#but with its own flavors ofc

[oracleofsecrets]

if you have a Mole Interest, you can experience Molekin in the turn-based rpg video game Sea of Stars (which is really really really good u should play it)

[stararch4ngelqueen]

hear me out…jason proposing 😵‍💫 i’m such a sucker for a lowkey proposal like you’re just having a normal convo and he’s like “marry me” and you’re like wtf but you laugh it off bc like ofc he’s joking so when you’re like “you’re funny” he’s just dead serious, “marry me.”

I don’t really know where I was going with this, but if you get the reference I respect you.

—

Time written - 10:10 a.m

—

You weren’t a criminal when you met Robin, years before his tragic prime. It wasn’t every day when your paths crossed with a cape wearing teen around your age, even more so on his search of a bag of valuables you were ready to deny when it ‘accidentally’ came into your hands.

“Care to tell me how that happened?” The Boy Wonder at the time smirked, amused at your gawking face.

“Cat got her own tongue? What, you need some milk?”

You rolled your eyes. I you were a thief, you’d have sense to throw the satchel at his head. The cheesy jokes must’ve been a Robin thing. “I’m more of an Ice cream girl, actually. But, I didn’t steal this!”

To add up on this horribly unprecedented situation, Robin quirked a brow behind that domino mask of his, gesturing his head towards the bag of valuables in question.

“Trade you a milkshake for that.”

It was your turn to be incredibly confused, your mouth left open for quite some time. Was he serious right now?

“I choose the flavor.” You state after a further moment of thought.

“Seems fair.”

“And the place it’s bought from.”

“That’s askin’ a bit much,” Robin began to huff, hinting his growing smirk as your frown deepens.

“All I’m asking for is a five dollar shake in exchange for this bag full of hundreds of dollars, bird boy.”

“A five dollar shake in exchange for about seven hundred bucks inside that bag,” Robin points out, his smile growing bigger and bigger. “Throw in your phone number, an’ we got a deal, kitty cat.”

It turned into unconventional milkshake roof dates, sitting over the skylines, staring down at the chaotic world below as the two of you shared an unintentional paradise.

He’d tease your fear of heights, constantly calling you a Catwoman rip off, but he always made sure to never let you fall. Your relationship was sweet, too sweet, and gone way too fast.

Your rooftop dates were a tradition you kept alive when he died, only to resurface when a knock at your window interrupted you of sleep, opening your balcony to find a single milkshake perfectly balanced, with a bright black arrow drawn on the cup to meet Red Hood on the roof.

Jason Todd wasn’t the same as you remembered him to be, but he was still Jason, underneath all that broodiness that shielded him from whatever unseen traumas he hadn’t shared with you quite yet.

All these months since he ‘returned’, he always made sure to keep up your ice cream date schedules. Nine o’clock sharp on the roof of your apartment building. Sometimes, ontop of Wayne Industries on special occasions. He’d always be the one to carry you, especially now.

What did stick with him was his horrible Robin humor, which was what you believed he was using when he popped such an unexpected question.

“What?” Came your first response, a nervous laugh leaving your lips. A strange warm throb formed in your heart, thudding rapidly in your chest.

“What did you say?”

“Marry me.” He repeats again, never putting off that firm expression plastered on his face.

What an untimely thing to say in the calm before an unknown storm. Both of you were out of breath after chatting for an hour, sipping on thick melted shakes and laughing over the previous Boy Wonder.

“Jason, this isn’t funny.” You peer down at your cup, nearly finished with its contents. He always got your favorite.

“You’re right,” He agrees, his tone a little too calm to be considered any sort of joke.

All possibility of opportunity to pop a laugh and admit he was joking weighed heavily in the air, carried around by the nightly breeze. He never says he’s joking, never shrugs off such an alarming, mind blowing question.

“What if you’re kidding?” Your denial still leaks through, making his lips twitch upwards. It has to be a joke, he wouldn’t say it like this.

“What if I’m not?” He casually responds, nearly wearing down your patience.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“I’m not.”

“Jason.” Saying his name so softly, littered with fear and hesitancy makes his second life heart melt. Being so sweet on his girl, even after his death, taught him a great lesson about time.

Regardless if he didn’t arrive at nine o’ clock sharp, or if you arrived two minutes late, time could easily be taken away, ruining everything.

He remains quiet, watching your flustered expression vary from your hands along your cup before setting it down beside you. Taking this chance, he gently grasps hold of your hand before it had a chance to retreat into the safety of your jacket pocket.

“I meant what I said,” Jason speaks again in a more calm, soothing tone of voice. “I know this ain’t traditional. I don’t exactly do traditional, but … I wanna marry you.”

His hand squeezes yours, making you hesitant to speak further. He was serious, the realization was heavily daunting in such a unique way. A unique, exciting way.

“Why?” You look at him again, swallowing slowly as he leans closer, nearly making you anticipate a kiss.

Instead, his forehead settles against yours, taking in the rich, crystalline serenity of your unique, radiant beauty.

“Because,” he mutters, “You waited for me.”

Dedication, patience, hope; That was worth more to him than gold, worth much more than the bag of valuables he knew you didn’t steal.

“I have a ring for ya,” Jason continues on whilst his thumb strokes along the back of your hand. “If you don’t like it, I’ll getcha whatever you want. We’ll have as big of a wedding as you want, then we’re gonna go somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” You whisper.

“Yeah. Just you and me; no crime fighting, no danger. Nothing. Just us.”

“Just us?”

“Yeah babygirl,” Jason peers into your eyes, wanting to coo at your noticeable tears. “Wherever you want. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

You just needed to say yes.

You couldn’t help but giggle with an overwhelming mix of emotions, your trembling hand reaching up to settle behind his hooded head.

“Why do I feel like,” you nearly laugh in between your words. “Why do I get this feeling you put the ring in my cup?”

“An’ ruin a perfectly good five dollar shake?” Jason expresses in surprise, chuckling along with your giddy laughter. “C’mon babe. I’m not that inconspicuous.”

“Then where is it?”

Jason tilts his head, raising a brow. “Why’re you asking, kitty cat? Plan on stealing it?”

“No,” you muse, your nose nearly bumping against his.

“You expecting me to slip it on right about now?” His hand finds purchase along your hip, cradling your supple body. “Dosent work unless you—“

You cut him off via a kiss, one he graciously accepts.

You tasted like cherry sublime mixed with the highlife, a good life where you always existed in it. If he were to die again, he needed to know that he went with one successful accomplishment. Marrying his Robinhood sweetheart.

“Yes,” you whisper, those tears you worked so hard to hold back cascading down your cheeks. “I’ll marry you, Jason.”

In knowing him since he was Robin, till you met him as the muscular, ever brooding Red Hood, you’ve never seen the man smile so big. His eyes shining brighter than the moon that was ever so beautiful tonight.

Grasping hold of your hips, he pulls you into his arms, carelessly tilting over his half finished milkshake cup in the process. His lips find you once more after sitting you in his lap, muscled forearms snuggly hugging around your waist, holding you as physically close to him as possible.

“The ring I gotcha-“ he muffles against your pretty lips in between kisses. “- is at my place. Waiting for you—on my bed.”

Your laugh was all you could respond with. From the very start, it’s as if he planned this all out. All it took was a bag of misplaced valuables and the promise of a five dollar shake.

[party-hearses]

i am a nightmare, you are a miracle // 3

do i get callous, or do i stay tender

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

pairing: joel x ofc!reader, ex!tommy x ofc!reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

rating: explicit, MDNI 18+

word count: 8k

chapter summary: the boundaries of your new relationship with joel are explored.

chapter warnings/tags: no outbreak AU, soft!joel, age gap, alcohol, language, characters eating food, alfred hitchcock, allusions to verbal/mental abuse (not joel), dry humping (i guess?). let me know if I’m forgetting anything!

a/n: this feels very ‘slice of life’, but it’s important to me, dammit! I love each and every one of you (yes, you!) who read, comment, and reblog. this fic is my baby, and every interaction means the world to me. @nostalxgic beta’d for me, because she’s the best human in the world and I love her to pieces.

comments and reblogs are appreciated! support your creators!

There was, Joel knows, a depth to the things you had shared with him. He just doesn’t know how to piece them together.

You had led him, a proverbial blindfold over his eyes, to the darkest recesses of your psyche. Allowed him to graze those things with his fingers. Not to grasp, never to grasp, but to ghost the ridges of his rough digits against the truths they contained. Visceral and unrefined, flexing without giving, beneath his prodding touch. A reluctant invitation.

He had wanted to claw his way in. He had wanted to rip you apart, to gorge himself on your suffering. To lick your velvet bones and make his home inside your ribcage. Half heaven, half hell.

Instead, he finds himself turning your words over in his head again and again, whiskey a thick smoke on his tongue. The television is still on in the background, the light flickering across the angles of the room, casting everything in jagged shadow.

Frustration curls tight in the pit of his stomach. Understanding feels just out of reach — as if the words you had spoken had been in secret tongues. If only he could decode it.

It will take time, he knows, to learn your language. To speak the complexities, to articulate the syntax. To appreciate the nuances from the inside, wrap his tongue around the letters. It will be an exercise in patience, he is sure, but one that he will commit himself to. He hungers to be fluent in reading and speaking you, to savor the delicate flavors of your dialect.

You, the unknowable creature asleep just down the hallway. That his hands had been on; that had made his cock twitch and ache; that had looked at him with those wet, pleading eyes, desperate to be known.

He rolls the wrist that holds his whiskey glass in a circular motion, eyeing the contents intently.

Asking you to stay in his home was a calculated risk. It had been when he’d first done it, and it remains to be the longer you stay. Tommy’s involvement — even in the capacity of ‘ex boyfriend’ — makes things complicated, and Joel knows that those things will border on volatile once he finds out where you are.

Not if, but when.

And truly, Joel doesn’t know what he’ll do when that happens. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, his vision too clouded with you, you, you.

He had known, since the first time you stood in his kitchen, a case of Shiner in your small hands, that the hot knife of devotion he felt when your eyes met his would eventually destroy him. Inevitability twisting its hands into his gut, whispering in his ear to prepare for his own eventual decimation. Lamb, meet slaughter, it said.

He’d let Tommy beat the shit out of him, he thinks, if it keeps you in his proximity.

The acute awareness of it had caught him off guard. Mutual, useless damage — two unfillable voids recognizing one another from across the room. A collision of fire and the ocean floor.

You, in a little black tank top and jean shorts, the tender flesh of your thigh peeking out just below the hem. Shoulders bare, warmed from the afternoon sunlight, skin aglow. It took strength he didn’t know he possessed to not sink his teeth into you right then and there. Lick up the slender column of your neck. Feast.

Tommy, grinning and oblivious as all fuck to the cosmic shift taking place two feet away from him.

Joel wanting to slug the smugness off his younger brother’s face. He knows Tommy — knows him always as a collector of people, of experiences. Not handling things — beautiful, fragile things — with the care they ought to be handled with. Leapfrogging from one thing to the next, nothing but ruin in his wake.

And oh, how Joel wanted to ruin you — but not in the way he knew Tommy would.

Your words to him tonight make his skin itch with that same recognition. That same inevitability. Asking you to stay meant there was no going back — that you would either let him swallow you whole, or he’d die trying to.

Throwing his head back to drain the glass, he savors the burn of the liquor sliding down his throat before flipping the television off and rising from the couch. Retracing his footsteps past your room, a dull throb settles again between his thighs at the thought of your body pressed against his.

It wouldn’t be difficult, he thinks, to open your door and take. He knows you because he knows himself, and what little restraint he has left is stretched thin.

But he will be patient, because it is you. Because he knows how this ends. Because he wants you to want it, too. To need it like he does. To reveal yourself to him in your own time, fragment by fragment. To recognize the inevitability.

And so he closes the door to his bedroom, himself on the wrong side of it, knowing that that is what a better man would do. And like a better man should, he falls asleep to images of your supple skin rippling beneath him, your mouth open and wanting.

You are unknowable, but you have never been a stranger.

You’re still in your dress when you wake up the next morning.

The hem is bunched up around your waist, your panties on display for the four walls of the empty bedroom. The slippery material clings to you, flesh slick with sweat, in a significantly less flattering way than it did last night.

Everything about you is less flattering than it was last night — the shimmer and sugar of it all worn off in the sweltering light of midmorning.

With a groan, you roll onto your back, the hard edges of your phone cutting into the flesh of your hip beneath you. You can’t bring yourself to look at it, to relive the previous twelve hours of…well, everything. Hands and drinks and tongues and flesh and desire and Joel’s voice.

Something else shifts into focus from behind the hazy veil — Joel carrying you to bed. Half-asleep and just on the other side of drunk, drippingly saturnine and pathetic. The recollection of it makes your chest pinch; the most recent admission into the museum of your naiveté.

You scrub your hand across your eyes, thick black flakes of mascara crumbling off your lashes and landing on your cheeks, chalky streaks of it painted across your knuckles. A strange laugh bubbles up in your throat — you can’t even imagine how wrecked you look.

Sharp hesitancy crests your lungs, tempts you to curl up further into the blazing bedsheets, to avoid. To shrink back into yourself. You raise a hand to your still-swollen lips, delicately pressing your fingertips into their fullness, the memory of Peter’s mouth slotted over yours replaying behind your eyelids.

You wish you had been drunk enough to forget that part of the night — but only that part.

Ava’s fingers interlocked with your own, the holographic sheen of her love wrapping around you, the way all of your pain had spilled out into her waiting hands on the dancefloor. Her magic had dug its tendrils into the soft muscle of your heart, her dreamy voice in your ear an incantation: I have the best feeling about you staying with Joel.

It was those things that you never wanted to forget.

And Joel — Joel. The way he had angled his body towards you, had been so attuned to your words. The consideration in his face as he absorbed them all, brows knitted in concentration. The restless twitch of his fingers.

Him sliding his hands beneath your body, pulling you close to his chest.

Everything had poured out of you so naturally, without any of the apprehension or anxiety you’d come to call companion. The sutures you had sewn years and years ago had been neatly, delicately, untied by Joel’s nimble fingers, in a way that you don’t even think he understood. And it took almost nothing.

Like something magic.

Fire crawls across your already heated skin, not so much a realization but a possibility.

It’s the only reason you get up, and peel your dress off of your sticky body, and let the cold water of the shower chill you. Your lungs open up, the buzzing of your nerves quieting under the stream.

Joel hears the quiet patter of your bare feet on the hardwood before he sees you. The beating of his heart matches the measured pace of your steps, both quickening as the distance between you closes.

He glances sideways, pulse hammering when you finally enter his line of vision. The wet ropes of your hair cling to your neck, dripping down the fabric of your threadbare t-shirt. There’s something so cozy about it, a significant intimacy that comes with knowing you’re just out of the shower.

It’s vulnerable in a way that he’s all too cognizant of.

“Hey.”

Your voice is sweet, if not apprehensive. Testing the waters. You gently pop a hip into the lip of the kitchen counter, next to the full, still-steaming coffee pot. Joel is situated at the stove, pan of something resembling food in front of him, his own mug clutched in his left hand.

“How ya feelin’, champ?” There’s a crooked smile on his face, one that disappears behind the curve of his mug as he brings it to his mouth.

You laugh, a gentle sigh of a laugh — a laugh that invigorates his blood more than the coffee does.

“I’m actually okay. Y’know, considering.” You tip your head to the side, watching as he stirs whatever it is in the pan. A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, seeing him cook. It’s endearing, being allowed a peek into his life.

The way his cheeks round out tell you that he’s still got the same small smile painted on his face, despite the way it’s hidden.

“Mind if I have some?” You gesture with a flick of your chin to his coffee, clocking the way his face immediately falls, eyes narrowing in your direction.

“Y’already know the answer t’that.”

Gaze darting back to the stove, he’s quick to set his coffee to the side, muttering a curse under his breath as he lowers the flame burning under the pan. You twist your body to grab a mug from the cupboard and fill it with the blazing hot liquid, crossing the kitchen to settle at the table.

The subsequent silence is companionable, and you let the coffee rouse the parts of your brain that haven’t quite caught up with you, yet. You watch the strong muscles of Joel’s back, rippling and pulling under his shirt, as he extends his arm to pull a plate down from a different cupboard.

It’s mesmerizing, the agile way he moves, so it catches you off guard when he slides the plate and a fork in front of you, steam rolling off the scrambled eggs and slices of toast.

You hadn’t even noticed him using the toaster.

“Oh,” you squeak, blinking away the surprise you know is written all over your face. “You shouldn’t h-”

“Wanted to.” It’s kind, but matter-of-fact. A stern statement to dissuade you from arguing back.

As he lowers himself into the chair across from you, tossing his own full plate onto the table, you can’t help but remember his hands on your jaw the last time the two of you had been here together.

Together.

He immediately digs into his food, shoveling it into his mouth and slurping his coffee. You drop your gaze to the plate in front of you, picking up the fork and gingerly shuffling the contents of it around.

Something close to guilt needles at your stomach, and all too suddenly the words are hot on your tongue.

“I lied to you last night.”

Joel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up at you — just keeps chewing and swallowing.

“Yeah?” Another bite, more chewing, swallowing again.

“I…I kissed someone. At the club.”

The confession hangs between you, though he remains as taciturn as you’ve ever seen him. It’s only when he draws his mug up to his mouth that he even meets your eyes, subtle amusement dancing in the liquid amber of them.

It’s candy Pop Rocks compared to what would have been Tommy’s dynamite.

Joel hasn’t stilled at all, continuing to drink his coffee and scoop his eggs on top of his toast.

“You…asked if I met anyone. And I lied to you.”

Toast halfway to his mouth, the small pile of eggs perched atop it dangerously close to slipping off, he pauses. His brows pull together in a question that you can’t quite read. An epiphany that you’re not privy to.

Lowering his arm, your eyes follow the eggs as they fall to his plate with a muted plop.

“Y’don’t owe me anythin’, Peach.”

Liar.

“But I-”

He shakes his head, and whatever it was that you wanted to say dies in your throat. “Y’had a reason to not tell me. And that reason belongs to you and you alone.”

You scrunch your brows together, an unfamiliar feeling building in your chest. He watches as it happens, his own chest pulling tight at the recognition of your uncertainty, of the doubt in your eyes. He’s quick to lean over the table, over the momentarily forgotten plates of food, to soothe your skin with a knowing drag of his thumb. The fork in your hand falls, clattering against the ceramic.

“Hey. Soften up, darlin’. Just don’t want you to think y’have t’tell me anythin’ y’don’t want to.” His voice is low, eyes intently searching yours. “Doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you’re tellin’ me.”

There’s something so tender about the way he tells you this, the way he touches you, that you’re sure you’ll spontaneously combust. Nothing has ever belonged to you — and only you — before. Not even your thoughts have ever been your own, the space reserved and velvet-roped for the ghosts of your shortcomings.

And you know that though Joel doesn’t quite grasp the gravity of what he’s saying, the words are bubblegum and champagne to you. Exactly, perfectly right.

“You’re good. It’s okay.” He gently brushes a still-damp tangle of your hair back over your ear, and you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is pounding. “Y’don’t always have to be so…hard on yourself.”

You’re good.

“Say it, Peach.”

Like he can read your mind. Like he can reach directly inside you, all those ties he’d undone, to extract the most vulnerable parts. Soften them. Shield them. Nurture them.

As though he can taste the desperation surging off your skin.

“I’m good.” Your own voice is so small, you hardly recognize it. The words taste bitter, grapefruit with the sugar dusted off. Unearned.

“You’re good, sweetheart,” he repeats, the rough tips of his fingers sliding along your jaw as he pulls his hand back, dropping it to retrieve his abandoned toast. “Now please eat. It’ll help.”

Hesitantly picking up your fork again, you mirror him — biting and chewing thoughtfully, humming as the toast settles in your stomach. Sipping your coffee. It’s almost easy.

Joel makes it easy.

Every now and again he flicks his eyes up to watch you, to make sure you’re actually eating, silently pleased as the amount on your plate slowly diminishes. He finishes before you do, shoving his plate forward and tipping back in his chair, fingers wrapping around his mug comfortably.

Moving the last bits of egg around the perimeter of your plate, you take the opening as Joel’s shoulders relax against the slatted wood.

“I, um, didn’t think you’d be…like this.”

It catches him off guard, a warm laugh betraying his usual stoicism. The levity of it curls around your limbs, climbs the length of your spine. “Oh yeah? ‘N what’d you think I’d be like?”

Avoidant. Brooding. Grumpy.

“Much less…pleasant?” You crinkle your nose at the word, not satisfied with it. “Or, like, you’re kind of…nice?”

This time he laughs out loud, angling his head back and opening his mouth wide. The sound of it lights you up from the inside, sparkly and hot.

“I mean…oh my god, that’s so stupid. I just mean…like, I think being here…will be good for me.”

You’re babbling now, skirting around the fact that you think being around him will be good for you. But something deep in your stomach tells you that he already knows. That he’s always known.

Dropping his head to his chest, you think you see a light sprinkle of pink break out across his tanned cheeks and nose. He clears his throat, mouth obscured by his coffee mug.

“I’m nice t’you, sweetheart.”

The remainder of the day is spent zeroed in on your work laptop, still at the kitchen table, legs stretched across the chair Joel had occupied that morning.

He had slipped out after breakfast to run errands — a few work related, a few personal — asking if you’d wanted to come. The invitation had made your heart swell, the feeling of being wanted stirring in your veins. It was hard to resist, the promise of more time with him so incredibly alluring, but you’d declined, work hanging over your head like a raincloud.

“It’s Saturday, Peach,” he’d murmured, eyeing you as you’d flipped open the slender screen of the device.

“Good thing I don’t have any plans, then,” you’d replied, clicking the trackpad to open your multiple files — budgets and spreadsheets and invoices stacking one on top of the other — thoughts turning to how much you’d rather be climbing into Joel’s truck beside him.

But he’d backed off, dropping a quick squeeze to your shoulder before leaving.

It’s not until he’d been gone for some time that it strikes you how different the interaction was with Joel than it ever had been with Tommy — no exasperation, no stomping out of the house, no argument. And you can’t compare them, you know, because he’s not Tommy, and he’s not your boyfriend —but it’s stable, sustainable. A quiet admission of knowing what you need. Of some kind of trust passing between the two of you.

A disruptive ringing snaps you back to reality, your fingers still resting on the keyboard of the laptop. The screen has gone black, an indication of the amount of time passed.

With a slight shake of your head, your eyes track to the smaller screen, your sister’s name and picture lit up. Uneasiness rolls through you, as it always does when she calls.

“Hey, Kit.” You drop your head back onto the curved wood of the chair, exhaling shallowly through your nose.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

You can hear the shrieking of children in the background, the clatter of pots and pans and running water.

“Are you doing the dishes?” It’s in your best interest to sidestep the question, her giving you the perfect opportunity to do so.

“I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

The fingers of your other hand find the bridge of your nose, squeezing gently.

“I’ve been…busy. Work has been a lot.”

Liar sits just below your diaphragm, pendulous and dark.

“And how has living with Joel been?”

You should have known that she’d cut straight to the point. Like she always does.

“It’s fine, Kit. It’s been going really well, actually.” You can’t help but snap, the tranquil feeling of Joel’s confidence in you waning into annoyance at being treated like a child by your sister.

Beyond that, a significant part of you is determined to protect the strange, placid thing between you and Joel, whatever it is. Whatever it isn’t.

Kit sighs, but it’s soft. “I’m just calling to say hey. We haven’t talked in so long.”

“You’re calling to check up on me.”

“Is there something so wrong with that? I’m your sister.”

“Not my mother.”

You regret the words as soon as they pass your lips. You can feel her hurt seeping through the phone, from thousands of miles away. It cuts to your core.

“Kit, I didn’t-”

“You’re right. I’m not your mom. But you could at least be fucking kind to me, because I am all you’ve got.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Kit rarely — if ever — curses, and it hits you like a punch in the stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears immediately swimming in your line of vision. “You just, remind me of her so much sometimes, and…and I…”

“Have a lot of unresolved bullshit with her.”

“Yeah.”

She’s never said the words aloud before; it’s a subject the two of you had always avoided into adulthood. The crevasse between you, wide and gaping. Hearing her say it, acknowledge it, feels like sucking fresh air into your lungs after holding your breath underwater for too long.

“Daniel! Stop hitting your sister!” She suddenly calls out, and the moment crashes down at your feet.

“Look, um, I’m working. Let’s talk later this week, okay?” You sniffle, salty tears threatening to spill over. “Love you.”

You click to end the call before she can protest.

Rubbing your hands down your face, you wish you hadn’t even answered. Talking about her is never easy, but talking about her with Kit is something you’d danced around for years.

The phone begins to vibrate again, and you almost swipe to ignore it, assuming it’s Kit angrily calling back. But it’s Joel’s name splashed across the screen, and your heart thrums with familiarity. With relief.

“Hey, darlin’.” He says when you answer, the warm timbre of his voice washing everything else out of your head — Tommy and Kit and work included. “I’m thinkin’ about orderin’ pizza, that sound okay t’you?”

“Please, that sounds great.” And it does. Easy. Low maintenance. Comfortable. Exactly what you need. “But only if we can have beers, too.”

He chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “Read my mind, Peach.”

“You’re in the same exact place you were when I left,” Joel exclaims as he walks through the door, a rack of beer on his hip.

“Money never sleeps,” you reply, closing the laptop with finality and stifling a yawn.

“Maybe not, but you need to.”

“Mmm, pizza and beer first,” you hum, pushing yourself up from the table and joining him at the counter, his hands already tearing at the cardboard.

“Anythin’ excitin’ happen while I was out?” He holds a bottle out to you, fingers grazing yours as you take it. A thrill shoots down your spine, settling between your legs.

You lean back against the sink, drawing in a deep breath before tipping the beer back into your mouth. “Nothing I’d love to revisit at this moment.”

The only thing you’d love in this moment is to bask in Joel’s magic — let it wash over you, head to toe. Erase the terrible things you’d said to Kit. Be good again.

He quirks a brow at you, but doesn’t press. Instead, he holds his phone out in front of him, a pizza app pulled up. You shake your head, pushing it away.

“I will eat literally whatever you order.”

Shrugging, he drops his gaze to the screen, thumb flicking up to scroll through the menu slowly. “Hope y’actually mean that. Might try to order a gross pizza just to call y’on your bluff.”

45 minutes later, you’re both on the couch, beer and pizza in hand, an old movie playing in the background. One of your favorites — a sprawling mansion on the English coast, a haunted marriage, the shadow of a mysterious ex-wife, Rebecca. One of Hitchcock’s best, in your opinion.

Joel is happy to oblige, love a good black ‘n white slipping out of his otherwise full mouth.

As much as you love the film, you’re preoccupied with the way the evening sun casts the room in a golden glow, and how it seems to accentuate Joel’s innate softness. A softness you feel privileged to see, to have lavished on you. You want to drown in it — let his kindness corrupt you, let him untangle you.

Selfish fizzes at your fingertips, creeps up the span of your arms.

You shift your focus to the ropey muscles and tendons of Joel’s neck, gaze climbing up his strong jaw, covered in a smattering of salt and pepper scruff, to the long line of his aquiline nose. He balances his half-empty beer bottle on his knee, fingers wrapped around the neck of it.

And if you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, you don’t want to think about anything else. You don’t want to consider what it all means, yet. You want to just exist, here, with him. Watching the way he watches the movie, the way he gulps his beer down.

Hidden from the rest of the world.

Tucking your legs up underneath your body, you let your head loll on the cushion of the couch. You’d hide forever, if you could.

You stretch your arms above you, a sleepy, dopey grin splayed across your mouth — secure glowing fluorescent at the apex of your thighs. The movem ent draws his attention, as though he’d heard your pulse cry his name.

“Tired?” His voice thick, eyes tracing the soft shape of your arms as they reach skyward.

“Mhm. But I wanna finish the movie.”

A coy, sideways smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and he leans forward to place his pizza plate on the coffee table.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he drawls lowly, sloping back to slide his hand across your shoulders and wrap his fingers gently around your bicep to tug you closer. Turning, you meet him with wide eyes, glittering in the dark, your heart a trembling magic eight ball — are you sure this is okay?

And without words, he lets you know that it is. Lets you know that he wants you to.

Guided by his large open palm, you carefully curl into his side, dropping your head to his lap. You pull your legs up to your chest, both hands nestling narrowly under his thigh. His hand hovers over the soft curve of your hip, a barely-there touch that makes you ache.

You draw in a deliberate breath, holding it deep until he finally lets his hand drop to the exposed flesh between the band of your shorts and raised hem of your t-shirt.

A million sparks of light burst over your skin, fireworks exploding across the creamy silk of it. Your eyes flutter closed, hyper-aware of every tense of his fingers. The movie continues to play, but the whole world has fluctuated to both start and end in the exact place that he touches you.

As though there is no before this moment in time, only after.

Inevitable.

His hand slides up the length of your body, over the notches of your ribs, and higher still so that his fingers skim the delicate line of your neck. You can feel him relax further into the cushions of the couch, broad body molding to its shape, and you wonder if he’s concentrating on you as hard as you are on him.

In an answer to your unspoken question, he begins to tenderly stroke the spread of your hair, fanned down your shoulders and pooled in his lap.

“Y’know,” he mumbles, eyes still cast to the television, “we had breakfast and dinner together today.”

“We did,” you agree, a slight simper at your lips.

“‘N the world didn’t end, did it, Peach?” He angles his chin down to look at you at the same time you tilt your head to look up at him. He hasn’t stopped caressing the silky locks of your hair, and when you meet his eyes, he grasps a fistful of it gently. The pleasurepain of it makes your blood hot.

“No,” you whisper, “it didn’t.”

He leans closer by just a fraction, and you can’t help but be entranced by the shape of his mouth as his plush lips form the words that cross them.

“Want it to be like that everyday.”

He’s looking at you like there’s a peephole into your soul — a pinpoint view of the feral thing inside of you, on display for him. He’s looking at you like it excites him.

“Me too, Joel,” you breathe, the possibility a white static between you.

Not a single thing outside of the two of you exists in this moment. He prefers it that way, having you all to himself.

“Like you bein’ here, sweetheart.” There’s not a trace of hesitancy in his voice, but he says it like it’s a secret. “Like you workin’ at my kitchen table, and havin’ pizza and beer, and watchin’ old movies with you. Like wakin’ up knowin’ you’re here.”

He moves to trace the outline of your bottom lip with his thumb, and you’re suddenly looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, breathing stilted.

Closing the distance between you, he noses along the soft cut of your jaw, burying his face in your hair. He wants to drink down the way you gasp when he does; the sound burned into his brain, knowing it will come back to him when he’s stroking himself off later.

The elastic compulsion of his need so prominent, so inescapable, that the next words out of his mouth surprise even him.

“Go to sleep, Peach.” His mouth is on your ear, goosebumps rising in the wake of his breath over your skin. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

Taking one last deep breath of you in, he pulls back, resuming running his hand up and down the hills and valleys of your body.

The most that he’ll allow himself.

“I said some fucked up things to Kit today. She called while you were gone.”

The words fall out of your mouth, buried shame and anger spilling out with them. A confession.

Joel hums, hand still roaming, almost absentmindedly. It’s reassuring, a reminder of his words — you’re good.

“Siblings are…hard,” he suggests, emphasizing his point with a quick press of his fingers into your hip. “They get your best ‘n your worst, and don’t have a choice. It’s…safe to put the hard things on ‘em.”

“And bein’ the older one is…is…” he continues, pausing to clear his throat, voice tinged with something you can’t name, “a lot of responsibility. ‘N y’always wanna do right by them, y’know? Protect ‘em. But sometimes y’can’t. Hafta let ‘em figure it out on their own. Fuck up on their own.”

The silence that hangs in the air is charged with unsaid words. Unasked questions. Realities and consequences that neither of you are ready to explore the depths of. Guilt.

“Do you think I’m fucking up?”

“No, sweetheart. But I can’t say the same for other people.”

He squeezes your side again, letting his fingers linger just a touch longer than he had before. Dizziness snakes up your vertebrae, cloudy and disorienting. Desire. Want.

It’s a torrid kind of want, one that burrows under your skin and makes itself known. You think Joel can feel it, too, the way his touch roves over you — can feel it burn ing hot at the intersection of your skin and his.

But your brain pulls your body back, settles it to a low simmer. Reminds you to think instead of act.

And eventually, you fall asleep doing exactly that.

When you wake up later, sleep-drunk and unsure of the time, a too-bright infomercial in place of the movie, Joel is still there, just like he’d promised, head dropped to the flat of the couch, softly snoring. Chest steadily rising and falling, fingers curled into your flesh, firmly clasped just below your ribcage.

You don’t move an inch, afraid to wake him, and fall back asleep to the sound of his breathing.

A week passes. Then two weeks. And before you know it, summer winds into autumn, and the two of you slip into an easy routine — somewhat delicate, somewhat hesitant, but comfortable. And you feel silly, now, considering how naturally effortless it is. As though it could have always been this way.

And truly, that’s the hardest part to navigate. Drawing the line between what is, and what you want it to be.

Neither of you has brought up that night, at least to one another. But after you’ve gone to bed each night, you replay it in your mind, the feeling of his hands on you the image at the forefront of it; his name a whimper on your lips as your own fingers crawl beneath your panties.

Each night, wishing they were his.

It’s far too easy to overthink, second guess, dissect the way Joel’s fingers brush yours as you hand him his coffee, or the way his lips quirk up while he watches you struggle to assemble a bookshelf.

“Peach, please let me help. Promise it’ll be so much faster.”

Your indignant scowl, arms twisted over your chest in defiance. His soft laugh, deft hands picking up where yours had left off, piecing the cheap wood together without a hitch. Sitting back on his haunches, massive fingers tugging at your forearms to untangle them. The sticky warmth in his eyes when you let him.

“See? Coulda just asked me.”

Ensuring a soft landing, in every sense of the word.

The routine you’ve created is grounding, satisfying. Something to focus on aside from your intensely confusing feelings about Joel, something that pushes everything else to the back of your mind. Something to lose yourself in.

It’s not much — no caviar and lingerie and nightcaps, but it’s yours. An ardent, fulfilling thing that makes you feel steady on your feet. That makes the sharp, prodding fingers of your thoughts dissolve into a gleaming mist. Even the edges of the words in your head, the angry curvatures of your mother’s voice, bleed into nothing in the safety net of him.

The magic of it lies in its simplicity: taking turns cooking, laundry on Sundays, greetings with warm smiles even when you have to work late or spend entire evenings parked in front of your laptop. Some evenings he’ll go to the local dive with friends, some nights you’ll bury yourself in a book in your bed. The divine act of surviving.

The foundation of something, being constructed slowly from the ground up. Methodically. Each brick a meaningful gesture, word, moment.

You, being rebuilt from the ground up, at the skilled hands of Joel Miller.

A way back to yourself.

And it’s not like you don’t catch him watching you while you work, or let him drag your legs over his lap while your laptop perches precariously on your thighs on the couch. His hands are on you in some way or another more often than not, and you like it. You want it.

If only it were that easy.

If only it could be so uncomplicated — some semblance of normal.

But it’s not. And you know it never will be. So you take what you can get — reveling in the hours spent watching movies together, the errands run together, the shared jokes and spilled chinese takeout. Your own brand of normal.

And he tells you, often, how much he prefers this kind of normal — the one with you in it.

“You ‘n me, Peach, remember?”

The line a continuous, hazy blur — what is, and what you want it to be.

“Hi babe! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, so we should go out tonight? Thoughts? No, wait — don’t think about it, we should just driiiink about it! Love you!”

Ava’s chocolate-box trill fills the cabin of your car. Rain drizzles lazily down the windows as you click to replay the voicemail, the familiarity of her elongated words and upward inflection making your heart ache. It’s not the first time she’s invited you out since what you’ve come to refer to as the incident, but it’s the first time you’ve felt genuine remorse at turning her down.

But you will do so without hesitating, the grocery bags in the trunk of your car being the only thing on your agenda for the dreary Friday evening.

Typing out a quick text to Ava (sorry babe! raincheck!), your thumb lingers over the thread just below hers. Clicking it open again, the words on the screen send a languid fire rolling through your veins.

You: I’m cooking tonight

Joel Miller: whatever you want, peach

Whatever you want.

The possibility licks hot at every inch of you.

The kitchen has become your favorite place in the house. The heart of it, the life of it. You’ve memorized every nook and cranny, each knot and split of the woodwork. The contents of all drawers and cabinets, the haphazard organization of it all.

You move around the room fluidly, exuding a sense of belonging that’s not lost on Joel. Body propped against the doorframe, he watches as you pour and stir and salt — as comfortable, as confident, as he’s ever seen you.

A bittersweet conception stirs in him, the edges of it coming into soft-focus. Before it can fully form on the screen of his mind, grow roots in the cavern of his heart, he clears his throat to get your attention.

“Peach.”

“Hmm?” You twist just enough to catch his gaze, clocking the expectant look in his eyes. Immediately laying the spoon in your hand on the counter, you face your entire body to his, matching the open expression.

“Close your eyes.”

You obey without question, squeezing them shut and unfolding your hands in front of you like a prayer. There’s the sound of his feet and a quick hiss as Joel opens and closes the refrigerator, placing something cold and dewy in your open palms. Your fingers automatically close around the curves of it.

A wine bottle.

Dragging your bottom lip with your teeth, the corners of your mouth quirk up. Your lashes flutter open, gaze sweeping over the intricate label — a golden goddess, surrounded by ribbons of different shades of pink and blue, dotted with tiny golden star details. The shiny, beveled type spells out Prophecy just below the image.

“This is my favorite.” There’s awe in your voice. Reverence. It shines in your irises as you look up at Joel, who is posted up against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Was on sale.”

He breaks into a smirk, cheeks flushing as your sweet laugh fills the space between the two of you.

“Either way,” you respond, humor bleeding into the edges of your voice, eyes rolling fondly, “mind opening it up while I finish everything else?”

Raising his hand to retrieve the bottle, he’s quick to wrap his fingers around the arches of yours. He tugs once, firmly, pulling both you and the bottle close to his chest.

It rattles the air in your lungs, the tiniest oh fanning the base of his throat. He dips his head to meet your gaze, breath punching warm across the bridge of your nose and cheekbones. It’s dizzying, the closeness.

“How’d you know?”

You’re asking about the wine. There’s two inches of space separating you, and you’re asking about the wine.

He leans down further, the slope of his nose pulling across your cheek to graze the shell of your ear. His breathing is deep, measured, in control.

“You brought’t over for dinner once. Said the same thing — was your favorite. I just remembered, that’s all.” He says it casually, as if discussing the weather. As if knowing your favorite wine is the most natural thing in the world to him. “Wanted to get you somethin’ special.”

Whatever you want, Peach.

Your fingers draw swirls against the bottle, the heat from his leeching overtop of them. His grip tightens, words ringing in your ears. You can smell his shampoo, his cologne, him. The spicy warmth of it is mesmerizing — it infiltrates your senses, knocks you off balance.

The rest of the world feels a million miles away.

“Shit!” you hiss suddenly, wrenching your hands away and spinning to remove the saucepan from the flame. “I don’t want it to scorch.”

Joel hums amusedly, hands scrambling so the bottle doesn’t slip and shatter. You then hear him begin to drag open and slam closed multiple drawers, the clang and clatter of various utensils nearly drowning out the swearing under his breath.

“Where’s the damn—”

“Here.” Using your hand not balancing the saucepan, you stretch to retrieve the corkscrew buried in the drawer closest to you, watching through your lashes as he meets your extended grasp to take it.

His gaze lingers on you a split second, corners of his mouth downturned, brows drawn low. Analyzing. Memorizing. It doesn’t last long, him turning on his heel to retreat to the kitchen table.

Something about the way he does it pulls at you, a tangle that you can’t quite find the end of. It’s kindling to the fire smoldering low in your belly, the one you’re desperate to keep at bay — the one that roars back to life as Joel carefully pours your favorite wine into two plastic solo cups.

You can’t help but watch, the repetitive glug glug glug of the liquid into the cup matching the beat of the nearly-boiling blood in your veins. A sheepish smile overtakes his stoic facade, his eyes meeting yours across the room.

“Don’t have any wine glasses.” He nods to the plastic cups, a gentle laugh at the very edge of his words.

“Wouldn’t want one anyway,” you reply, mirroring the way his cheeks round out in a grin.

You’re just spooning the pasta and sauce onto plates when he materializes at your elbow, making a grab for both dishes.

“Uh! I don’t think so!” You click your tongue against your teeth teasingly, blocking his body with yours. “You go sit. I’ll bring them over.”

“You cooked,” he protests, smooth palm grazing your ribs in another attempt to bypass you.

“So you can clean, if you’re worried about it.” Flashing another brilliant sideways grin at him, you pick up a plate in each hand and nudge him backwards with your hip.

“Yes ma’am.” It’s a capitulation, a willingness to step back and let you lead him.

The notion strikes hot against you, nestles in the aching space between your thighs. It scales your stomach, gains speed in the span of your arms, makes your fingers tremble as you set the plates on the table.

“Cheers,” you mumble, scrabbling to pick up the flimsy cup, tipping it just so in his direction before taking a sizable gulp.

As he parallels your action in bringing the wine to his mouth, you wonder if there will ever be a time when he doesn’t trigger the roiling heat in your veins.

Then again, you think, maybe you want him to stoke that in you — always.

Fingers delicate around the body of your just-refilled red solo, you make your way from the kitchen to the couch, where Joel is slouched back, legs parted. It’s impossible not to drag your eyes across the muscled heft of his thighs, to not linger on the way his jeans stretch to accommodate him. His heavy hands rest on the bulk of them, fingers spread languidly.

While you watch him, he’s watching you. You can tell by the way his digits flex and relax, callused pads pulling patterned lines over denim. Keeping his composure, despite the way the wine ignites him. Despite the way you ignite him.

The lights in the room are low, the comforting drum of fat raindrops on the glass panes of the window constant. Your limbs feel loose, a combination of Joel and the wine. There’s a record on low in the background, but you don’t know who. You’d settled on the cushions while he’d taken the shiny disc out of the dust jacket gently, dropped the needle softly, with the most care you’d ever seen, and let the smooth rhythm of it fill the room.

“You gonna cook like that more often?” It’s casual, airy. As if the walls of the room aren’t closing in on the two of you, pushing you nearer and nearer to him.

Inescapable.

You giggle — you fucking giggle — stepping over him to curl back into your place on the couch.

“If you’ll let me.”

He scoffs, turning his body to face you. “Let you?”

You smile dreamily, looking up at him through your lashes. He’s close enough that you can climb over him, bracket his thighs with yours, take his hands and drag them up the length of your body.

There’s no voice in the back of your head telling you not to, for once. No whispers admonishing you, reminding you that you’re wicked and worthless and unlovable.

So when he repeats himself, asking “let you?” in a thick voice, you do.

Your body moves before your brain has time to react — you throw one leg over his lap, hands grasping for purchase on the back of the couch for balance, situating your thighs on the outside of his. It’s a snug fit, one that opens your hips wide, the stinging stretch of it pushing you forward. You relax your core over his, the zipper of his jeans biting into the ice-cream flesh of your inner thigh.

And when your brain finally does catch up, all you can feel are his big palms cupped around the backs of your thighs, kneading the exposed flesh there. His fingertips barely graze beneath the hems of your sleep shorts, and you’re all too-aware of how close they are to your center.

There’s a satisfied hum on his lips, a knowing growl in his throat. A silent admission of how long he’s waited for you. A confession of a different kind of hunger, a kind with legs and buoyancy.

His eyes burn into yours — no traces of hesitancy, surprise, guilt woven into the golden gleam of them.

Twin masks slipping at the same time. Resolve stretched to snapping, satisfaction within tasting distance as you grind down into him — just once, desperation sliding down your spine.

“You can have whatever you want, Peach.” His voice is low, a wanton whisper that punches somewhere near your throat.

Those words again.

Whatever you want.

You’re looking down at him, his irises shining with earnestness, and you can’t help but raise your hand from the couch to card through his thick waves. But he catches your wrist before you can, bringing it down to the heat of his mouth to press his lips to your open palm without breaking his searing gaze.

You moan. At least, you think you do, though it’s a quiet, broken thing. A whine. A plea.

His thumb swipes back and forth over your wrist, your hand small in his grip. You watch through hooded eyes as he lowers it to the crotch of his jeans, your breath catching in the cavern of your chest as you feel him for the first time.

It’s somewhat surreal — the thickness of his hard cock in your palm, separated only by the material of his pants. Every fantasy you’ve harbored about him unwrapped at the tips of your fingers, his hand pressing yours into him, unforgiving and firm.

His other hand swallows the curve of your thigh, chases up your side to grasp at your hip, dragging your cunt over him. He drops his head back, repeating the action, the ropes of muscle in his neck pulled taut as he bites back a groan.

Your head is swimming — Joel’s heady scent and bruising touch combined with the wine makes everything feel soft-focus and shimmery, like a dream. You cant your hips again, focusing on the way his jaw ticks when you do, lost in watching the way his body responds to yours.

The reality of it sits heavy between the place his skin meets yours — breaths mingling as a cry of finally, finally, finally. It consumes you both in such a way that neither of you hear a key turning in the lock, the door slamming open, or heavy boots in the entryway.

It’s not until he speaks that both you and Joel snap your heads in his direction, chests heaving, hands climbing. Caught.

“Guess it’s true, huh? Y’really are enjoyin’ my sloppy seconds.”

[leclerced]

Sending Lando to buy pads. And his ADHD brain ofc doesn’t register what type of them his girl wants so decides that he’ll go for the typical rom-com move and buy lots of them so he comes back with like 30 packs of pads and she just stares at him defeated

(I think Oscar would know what his girl likes and always have it him. Always restocks for her)

i saw a video the other day and i dont wanna find it but its SO lando. gf asked bf to buy her pads with wings and he brought back pads and wings. like hot wings. that’s him u cannot tell me otherwise.

lando’s gf asks him to buy her pads with wings, so he buys pads and wings in various flavors bc she didn’t specify which. he’s really confused when she tells him he got the wrong ones, and that she didn’t want wings. she has to pull up a photo and explain to him what she wanted. there’s like 36 wings and at least a total of 300 pads on the counter. he bought a lot of panty liners and a few boxes of pads without wings. he goes back and buys the correct ones bc he feels so bad and donates the wrong ones to a women’s shelter after gf suggests it bc she won’t use them.

oscar keeps pads and tampons under his bathroom sink even when he’s single and it shocks every woman who goes over. he’s been accused of having a girlfriend before because why else would a grown man living on his own have those in his bathroom? but he’s just like, “well, i have sisters n a mom who visit, so yeah, you’re not the only woman in my life. only romantic one, yes, but not the only one.” its so humbling for her bc she really thought the worst of him. he even learns which ones his girl prefers and keeps them stocked, and even has a stash of sweets and such for her. unconsciously tracks his girls period and restocks the bathroom and snack stash before each one.

[i-write-sin-not-tragedy]

Do you have any headcanons for radiohuskerdust dynamic?

Im so sorry this took so long to reply to i literally let out a screech of joy when i got it and wanted to wait till i was home for the day so i could properly reply LOL

GOD YES I HAVE SOME♡ I HAVE MANY EEE

Overall i view Alastors role here as some flavor of queer platonic— he has the potential to be a caring partner but doesn't care much for romance specifically (yes my aromantic ass is projecting a lil shhhh)

My personal favorite take for them in canon is that eventually over the course of Alastors redemption he does eventually let Husk go— i have. Many feelings on that whole situation too but this is gonna be long already so SJDKEKDK just know i see them eventually getting to a point where they accept that neither of them are perfect and can let things go. Alastor considers Husk a very dear friend, and does in fact hold a high amount of respect for him, and Husk feels the same (although hes a little more Tsundere about it sksksksk)

Angel is very much so the glue that holds this ot3 together LOL

Like i think both Husk and Alastor fall for him first and through Angel find a way to actually communicate over the strange mix of feelings they've had with each other. Angels good at reading other people, he can tell they have *something* going on and isn't afraid to point it out.

I constantly see people making Angel hate Alastor but sorry no i do not agree at all.

Despite the initial impressions of each other, Alastor and Angel would be FANTASTIC friends. Once Alastor understands that Angels humor is just that, humor, hes not actually expecting anything from Al, he starts meeting Angel halfway on his jokes, adding onto them. Once they start to realize they can bounce off each other and actually bond oh god its OVER.

Alastor finds Angel actually very charming to be around, and Angel realizes Alastor isn't a prude or anything he just has some firm walls up.

God they'd be INSUFFERABLE together

You know that post thats like "i ship this ship but like specifically as a comedy duo" yeah thats radiodust in my heart LOL

They'd be the bane of Husks existence together.

Also Alastor is capable of being a huge gentleman and i can see him treating Angel to fancy dinners and "Dates". Alastor has no care for romance but he knows how to treat someone well and Angel basks in the attention.

They'd just VIBE so well!! Maybe its bc i spent years watching the hunniecast streams but god i think Radiodust make such a fun duo. If they put their heads together they can be a menace to society.

Alastor also gives off cheek/hand kiss vibes. He would do that shit and Angel is a sucker for it (both Husk and Alastor would treat him so well okay spider boy deserves it)

Husk and Angel have the most "Romantic" dynamic of the three ofc, and Alastor is happy to spend their date nights off doing his own thing. Huskerdusts dynamic is pretty much exactly as canon— i don't have many notes to add to it i Genuinely love how canon is handling them so far.

I won't dive off into nsfw here kwkfkwkd but i DO have thoughts on how that would work in this lineup.

I will say overall i see Angel as hypersexual, Husk as Demi, and Alastor as a sex neutral-Ace.

Like he just doesn't GET it but he can find some compromises if one of his partners askes.

[clowningaroundmars]

prowlerbyte hcs

ok..... yall got me. you did. i ship prowlerbyte now 😅 and i'd like to throw out some Thoughts about them bc damnit if this ship doesn't have some Flavor to it that i'd like to share with you all 🤌

both margo and miles g here are from earth 42 tho bc i think miles g has been thru Enough and he deserves someone in his corner in his own universe, besides his family members

LOTS of words under the cut ↓

♡ weirdgirl nerd x edgyboy nerd 100%… you just KNOW IT. miles is absolutely a geek either for comics or anime and he only opens up to his closest friends to let them see that side of him, no one else. margo brings that side out of him often when they meet up (but miles is still p reserved if anyone else is with them)

♡ margo is a fantastic singer and hums mind-blowing runs as easily as she breathes and miles absolutely loves it. when she's depressed, she sings a lot less so whenever she DOES sing that's how he knows she's in a good mood. he loves having her over bc he gets to pull out uncle aaron's old secondhand record player and place rnb and 90's hiphop vinyls on it, playing soulful music that she hums to as they parallel-play or do homework together

♡ when margo first convinced miles to let her do his hair, he was hella worried that his mom would disapprove and chastise him once she saw but she was surprisingly very supportive of it, although a bit hesitant. eventually she was grateful she didnt have to braid her son's hair as often (being a single parent is exhausting enough lol)

♡ rio42 ofc had the same reaction to margo as rio1610 when she 1st met gwen, but when margo eventually started showing up more and more to hang out with the morales fam (and aaron too lol), she grew on rio. they both keep a close eye on miles and try to keep him going towards the right path

♡ in their universe they both go to visions and even have a class together, and they are both very very academically competitive. rio doesn't need to stay on miles' ass about his grades bc margo is right there taunting him with an A+ on a test every single time

♡ they actually ACTUALLY study together in the library or in miles' room during study sessions. neither of them can afford to fall off wrt their grades and they both have big dreams they wanna achieve: margo wants to become a hardlight technician and apply for oscorp (much to miles' chagrin), and miles wants to continue his engineering and robotics career so he can provide for his whole family

♡ margo's parents constantly fighting means she is often over at miles' house more than he is at hers. it actually took her an embarrassingly long amount of time to finally invite him over because she never wanted her parents to know he even existed, let alone actually meet him at all. miles was at first kinda offended she didn't want him to meet her parents even after they got together but when he heard them arguing in the background during a call one day, he finally Understood

♡ after he found out about her crappy home life (and also secretly told rio), she was welcome to stay more often at his place. she has a blanket, a few clothes and several diff books and console games lying around in his room

♡ it honestly also took them both a ridiculously long time to finally start dating. everyone around them shipped them but they remained friends for a long time bc miles was just too closed off and scared to let anyone into his private life like that. also i hc they are both on the ace spectrum but don't realize it until later (listen i see purple characters and i HAVE to wave the ace wand on them ok 😭)

♡ margo is sometimes frustrated at miles for being so secretive and hiding his emotions behind walls, as goofy and dorky as he can be. she wishes he would just come out and be more honest about his feelings but understands that after his dad's passing, its harder for him to communicate his emotions

♡ she was the one who asked him out first, actually. he was beating around the bush way too much and so she finally put her foot down and initiated the relationship

♡ in public or with strangers they are: sunshine x sunshine protector. in private or with family n friends they are: "EXCUSE ME! miles asked for no pickles ☝️" esp since margo is the extrovert and he's the introvert.

♡ miles is actually p jealous and protective of margo and she finds that hilarious.

"i don't need any protecting, babe. i am a certified badass," margo says, flipping her box braids.

miles laughs, winding boxing wraps around his hands and standing in front of his giant punching bag. he looks over at his girlfriend sitting on a bean bag, with her adorable kitten t-shirt and fluffy sweater and grins even wider. "yeah… aight, sure thing."

margo scoffs, noticing his line of sight and looking very offended. "i may look cute and unassuming but that's exactly what i want our enemies to think! it gives me an advantage!"

miles hums, nodding. "mhm. advantage to do what, exactly?"

margo throws an empty soda can at him, which miles easily dodges as he laughs harder.

♡ it's funny, bc on the outside they seem like the stereotypical traditional straight relationship with a macho boy and sweetheart girl. but in reality they're both sarcastic snippy geeks who can both throw down in any verbal argument. and miles adores his gf, he's completely whipped for her. lets her paint his nails and everything, and if anyone tries to make fun of him for it, he doubles down and threatens to fight them over it

♡ they are THAT couple that wears lowkey matching outfits every once in a while. they actually enjoy shopping together which was a relief for both of them bc miles LIVES just to go sneaker shopping and margo absolutely loves trying new things on in the dressing room. theyre also both fashionistas in their own ways and love to accessorize. they swap accessories a lot

♡ whenever they hit up a bookstore, they are the first to head right on over to the manga section. right afterwards, they make a beeline over to the science fiction section and compare their purchases together after leaving

♡ miles is absolutely the "idc what my girl wears bc i know how to fight" boyfriend. margo doesn't go out in revealing outfits or anything, but looking a little TOO adorable in a dystopian city can sometimes paint a target on your back and so miles makes sure she's with him at all times if she wants to put her braids up into heart buns or wear a dress outside

♡ any hardware or mechanical problem that margo has, she takes it straight to miles. miles takes any software or coding issues he has to margo. if those software issues have anything to do with his prowler gear, however… he tries to isolate the issue and explain in vague terms what the problem is to avoid telling his gf he's actually the prowler

♡ no, he has not revealed to margo that he is the prowler yet. he's terrified to see her face when she inevitably finds out anyways, just KNOWING it would doom their relationship to a breakup if she ever figured it out. he does everything in his power to keep her from finding out his secret, even if it means disappointing her when he misses out on dates they set together

♡ they are both total champions at whatever multiplayer video game they get hooked onto. their personal faves are mmorpgs and battle royale games, but they are UNBELIEVABLY competitive when it comes to party games and even board games. they absolutely wipe the floor if they get to team up together

♡ tbqh they're the EXACT level of nerdy that they would consider playing video games in their separate homes as a date. "mmorpg and chill babe?" miles texts margo sometimes as a joking way to ask her on an online date. every minute they spend on voicechat as they kick digital ass together counts as quality time for sure

♡ even tho she's kind of embarrassed about it, margo has an absolutely huge plushie and figurine collection. she was worried miles would judge her SUPER HARD for her lowkey (highkey) special interest in anime figures when he 1st came over to her room, but immediately felt relieved when miles practically flew up to a rare figure she got secondhand from a japanese seller online and started ooohing and aaahing about it

♡ he actually tries to put aside whatever he earns prowling around the city for his mom first. then whatever's left over goes right to margo. he likes taking her out shopping and letting her pick out two or three things and seeing her beam like a sunrise before giving him a kiss on the cheek

♡ miles tries to hide his prowling behind the excuse of getting a job with his uncle at the family auto shop. every time he has a job to do or needs to leave suddenly, he blames it on "an emergency/new car job at the garage". margo eventually starts hating the word "garage"

♡ get either of these 2 to start talking abt their special interest, and it will be like Infodump City in there in 2 secs flat. they listen to each other's infodumping with hearts in their eyes, ESPECIALLY miles. margo goes "hey can i just rant to you about my new interest rq" and he goes "yes ma'am 🥰"

♡ everyone thinks margo is the one who cooks and cleans but hell no. miles is a neat freak whose room is the total opposite of margo's and he spends a lot of time alone at home when his mom is working a double shift and his uncle is out trying to secure another job for them. he knows how to cook like a damn chef by the time he's 16 (and also rio42 is not a toxic boymom. she will not raise any lazy needy son, her boy WILL know how to do laundry, cook meals and wash the damn dishes!)

♡ margo on the other hand tries to avoid the kitchen as often as possible and gets panic attacks when having to clean anywhere else but her own room bc of bad memories of having to sweep up broken glass after hearing her parents have violent fights that left the apartment in tatters. she never got to learn how to cook bc they never taught her, either

♡ margo is actually p traumatized from her parents' constant hateful fighting that she tries to squash down or hide behind a confident mask. but sometimes it pops up in ugly ways like when miles accidentally slams a cupboard door too loudly or a sarcastic comment sounds a little too bitter. her knee-jerk reaction is to always distance herself from miles a bit as a coping mechanism, which they had to work through

♡ miles' own grief and loss traumatized him beyond belief too ofc. after his dad's passing, his anxiety grows and he becomes more withdrawn, easily tired, and forgetful. it becomes worse after he becomes the prowler, bc dipping into the NYC underworld every so often gives p much anyone a healthy dose of paranoia. plus it takes some time away from his gf on top of all of that.

♡ if they're ever at parties or get-togethers at all, its always margo initiating conversations and meeting with people, making introductions and chatting happily. she always happens to have a quiet, chill miles-shaped shadow with her the whole time

♡ if margo was going to date miles, he told her one time, she was GOING to learn how to dance bachata and salsa. throw in a lil reggaeton in there as they get older and rio becomes a TINY bit more chill with seeing them on the dancefloor. they actually become much better at dancing together as they practice at family reunions and birthday parties

♡ miles carries around plush keychains and other trinkets that remind him of margo. he's a total sap when it comes to her, even if he tries to hide just how much he loves her sometimes. his phone's lockscreen is something dark or aesthetic like a city skyline or whatever but then when he unlocks it, margo is always his wallpaper

♡ aaron likes margo, he really does. he worries that miles doesn't have enough friends but he's happy that his nephew has a gf that is genuinely good for him. they all have a great time together whenever they do get downtime to chill together, like playing cards or helping aaron clean the garage

♡ that being said, aaron loves to pretend to sabotage their relationship as a running joke and watch miles get all riled up about it. it is hilarious to him, never gets old.

they're giving the garage connected to the autoshop its bimonthly deep clean just ahead of the yearly inspection.

it's a sunday, the only day of the week that the shop is closed for business and miles is on corner duty once they get down to the concrete floor. he's tasked with using the short hard brush attached to a long wooden handle to scrub the dust and grime out of the neglected corners. margo is scrubbing the middle with a much bigger sturdier widebroom, and aaron--being the tallest ofc-- has the duster on an extendable handle, swiping through the metal rafters and high shelves.

aaron grins as he suddenly says, "so yeah, thats why i got miles here on corner duty, usually. y'know being a little guy and all, he can do all that that someone as tall as me can't really do anymore yanno what i'm sayin? he's real good in those small spaces. that's why i'm up here, dustin' these rafters."

he notices miles struggling a bit with a mysterious stain in one corner, repeatedly attacking it before finally crouching down to shove the brush even harder against the floor with his hands.

aaron casually sneaks backwards and catches margo's attention with a smirk and a point of his chin. she swings her gaze around to her slightly frustrated boyfriend crouched down into a corner and starts giggling.

scandalized, miles springs back up with a "hey!!" and a withering glare shot their way. margo bursts out laughing.

♡ miles is the little spoon and margo is the big spoon, fight me abt it. his fave cuddling position is actually when his arms are wrapped around her and her cheek is laid against his head. otherwise, he loves his weighted blanket, and margo loves her warm mattress ♡ when they're home alone and on the couch watching movies, his back is usually to her side as he half-lays on her, using her arm as a pillow

♡ margo is def not a sports kind of girl but she tries for her bf. he and aaron are very much into basketball which she tries to keep up with just to join in on their convos. she always attends miles' boxing matches tho, ofc. she actually likes watching boxing matches in general! aaron gives her some old tapes of his own matches when he was younger and that's how margo gets into televised mma fights and ufc. she's always cheering for miles the loudest in the audience

♡ miles actually uses margo sometimes in his workouts. the proudest day of his life was when he was able to have margo laying on his back as he did pushups, and he made it to 10 before tiring himself out. she's the one holding his feet down as he does sit-ups and ab crunches. she tries to join in on his workouts too, and gets p good with the speedbag relatively quickly!

♡ miles-- being the paranoid guy he is-- happens to be the one to teach margo all of the effective self-defense moves. she thinks he's always exaggerating the danger out on the streets but she can't lie sometimes; whenever she's out past sunset with her keys in between her knuckles, she's just a TINY bit glad that miles taught her how to escape a rear chokehold

♡ margo is the soc media girl who is embarassingly online and posts about anything and everything of her life. new website coded? met a stray cat on her way over to miles'? bought a new manga? invented a cool gadget? they always show up in her followers soc media feed. she tries to get miles to pose for pics with her but he's mostly content to just be the guy behind the camera tbh. his own soc media account is pretty boring and bare since he rarely ever posts. he's got other things on his mind, errands to run

♡ the one and only time margo has ever seen miles cry was right after his dad died. the whole neighborhood got the news and she ran straight over to miles' apartment the minute she could. they climbed into his bed (the only time rio didn't reprimand them for it) and he just sobbed his heart out while they held each other for a real long time. she brought over homework and notes when he stayed home from school to recuperate

[auckie]

People often say tuna, or salmon, are good fish to offer someone who’s never had sushi before. And that’s fair, they’re red like rare beef and offer a similar fatty richness that can appeal to those who foolishly fear raw fish. Tuna can pair nicely with all the stupid shit they put in ‘California rolls’ sure. But I’ve always stood by mackerel being the best due to its incredibly subtle but rewarding taste story. If you haven’t tried it go get it and experience the elegance and feminine beauty of tale in which it will weave your tastebuds. The mackerel has much to say! It’s best on its own as sashimi and dare I say, raw and unfettered by its own oils, it almost doesn’t even taste like fish in the same way other fish do, and save the cold and slightly damp texture you almost wouldn’t know what you’re eating by flavor alone, if you’ve never had it. But ofc ppl who don’t like raw fish get scared by that and won’t try it 😔 and that’s fine. Whatever! Keep your head in the sand. Go die in a cave! I feel VERY strongly about this I have so much to say about the mackerel. I caught one with my hands in the ocean once it jumped up and hit my tits and I caught it and looked at it long and hard then let it go. It is my favorite fucking fish (to eat). I hope this post has whet your whistle. Go on, go out, and try the noble mackerel, raw! Or dried. There’s bones tho. Save grilled for last bc it really is greasy as hell. But that’s how you know it’s full of omega 3! And low in mercury.

[donuteet]

₊˚⊹ Molokhia soup ⋆*:･

-100g molokhia [i use sunbulah brand] (24kcal | 2g carbs | 2g protein | 0g fat)

-30g chick breast [shred after cooking] (49.5kcal | >1g carbs | 9g protein | 1g fat)

-2 garlic cloves [minced/chopped](9kcal | 2g carbs | 0.4g protein | >1g fat)

-0.5 cup chopped coriander (20.4kcal | 3.6g carbs | 1.2g protein | >1g fat)

-3tbsp chicken broth [broth used to cook chicken] (2.8kcal | 0.2g carbs | 0.3g carbs | 0.1g fat)

₊˚⊹overview: 105.7kcal | 7.8g carbs | 13.2g protein | 1.2g fat ⋆*:･

:･

:･

:･

my ultimate comfort food. my mom makes it every Ramadan. i did modify her recipe (she prepares it for 8-10ppl this is one portion).

calories of molokhia depend on the brand and some even add more ingredients (diff flavors) so beware. i use sunbulah brand which is available in my local market. just make sure to get frozen molokhia and not dry (molokhia is jute mallow).

i used boneless chicken breast and i cooked it in water (water should cover an inch above the chicken). i added some herbs, spices, salt n pepper to taste (always 0.5 or 1 tsp or less when it comes to spices). and add cinnamon sticks bc my parents do that  "¯\_(ツ)_/¯". add half an onion to the broth.

cook the chicken in the broth on medium heat for 15-20 mins then take chicken out and shred it with fork. let the broth sit aside (you will only need a few tablespoons).

now in a new pot on medium heat, we cook our yummy molokhia. here is when ur supposed to add a tbsp of ghee or butter (you can add light butter or extra virgin olive oil I personally don't add any oil).

i add the chopped garlic (u dont want to burn it and have it stick to the pot so add a little of water if that happens). add coriander and cook that for a minute. now its time to add the molokhia (melt it ofc) and slowly add in tablespoons of the chicken broth (I personally add 2-3 bc I love the slimey texture of the soup). add in the shredded chicken then serve.

this dish is usually eaten with rice or bread but I always had it on its own (sensory issues) i would say its filling on its own.

dont forget to drink water ♡

[daddyygh0stface]

Sorry but I rlly need a sub rn.

All thats running through my mind rn is a fantasy.

Me breaking into your house (I do it to my friends- it’s hilarious how I just end up on their couch smtimes and they wake up like wtf)— ANYWAYS- Me breaking into your house find you in bed, having a wet dream. Oh seeing you dry hump your pillow in your sleep and seeing you all hot and bothered, poor puppy can’t get yourself off in your dream.

I watch you and can’t help the heat growing in my legs. I just enjoy hearing your pathetic whimpers. But you wake up, and go to take a shower to get the sweat and precum off but you have no fucking luck getting yourself off in the shower, all you can think about is your dream, so when you get out and lay back in bed I’m hiding watching you jerk yourself off.

God you look so fucking pathetic but I’m basically dripping wet and done. So I take off my belt and my knife (its for protection usually ofc) sneak up beside you then pounce on you- putting my blade to your jugular~ Oooo- how it makes me sooo wet to see you squirm.

Just be a good boy while I help you get out of your heat, baby. After that I’ll be on my way.

Then my hand slips down into your sheets and into your sweats (or whatever u wear) and take you firmly in my hand. Your hard member hot and heavy in my hand, hugged up against your stomach. I use your precum to stroke you lube you up and get you ready. When you’re whining and getting worked up on being needy I can’t help but give your lip a little nick with my knife.

Then gather the blood in my mouth before shoving my tongue into your mouth, taste so good (may have bit my own tongue to taste blood to give the fantasy some flavor). But alas I know how much you need it, and I’m right with you so I kick off my jeans and pull my panties aside and sink on you. No warning, no words just hearing your moans wail out as I sink down on you and take all you have to offer right inside. Trust me, when I get wet, I get wet so I’m confident you’ll slip right in~

First I wanna drag you out, slow and steady movements, keep whimpering please baby bc it just gets me sooooo rialed up and I love it. I keep it slow until you basically thrust in me in desperation. That was the wrong choice though. I hold down your hips with my hands and sink down to the base and keep myself planted there. Don’t move or I’ll drag it out again.

Now lets take it from the top- as in I pull all the way to the tip then sink slowly…. Again and again and again and again until you’re a begging whimpering mess. Please please gimmie those puppy eyes bc my corrupt kink only has so many bar until I can’t help but go feral.

So I start bouncing, getting faster and faster but if you cum in the first few strokes I’ll slit your fucking throat and leave your corpse to rot not before I get myself off tho ofc. But if you’re a good little pet I’ll keep going, coming up and slamming back down over and over. Just hold it a little more baby~ Don’t cum yet.

Just a few more strokes until you’re body is losing it and you’re begging for me to let you cum and I finally let you and run you through overstim until I finally cum all over you. Gosh, you felt so good.

I slow down and catch my breath. Such a good boy. I give you sweet little kisses all over your trembling body and then leave kiss your bleeding lip (Thats my signature btw). Gather my stuff and take my leave while you’re past out.

Such a cute little sub, wish I could really make you beg and whimper.

-🫀

Idk how to even reply to this but this was so good and so well written <3

[cloudcountry]

jade leech and the market soup

HELLO I'M GOING TO TALK ABOUT ANOTHER MUSHROOM FROM THIS EVENT.

so i looked up "red brown human ear mushroom" and the wood ear mushroom appeared!!

apparently they have a texture thats similar to jelly, but they work well with soups, salads, and dumpling recipes!!

ofc, they're dried for some of those recipes, and its highly recommended that you cook them first. they taste earthy and mild and apparently do not have much of a flavor on their own, but are good for soaking up the other flavors in the soup/dish they're in. kinda reminds me of rice or tofu!!

they grow on decaying trees in humid & temperate forests.

this event needs to stop giving me weird plants & mushrooms to talk about because im not going to shut up.

and by that of course i mean that they should not stop. because mushrooms are cool and jade leech deserves the hype.

[the-sage-libriomancer]

i got tagged in an ask game by @bleachbleachbleach! pretty excited about this bc i've been wanting to participate in a tag game ever since making an account - this one is my first ^^

Three Ships: i'll go with my comfort otps: Ichihime from Bleach, Kyoru from Fruits Basket, and Gajevy from Fairy Tail.

First Ship: probably Miroku x Sango from Inuyasha! that was my first ever anime and i was far more invested in them than i was in the main leads lmao. turned out to be pretty formative bc a lot of my otps have the same "openly competent badass x surprisingly competent dumbass" dynamic lmao.

Last Song: My Mother Told Me (specifically a cover by The Hound + The Fox). it's an old Viking shanty, very melancholy with lots of bass, and it's been stuck on a loop in my brain for the past several hours.

Last Film: technically Trolls 3 bc i was babysitting yesterday, but i don't want that one to count lol. the last film i watched of my own volition was the 2017 Murder on the Orient Express, which i HIGHLY recommend!!! it's a masterpiece *chef's kiss*

Currently Reading: Before The Coffee Gets Cold by Toshikazu Kawaguchi. it's...okay-ish so far. i can see why people like it, but tbh i think the clumsy translation is holding it back. i've also been really into reincarnation/isekai stories but specifically ones where the MC does Not want to be involved in this shit and spends the entire story searching for a way out lmao.

Currently Watching: Ghosts (UK version). it's by the same group who did Horrible Histories, and i'm not exaggerating when i say every episode is laugh out loud funny - it combines typical British humor with black comedy and just a dash of historical drama, and i've had to stop myself from binging the whole thing in one go multiple times.

Currently Consuming: double-salted licorice, which is a Dutch candy that's exactly what it sounds like. it's burning my tongue and drowning out every other sense i have with its overpowering flavor, just the way i like it :D

Currently Craving: more double-salted licorice.

thanks for tagging me!! sorry it took a few days, i kept forgetting to do it lol. i'm gonna tag @wondrousmayy, @jade-efflorescence, and @hemisphere-ortsa because you're in my notes all the time and i wanna get to know you better! No pressure ofc - this is just for funsies <3

[kursedmayo]

Story time. I think Donnie would also hate most lipbalm. They're so fucking greasy on the lips and good lord, I would rather feel the pain of dry ass lips than have it plump and moisturized but feeling like I just put cooking oil on, so with the power of headcanon on my side I'm inflicting this annoyance to him too.

I bet he takes like an obscene amount of time researching on lip products before realizing that there's no guarantee that they'll help all too much because he's half-turtle, his skin is different than a human's, which eventually compels him to go on a sort of lip care pilgrimage trying out all sorts of lip balm, like a lot of them. A LOT of them. He jots down the results in a fun little spreadsheet before he manages to narrow down to one brand which happens to be from a smaller, more ethical company than the rest. Even if that brand was much more expensive than others, its not as if he didn't have money that he stole to spend on quality products, so he managed to put his cracked lip woes to rest.

Unfortunately for him however, his brothers keep stealing from him so he barely even get to use the stuff he buys.

Mikey's the biggest culprit of this of course, he's one hell of a yapster (/pos ofc I love Mikey) his lips dry out easily, and he doesn't usually carry a lip balm with him (because he forgets to/keep losing them/keep eating them) so sometimes he just swipes on those bad boys off Donnie's pouch and he doesn't even notice and well, its not as if Donnie wants to take it back anyways. Its already got his lil bro's cooties all over it.

Meanwhile, Leo mostly just steals for funsies. He doesn't even use the ones he steals from Donnie, He's got like, a whole stash of flavored lip balms because he's the face man, he doesn't want chapped lips it'll ruin his gorgeous face! Anyways he gets a whole different bunch in case he loses one (which he never does) and keep buying some until he amassed a whole ass collection (which Mikey also steals from, not that Leo minds). He doesn't need to steal Donnie's, but its REAL fun to figure out how to. He'd literally figure out a whole ass 8 step plan in his head and even learn new tricks with his portals because Donnie literally had to resort to locking his lip balms up in a multi-password protected vault, only to end up not even using the damn stolen things because like Donnie, ew his twin's cooties.

Donnie's extra offended because of that cuz like, at least use the damn thing like Mikey does you heathen he paid 15 dollars for a tube!!

Anyways, since Donnie's no pushover he schemed to get revenge on Leo and begun to steal his chapsticks too, much to Leo's (hypocrital) annoyance and amusement, so now there's an unspoken war that's happening in the Hamato household at the moment which they both refuse to back down on.

Meanwhile, Raph's at the corner just shaking his head in exhasperation. He doesn't really care much about lip balms in the first place because he didn't really use those, but Donnie got disturbed seeing him walking around with El Niño on his lips one winter and begrudgingly gave him one to use, which Raph does use but only sparingly so he doesn't run out, though it's not like he doesn't have money to buy his own cuz he does off jobs in the hidden city then and again. Also he kinda gave up trying to stop the disaster twins from fighting over lip balm because they're gonna keep doing it anyways, so he kinda just kinda tune them out when something inevitably explodes in Donnies lab and Leo comes out running holding a lil tube. Mikey gets let off the hook though, lil bro priveledges you know?

So yeah.

Even if there's a huge L in Leonardo there's still two Ls in Donatello. He's gonna be having PTSD flashbacks whenever someone mentions chapsticks near him for sure.

[golby-moon]

threw a mermaid!cas art piece into the pot that is the @reversefantasyspnbang and like magic a mermaid!cas fic appeared :00

here's the banner I made for this, (yes another) desk with stuff on it. idk why I draw so many desks as banners either. but yeah this one is pirate flavored and has a spyglass and compass on it as well as a phoenix feather and fancy pendant thing that was inspired by the one from Disney's 'Moana' with a spn-themed pentagram thrown on there, though the pendant kinda looks like a Tamagotchi and I can't get that image out of my brain. the fish in the drawer was supposed to be a placeholder for something else in the original sketch but it was silly so it stayed 🎉

the title is on a pirate map that's supposed to tell its own story or whatever. the dashed line explores all around the area with various scribbled-out x's marking various spots as well as a whirlpool type deathtrap around what would be the 'a' in 'dead'. the only un-scribbled 'x' is on a tiny island called Mermaid Rock (the thing around the giant tail-shaped 't' in 'tails'), but since the pirates go out of their way to avoid that area (as seen in the dashed line where they get sucked into the whirlpool instead) due to superstitions about mermaids being bad luck, they don't know whether there's actually anything there or not and therefore can't eliminate it

this was the original art piece I submitted, featuring Dean holding up Cas, who's tangled up in a net. looking at it now I can see that angle of the boat is...weird (especially that ladder staircase thing) but ehh. I spent a ton of time planning Dean's outfit to be a somewhat historically accurate pirate but didn't realize Cas would be covering the neat jacket and sword holster thing I gave him and everything uh

the goal with this was to have Dean not the pirate captain for once in a pirate Dean/mermaid Cas fic (which I like reading but doubt I can write, hence why I dumped it on somebody else via reverse bang I mean what). I wanted Cas to look like he came from deep within the ocean, so his eyes are slitted to take in more light (think of cats) and his skin is more of a grey to better blend in. ofc Cas can't resist checking out the human world and ended up getting caught in a net but luckily Dean was there to pull him out...only to get in trouble for it. this was the original art idea and I really like the way the author adapted it and made Dean more of a reluctant pirate and Cas even more in love with 'humanity'

I do not like drawing bunk beds. or furniture. but it at least looks like a bed so that's okay. but yeah Dean's singing to Cas here and is kinda embarrassed about it, hence why he's looking away, but Cas can't actually tell what he's saying either way so Dean's just being Paranoid. the marks on Cas are scars from the net, a reference to what actually happens to irl sea creatures who get tangled in nets, if they live at all. those lines are supposed to be ribs to indicate that Cas is pretty thin due to a lack of food (probably due to humans overfishing) but they kinda look like he had top surgery. which...ignore that that's unintentional or I would've made them that same pinkish color as his other scars. also ignore the nipple freckle I had to include it okay

water is really weird sorry it looks so weird. but here's Dean and Cas preparing for some boat kisses because they're Them. I really like how the boat and especially the words on the boat (Riverside Blue, a reference to Led Zeppelin's 'Traveling Riverside Blues,' one of Dean's favorite songs added as per the author's suggestion) came out. the boat was supposed to be blue with the characteristic white underside all boats seem to have but then it was just...too blue and what goes better with blue than green 🤡

there was an idea thing going around where the crew on the pirate ship weren't allowed to wear colors, hence why both of Dean's outfits in the other two pics are so drab (the dull backgrounds don't help). so in this final piece where they're off the ship, I wanted to make it as colorful as possible with that orange sky and brightly colored boat and then Dean's colorful outfit with his shirt being somewhere between blue and green. yay contrast

man I didn't mean to ramble so much sorry about that. just put a lot of thought into these even though it might not look like it

the fic this is made for is called "Dead men tell no tails" by @quicksilver-castiel for the spn reverse fantasy bang

(02/17/24)

[illnessfaker]

Your recent couple reblogs has me wondering something, that maybe you have more perspective on given your own experiences with gender.

Often times I’ll hear bigender, genderfluid, and various flavors of nonbinary people talk as if they are (in a political sense) both man and woman (also sometimes TME and TMA using the same logic)

I get it in terms of self-identification, but in terms of how society treats us, I’m skeptical that the current oppressively gendered system has room for that kind of nuance.

I think it’s just because I’m a trans woman and at the end of the day I get treated as a fag regardless if people see me as a man or woman, so I don’t get the option anyway lol

But I also kinda feel like I’m just rehashing “there are only 2 genders!!” but from a leftist angle, which also sucks

i mean this is like a really tough question that i don't think there's a good answer to because there's not really any difference btwn "being a man/woman" vs. "being a man/woman politically" and by that i mean when you ask what "being a man/woman" means the only good answer to that question i can come up with is "they're labels that indicates one's relationship to patriarchy" but even that answer isn't especially helpful in this situation because 1. that's basically the function of gender identity labels is to describe one's relationship to gender and indicate how they navigate the system whether they're "binary" or not and 2. there is no litmus test for who "counts" as a man or a woman because if you go around and ask people why they identify this way you'll get a hundred different answers even if the people you ask label themselves in the same way because gender identity at the end of the day not only has to do w/ the gendered messaging you are subject to from society (which includes violence) and then how you personally rationalize and respond to it.

the thing is that there are many different avenues of being gendered so i'd say that yeah, someone can be both a man and a woman if they believe their experiences align w/ that, but the reasons for why someone believes that, like i said, are going to widely vary. someone might be legally considered female but be gendered as male in a bunch of other contexts and they might factor that experience in to their gender identity. someone might be legally considered male but be gendered as female or subject to misogyny in a bunch of other contexts and they might factor that experience in to their gender identity. but it's not as if legally being male = you can wield that simple fact to enact gendered violence (which plenty of transfem and other camab trans ppl are aware of, i'm sure) and access the gendered privileges that one might associate with maleness, and it's not as if legally being female = one is entirely excluded from enacting gendered violence or accessing gendered privileges. it's messy. those are two very simplistic examples that include the word "might" because a the end of the day, there aren't any rules that determine who is "actually" what because the series of "tests" that society subjects us to in order to determine that are incoherent, since gender has no essence to it. it's not nuance, its nonsense.

transmisogynists insist that genitalia or assigned sex determines how you're gendered but a cashier once told me that he thought i was a man because i was wearing flannel. the only assumption i can make as to why other people read me as having been camab (i say that because people often either insist i'm a man or they've told me they thought i was transfem at first) is because i have some physical features that society labels as "male" and some of my autism/ADHD traits are ones that society also labels as "male" (e.g. lack of volume control making me very loud.) those are also very simple examples because ofc much more goes into gendered violence than just how random people w/o institutional power perceive you, but the point is that gender's rules are pretty nonsensical based on how people actually apply them. i have a social experience that one could arguably call "both male and female" but that doesn't feel like at all an accurate assessment of what it's like for me whatsoever (enough that it feels like misgendering) - and i certainly don't see myself as "tma." that being said, i think i'm one of those people who can't be neatly sorted into "socially located as female" vs. "socially located as male." i think i'm socially located as a (tme) marginalized gender subject, but that kind of subjective experience isn't the norm.

that doesn't mean there aren't experiences that are typical of womanhood or experiences that are typical of manhood. if there weren't then the whole framework of patriarchy and misogyny wouldn't hold up very well. but the "typical" part is kinda key because acting as if there is some singular, concrete thing that distinguishes the "male experience" from the "female experience" is conceding the point that men and women are essentially different, which is something that reinforces patriarchy rather than deconstructing it, and "men oppress women" is not a singular, concrete thing to me in this instance because the ways in which that tangibly occurs are incredibly varied and complex, with a myriad of factors always being involved, which is a fact that people like MRAs and transmisogynists will try to exploit for the sake of their (trans)misogynistic views.

so it's like, at the end of the day, yeah - binaries are bullshit, but also we need what some might call vague generalizing/binaristic language for the sake of discussing literally anything at all in a way that is comprehensible. the frameworks/concepts of patriarchy and (trans)misogyny don't suddenly fall apart if we acknowledge the ~nuance~ of how gender works and is affected by different factors because the whole point is that these things are deeply embedded, broader sociocultural trends, not that they're absolute rules with zero exceptions in what some discussion about them might sometimes imply. (trans) men being subjected to violence that is defined by or wrapped up in (trans)misogyny or (trans) women circumstantially also wielding (trans)misogyny against other (trans)women doesn't mean that (trans)misogyny shouldn't be about (trans) women.

the issue here, i think, doesn't have to do w/ how someone identifies (that dog won't hunt) so much as how they actually grapple with that complexity and how they use it to relate to others. to use an example from that one post i rb'd earlier, someone labeling themselves as a "transfemmasc gaybilesbian" and then talking about how oppressive and evil and binaristic both assigned sex labels and the label "tme" is, is - in practice - someone who is against any concise language happening irt discussion of transmisogyny, and - in addition - any concise language that would denote whether they're someone who is capable of enacting gendered violence against trans women in the way only non-trans women can. and then it gets 10x worse when you see that same person reblogging posts about how transmisandry real and trans womanhood is not a gender category that sits beneath trans manhood on a hierarchical scale.

if trans women can't use "transfem" to talk about transmisogyny, can't use "camab/cafab," and can't use "tme/tma," then they can't use anything. this usually happens in the case of trans other trans people who are, in fact, tme, and them being tme is part of what enables them to be able to do this in the first place, because it is apparent to anyone who pays attention that trans women and other camab trans people are typically not afforded the same room to treat gender identity like a playground in the way that tme trans people are, when looking at things from the perspective of transmisogyny.

like, at that point, i can only assume you believe yourself to be incapable of gendered violence in any meaningful sense/are dodging any sense of accountability, and are using the obfuscation of difference and meaning of terms to your advantage as someone who does in fact possess privilege in terms of gender, lol. everyone does to some extent when you include factors that significantly affect one's relationship to the gender binary such as race, disability, etc.

[shy-marker-pliers]

baseless mw2 headcanons bc i am a simple man with simple desires (large men capable of incredible violence)

soap is/was a leash kid. momma MacTavish has definitely had to make an announcement over the PA system at a store before bc lil man bolted at the first opportunity. he never grew out of it btw. he’s had his bitch strap yanked during many a mission (if you don’t know what a bitch strap is, it’s a handle on the back of a tactical vest, similar to the strap of a backpack)

the entire 141 has a deep fear of camel spiders /hj. camel spiders are a species of desert arachnid and they seek out shade during the daytime, so they’ve been known to “chase” people’s shadows. and also the fuckers are three inches long and can run up to 10mph over a short distance, so. there’s that. soap has booked it back to base screeching on more than one occasion because he happened to stumble across one.

ghost acts unbothered but bro is VIGILANT if he ever has to go outside in camel spider territory. eyes focused on the ground just waiting for one to show up. he can and will shoot if one happens to sneak up on him.

Gaz started a war crime counter. it’s taped to the fridge and has a tally of all the times the 141 has violated the geneva convention. they don’t take it seriously btw. someone punches price in the arm while he’s in the infirmary? that’s another war crime for the sheet. the geneva convention specifically states that you can’t harm a soldier who’s receiving medical attention

Soap is the biggest bastard when it comes to the WCC (war crimes counter) btw. whenever someone is in the infirmary he’s rushing in to slap them and yelling at Gaz to “add another one to the WCC!!”

this is based on a tiktok posted by Soap’s VA, but johnny has a tiny rubber duckie that he puts on a little shelf in the communal showers. he drew a little beard on it with sharpie and glued a pipecleaner to its head so they have matching mohawks. its name is Duck MacQuackish

price has a little niece who sends him drawings when he’s overseas (if the location isn’t classified ofc). she also sends him his favorite snacks from back home. if he’s in a good mood he MIGHT share with the rest of the 141

if ANY of the soldiers ever have to be in the same room with graves, somebody will find a way to play country girl (shake it for me) simply to make his day a little worse

Ghost and price severely judge vape and e-cig users. especially if they use the flavored ones. “if i’m gonna get lung cancer, it’ll be the old fashioned way.” soap and gaz have seriously considered taking up vaping just to annoy them

KÖNIG HAS A PET SNAKE NAMED KAISER RAHH!!! idk what kind but it’s Königs special little guy and he hires someone to take care of it whenever he’s deployed for an extended period of time

also König can and will go out of his way to feed/pet stray animals. including rats. yes he has had to get extra rabies shots no he will not stop.

price the type of guy to always have a screwdriver, several screws/nuts/bolts and an adjustable wrench on hand in case something ever needs fixin’. his cargo pants are his own personal bag of holding. he’s got trail mix in there somewhere too. the good kind with the m&ms

soap pickpockets the trail mix from price, eats all the m&ms and then puts it back

soap would sing call me maybe or california gurls if the 141 ever did karaoke. but like he makes his accent super thick on purpose for comedy. everyone hates it but him

[bunnyloaves]

thinking about the hickeycrozier whiskey scene (again) (the relapse)

this drinking scene isn't just hickey being presumptuous or wanting to curry favors with someone of a higher position (its partially that but not entirely). but generally its also a validating moment for hickey where his specialness is affirmed (that he is more than his station, that he is smart and worthy of esteem, cuz the captain won't be drinking with him if he weren't. he's being toasted with by a commanding officer so that elevates him too)

so it only makes him all the more wet sopping meow meow tO ME that really crozier will take any excuse to be drinking at that time. like i love that for him, thinking that he's absolutely winning this social interaction right now, that him and the captain have a neat bond that can be utilized later on, that he will be heeded as a peer (when he makes his own choices for survival later on, cuz the dude has been in a survival horror from the very beginning)

like to me at least, hickey is both cutthroat pragmatism/he needs to survive all these other men, but its also this pretty earnest flavor of wanting to be worthy of esteem too (to gain things beyond his station (but this is only in as much as the hierarchy of the navy is able to tend to hickey's survival. as the structures of the navy crumble throughout the show, he doesn't find the need to seek equals among men anymore, he seeks it in otherworldly beings. cuz in the world that they're thrust in rn, what does attaching himself to station and rank even do for him, when it all crumbles in the face of magic polar bear, ofc he'd align himself with the magic polar bear))

ok back to the whiskey bit, just the fact that he had his delusion that him n crozier were seeing eye to eye, just completely shattered and rebuked is just man :\\ he really thought he'd done a good job of currying favor, and that his mouthiness and insolence would be perceived as a Good and Sobering thing by crozier is just :((