over it. Someday hopefully we will be able to afford to tear the whole thing down and rebuild it with a properly poured foundation, but in the meantime the spin cycle on the washing machine no longer shakes the whole house. Victory?!

Ridiculous: The purple paint saga. My wife and I are lesbians who tend toward maximalism in our decoration style. Construction companies find this baffling. We paid extra to our siding company to get the extended color choices (if you order the siding with the color baked in it lasts longer, but you're limited to a particular range of colors) and spoiler alert: 90% of them are boring as fuck. We basically paid extra to have access to 400 shades of white and 400 more shades of beige. There were like three saturated colors in the whole book. Pathetic.

Anyway, we chose the one nice teal that was available and decided we'd paint the door purple, since all the purple colors were gray at best. The project manager then forgot to put in our order, and when he remembered he'd forgotten, ordering our siding through his company would have pushed back the start time by six weeks. We could still make the original start time if we ordered through a different company doing the same thing, though!

Me, immediately: And we wouldn't be restricted to your color palette, right? Him: Yeah, they can do custom colors. Me, slapping down a color card called "Fully Purple": MAKE IT PURPLE.

Bless this man, he went to the siding company and asked for Fully Purple. They told him they couldn't do that color, and also is he sure anyone wants this color? He called them on the phone and informed them yes, we did want that color, and also that he'd worked for them and he knew damn well they could do that color, they'd just have to custom mix it, so they needed to do their fucking jobs. Suitably chastened, they finally sent us a sample of the siding, and it was... okay. It was purple for sure, but a little de-saturated. Not the purple of our hearts.

I asked if they'd actually started manufacturing our siding yet or just sent the color sample. The project manager confirmed they hadn't, and if we ordered this imperfectly-purple siding now, it would be several weeks before we could get started.

"We're gonna paint," I decided, and our project manager put in the orders.

The paint store called him and said, "Hey, are you sure you want this color?" Yes, he assured them, that's the right color.

The guys doing the painting opened up the can and then called him and said, "Are you sure this color?" and he told them yes! They want that color!

At this point I told him he should just start responding with, "They're lesbians!!! Yes! They want the purple! They're lesbians!!!"

Eventually we cleared every hurdle god and the construction industry put in front of us, and now our house is Fully Purple.

It also has insulation, wiring that won't kill us, and a laundry room that hopefully won't collapse anytime soon. We got a heat pump installed that took shockingly little time and worked immediately, and our next project will be having the roof redone. Check back in to find out what fresh horror awaits us then! I think it'll be a second roof under our existing roof made of lead and asbestos tiles, probably!

[swiftmorgan13]

YOU HELPED HER — mafia!billie eilish x fem!oc

SERIES MASTERLIST

⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟

November 5/6, 2029

The lights at Grey Sloan shone with that same sterile pallor as always. Outside, the sky remained overcast, as if autumn in Seattle had decided to freeze in gray. Inside the room, Morgan leaned against the bed's railing, hands clasped behind her back. Professional. Composed. Even if she wasn't, deep down.

Lying in the bed was Isaac Monroe, 26 years old, motorcycle driver, fresh out of a splenectomy after an accident on I-90. His mother, a petite woman with a sharp face and tearful eyes, held her sleeping son's hand.

Next to her, a man Morgan assumed was the stepfather seemed to search the room for something to hold on to with his eyes, but found nothing.

"The surgery was a success," she told them, her voice soft but steady. "Isaac was lucky. The impact ruptured his spleen and caused some internal bleeding, but we managed to stop it in time. The left kidney is intact, though we'll be monitoring it over the next 48 hours. The most important thing now is to avoid infection."

The mother nodded with a soft sob. She didn't ask questions. She just needed to hear that her son would keep breathing.

"When will he wake up?" the stepfather asked.

"Probably in a couple of hours. We gave him general anesthesia. He might be a little disoriented at first. That's normal. But he's going to be okay."

Morgan placed a light hand on the back of the empty chair beside the bed.

"If you'd like, you can stay for a while. I'll check on him again later."

The patient's mother nodded, holding back tears. The stepfather just clenched his jaw. Morgan gave them a faint professional smile and turned toward the door.

That's when it happened.

RED ALERT – CODE BLUE–PATIENT ESCAPE – FLOOR 7 – RESTRICTED AREA

The sound wasn't the usual one. It wasn't a cardiac arrest call. It was a security alert. Rare. Exceptional. And only used when someone left a zone under official surveillance.

Morgan froze. Her heart began to race.

Floor 7. Restricted area.

Billie.

Without waiting for anyone else to react, Morgan ran. She stepped out of the elevator before it had fully opened and took the stairs two at a time, her lab coat flapping behind her like a broken wing. Her badge swung crookedly. She didn't stop to greet anyone. She didn't ask for permission. Her footsteps echoed with surgical urgency.

When she reached the hallway in the secure wing, everything was controlled chaos.

FBI agents were running in both directions. One of them shouted into a radio.

"Floor 6 cleared! We've got cameras down for six minutes! I repeat, cameras down!"

Billie's room door was ajar, the monitor still on... but the bed was empty.

Morgan stepped inside.

The room smelled of fresh blood, but not from a wound. It was blood from an agent. One who lay unconscious by the bathroom door. Still breathing.

The side window was open. Billie had gone out that way. Or so it seemed.

Morgan approached and looked out.

The edge led to a narrow ledge that ran along the building.

It was suicidal.

Or brilliant.

In that instant, someone pulled her back inside.

"Dr. Shepherd!"

It was Agent Torrance, head of the security operation.

"Did you see her leave? Any suspicious visitors?"

Morgan shook her head, still trying to process everything. Her mind ran through possibilities. Assisted escapes. Missed signals. Every shift. Every nurse. Every silence.

But one thing was certain: no one got out of that wing without help from the inside. And if Billie had escaped… she hadn't done it alone.

Morgan felt her stomach tighten like a claw. Because what scared her most in that moment wasn't that Billie was free.

It was what she would do next.

Morgan was lying on one of the bunks in the on-call room, eyes closed. She was trying to calm herself, to let the distant noise of the hospital fade into irrelevant murmurs. But her mind wouldn't stop racing.

The silence was suddenly shattered when the door swung open. Morgan looked up, unsurprised.

"Was it you?" asked a familiar voice, rough and direct. His piercing gaze bore into her from the doorway.

"Did you help Billie escape?" he pressed, stepping closer.

Morgan frowned, caught off guard by the blunt confrontation.

"What makes you think that?" she replied cautiously.

Before Derek could answer, the door opened again and Meredith entered, with Alex at her side. The two of them moved in close, ready to step in if things got too heated.

"Derek, calm down," Meredith said, her tone firm but measured. "We don't have proof of anything yet."

Alex nodded and added, "Morgan's been under a lot of pressure. No one knows all the details of what happened with Billie. Now's not the time to jump to conclusions."

Derek clenched his fists, taking a deep breath, trying to rein in his frustration.

"I just want the truth," he said sharply. "If Billie's out there, someone helped her. And since you were the one who operated on her, I can't help but think you had something to do with it."

Morgan met his gaze, her voice calm, bordering on resolute.

"Listen to me, Derek. I didn't help anyone escape. But if you're asking whether I let her die in that hospital... the answer's the same. I did everything I could to save her. Because she's a human being. That's it."

Meredith stepped forward, carrying that natural authority that always commanded respect.

"What happened with Billie is complicated. And we can't let it tear us apart. Morgan needs our support right now, not suspicion."

Alex zipped up the takeout bag of Chinese food and set it on the table.

"If someone helped Billie, we'll find out. But throwing accusations around won't get us there any faster."

Derek sighed and dropped into a chair, finally easing up a little.

"Fine. But I'm watching everything. I don't want anyone playing with fire, especially not with me or my family."

Morgan nodded slowly.

"I understand."

The four of them stayed silent for a few seconds, letting the tension slowly fade. Outside, the hospital pulsed on with its relentless rhythm. Inside, the real game was just beginning.

Later, Morgan and Alex were grabbing a quick coffee in the hospital cafeteria. The warm afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, but the atmosphere between them was tense, filled with unspoken questions.

"I can't stop thinking someone inside the hospital helped Billie," Morgan said, absentmindedly stirring her cup. "It doesn't make sense that she got out on her own."

Alex nodded, with his usual mix of skepticism and support.

"We're in the middle of a hornet's nest. We just have to figure out who's doing the stinging."

Suddenly, the cafeteria doors swung open with purpose. A woman in a dark suit, her expression cold and unreadable, walked in without hesitation. Her presence brought a momentary hush over the room.

Morgan felt her muscles tense as Rachel approached their table.

"Dr. Shepherd," the agent said firmly. "I need you to come with me to a private room. We have a few questions about the escape of patient Eilish."

Alex looked at her with suspicion.

"Do you really have to do this right now? Morgan just finished a brutal shift."

Rachel didn't budge.

"It's standard procedure. Please, Dr. Shepherd, come with me."

Morgan nodded, put down her coffee, and slowly stood up. Karev watched her go, clearly worried.

The room waiting for her was small and windowless, designed for interrogations or confidential meetings. Rachel closed the door behind them and motioned for Morgan to sit.

"Dr. Shepherd," she began, "as the lead surgeon who operated on Billie O’Connell, you had exclusive access to her. Can you tell me whether you were aware of, or participated in, any plan to help the patient escape the hospital?"

Morgan stayed calm, choosing her words carefully.

"I had no knowledge of, nor did I participate in, anything related to her escape. My only priority was, and still is, her health."

"Are you sure? Because we have witnesses and logs indicating unusual activity in your area."

Morgan frowned.

"I don't know what you're referring to, but I haven't done anything that could be considered suspicious."

Rachel paused, studying her response, then lowered her voice.

"Morgan, this situation is delicate. Billie is a key target in this federal investigation. Any assistance, intentional or not, will have consequences. We need your cooperation."

Morgan took a deep breath, feeling the pressure but holding her ground.

"I'm willing to cooperate, within the bounds of my ethics. But I won't allow myself to be implicated in something I didn't do."

Rachel gave a faint smile, as if agreeing to a temporary truce.

"Very well, Dr. Shepherd. We'll be in touch."

Morgan stepped out of the room to find Alex waiting outside.

"Everything okay?" Karev asked.

"For now," Morgan replied, her eyes steady. "But this is just the beginning."

The night had been short for Morgan. The interrogation with Agent Torrance left a bitter aftertaste, a reminder that she was now under scrutiny. Not just for her role in Billie's care, but for everything surrounding it.

She decided to launch her own investigation. She couldn't blindly trust the FBI, or anyone in the hospital who might have hidden motives.

If she wanted to clear her name and protect Billie, she had to move fast.

First, she reviewed the security footage from the 7th floor, the restricted wing where Billie had been kept. With help from IT, under the pretense of checking a reported technical issue from the previous night, she found something disturbing: several minutes of missing footage from the area around Billie’s room. A suspicious outage.

Morgan also spoke with a few nurses who were on duty that night. Some were nervous, others evasive, but a young nurse named Elena admitted to seeing someone lingering near the hallway just before the alarm went off. She couldn't identify the person, but she mentioned a man in a dark jacket with a confident demeanor.

Meanwhile, Morgan knew she couldn't trust Elijah or Finneas, both connected to Billie and her life outside the hospital. But there was someone she could count on: Alex. Her friend not only understood the hospital's inner workings but also had the connections and tools to trace movement through secondary access points, possible exit routes for Billie.

Alex offered to help investigate those back exits.

Elsewhere, Billie was in a safe location, far from the hospital and under the protection of allies. She was recovering slowly, but she couldn't stay still for long. She knew it was only a matter of time before law enforcement, and the criminal syndicate she once led, came after her with everything they had.

Billie ran through her next move in her mind. She needed Morgan, not just because of the surgery. She needed someone inside the hospital she could trust. Someone who could protect her from within.

"This is just the beginning," Billie whispered to herself, as night fell over the city of Seattle.

[hearts-hunger]

okayyy who's ready for my review of s1e3

pros

bella ramsey finally gave some convincing ellie in this episode. the scene with gail was so ellie. if game ellie had had to deal with a therapist, she'd do it just like that. the joel's house walkthrough segement was done well too.

i'm definitely interested to see more of the scars. i think that's something the game definitely needed, and humanizing them and giving them their own lives apart from being one-dimensional freaks to kill is a solid move on hbo's part.

i guess i liked dina talking about her relationship with jesse? i always was curious about them. but everything surrounding that conversation was....... not it, so, mixed feelings.

i liked that ellie had a room in joel's house :(

cons

i fucking TOLD y'all tommy wasn't going to seattle. i called that shit last week. ironically they're ruining his character by not letting him ruin his character, because the tragedy of tommy in the game is that he loses everything for revenge and ends up a bitter, broken man. emotionally mature farm boy council leader tommy is just unsatisfying. like, are we writing a fix-it fic here? this is such a huge breakaway from the game that it's going to require so many changes down the line, and it also just cans tommy's character. so, goodbye to gabriel luna, i guess. it's a huge fucking waste.

wooooo boy does druckmann feel pleased with himself. gail and tommy talking about ellie like she's some sicko. "some people can't be saved" shove it up your ass, neil! that like was so "ellie has a violent heart" coded i almost threw up and died. shut up.

the dina/ellie "rate the kiss" scene being rewritten into the tent scene was suuuper weird. like, instead of an endearing moment of happiness that plays into ellie's guilt and her complex relationship with dina as it is in the game, it turned into this really shallow superficial straight-male-pandering pile of garbage. dina acting like a ditzy bi-curious "but not gay!!!!" sorority girl while they're ON THE WAY TO AVENGE JOEL???? like, now is not the time????? dina at this point in the game is ride or die for ellie. it's beyond whatever chemistry they have. she's really and truly in love with her. but the way the tent scene plays is that dina brings up this middle-school kind of thing in the middle of what is the most serious journey of ellie's life. it felt very off to me and a disservice to dina's intentionality and commitment to ellie.

the town hall council meeting was so stupid. like, it took up a bunch of screentime just for the same result to come about. ellie and dina snuck out and the rest of the town didn't know. why reinvent the wheel here? it was just a waste of time to me.

why are we trying so hard to make seth likeable??? why not make tommy supply them and sneak them out, at least? throw us tommy-revenge truthers a bone?

gail's character is so annoying and stupid and i hate her. who even is she. i so do not care about her to the extent that i just want to skip every scene she's in.

also, another thing about the tent scene, i didn't like that dina said she had gone back to jesse. it all feels a little queer-baity, a little "make dina bombshell pretty and definitely still into men even after she kissed ellie". don't do my girl like that. she loves jesse in but she's in love with ellie. it's more than just sex and adrenaline and crushes and whatever. idk, i can't really put my finger on it, but it just makes her out to be kind of immature in a way that messes with her character in a substantial way.

let me know your thoughts! inbox is always open, and my tlou sideblog is @ellies-miller if you want to hang there!

[shoujo-wizard]

@lexirosewrites here's the ask i told you i've been putting too much detail into, i call it Haunting of Harrington House it's more details on the ask i sent quite awhile ago of a/b/o steddie haunted house AU this is very long so it is under the cut

it involves slightly better harrington parents, but they still aren't the best the emotional neglect is very present, it isn't very steddie or buckingham coded yet so i didn't tag it as either these r just broad initial details

O!Steve A!Robin

Steve grew up in a relatively cosmopolitan town in Washington near Seattle. His father and mother were big shot lawyers with little time for him. He was mostly a check on the to-do list for a "picture perfect" marriage, his designation as a male omega wasn't unexpected or shunned as the Harrington family apparently had a long history of male omegas. But they were still much too busy so every school break they'd dump him at his maternal grandparents house a few towns away. When there wasn't a school break he was primarily in the care of a nanny till his 15th birthday when it was deemed he knew how to take care of himself & be safe abt it.

He grew up learning next to nothing about his paternal grandparents aside from what was essential to a family tree project here & there. Steve knew his middle name, Oliver, came from his great-grandfather & tht said great-grandfather was a male omega as well. Richard Harrington never divulged more than the necessary information that Steve needed for school: his grandfather's name was Elijah Harrington, his grandmother's name was Amelia Smith before she married Elijah, his ancestors were some of the first settlers of the area that would grow into Hawkins, that his grandparents lived there their entire lives

Well time passed as it's wont to do, Steve graduated high school & decided to study Library Sciences as a long-term goal. Despite their estranged relationship his parents were supportive of this choice, but his father drew the line at looking at schools in Indiana. Richard told Steve he'd left Indiana & specifically Hawkins for a reason. He never told his son what tht reason was.

Steve thrived in college, getting a Bachelor in Information Science eventually getting into a Masters program that would earn him a Masters in Library Science thus allowing him to begin working as a librarian. In his Masters program he met A!Robin & they instantly bonded after a disaster of a Socratic seminar where they ended up on the same side of a heated debate abt the legacy of the Library of Congress. When Steve graduates his parents r nowhere to be found even tho they'd promised & even shared w him their travel plans tht would get them there on time. So he goes thru the motions of celebration till he gets a call from an unknown number. It's the police, his parents had been involved in a serious car accident after swerving to avoid a drunk driver. They'd both been pronounced dead at the scene. His parents were dead.

The next two weeks r filled with meetings with his parents lawyer, finding appropriate coffins, alerting business partners & friends alike to the deaths, & then getting acquainted with their will. The will stated that if Steve was 20+ upon their death their house would go up for sale. They'd left certain things to business partners, certain things to friends, and the rest was Steve's to do w as he pleased. he sells much of it, keeps some of it. Among what was left to Steve is the deed & blueprints & keys to a house in Hawkins Indiana. 

Well, he'd always been curious & there was no more childhood home waiting for him so he gets Robin to agree to come with him to the town he'd never been to before. They get in his car & go on a road trip. They arrive in Hawkins days later & stop at a diner they happen to find on Google maps before making the final trek to the mystery Harrington house.

They come upon a historic mansion from the Gilded Age. It's unmistakably in need of work. The windows r dark & the key gets stuck before working. The electricity buzzes & blinks before coming on reliably. There's furniture covered in white sheets in nearly every room. The kitchen hadn't been updated since the 1950s. The drawing room has covered paintings, covered furniture, a large fireplace clearly meant to impress, & nearly empty bookcases built into one wall. There is no television but an antique radio as well as a 70s record player in the sitting room. There's a second fireplace in the sitting room tht is just as gorgeous but clearly meant for the personal use of the family. There's an entire personal library past the sitting room & the platonic pair r apprehensive of the state of the books on the shelves. The library is two stories with a spiral staircase leading up. Another staircase directly opposite the foyer leads up to the second floor of the mansion. The blueprints show a total of five bedrooms & three bathrooms on the second floor with the third bathroom being an ensuite to the master bedroom. There's a staircase w a door at the top leading to the attic/servants quarters. They test the faucets in the kitchen & after some noise & undeniably stale water it works. The fridge clearly needs to b replaced & the oven & stove top r dubious at best. They find the master bedroom has a gorgeous antique nesting frame tht Robin thinks might date to the 1910s. Neither wants to chance the old mattress so they roll out their sleeping bags next to eachother & settle as comfortably as they can on the hardwood floor. 

That night Steve dreams. 

He stands in the garden behind the mansion. The lights r all on, & he can see shadows moving within as if a party is taking place. He's in the pajamas he wore to sleep & his feet r getting cold. But every effort he makes to get to the house makes him sink into the dirt. Just as his head is abt to b submerged beneath the soil he wakes up.

They eventually end up committing to using Steve’s inheritance to restoring/renovating the mansion. The dreams do not stop. In fact when he begins sleeping in the master bedroom alone the dreams get worse. More vivid and more confusing.

It all hits the fan not long after Steve has his first heat in the mansion. He comes out of his heat a little worse for wear bc he kept dreaming in between waves of horniness & moments of care from Robin. The dreams were not the pleasant wet dreams he’d always had during his heats. He could not remember any of them, but he always awoke with a rabbiting heartbeat searching the room for eyes he knew wouldn’t be there.

So he’s a little anxious but has to get over it quickly because they had carpenters coming in to reinforce various areas tht needed the help tht week, the electricity and wiring was already renovated and up to code. Context: they’d been working with local companies through this entire process, and the workers always smelled a little nervous whenever they were around. Neither of them asked because they got the feeling they wouldn’t get a straight answer. So these workers come in to do their job. The last area they needed to work on is the attic/servants quarters. These are big people, strong people, most of them alphas, but they all stood at the bottom of the stairs to the attic psyching each other up to go up there. Eventually they go up, begin working, all is quiet for half an hour, then suddenly every single one of the workers in the attic are charging down the stairs and stampeding out of the mansion.

i haven't exactly finished this thought but im now cooking up an entire fic