#i remember i promised to post those snippets

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

In Buccleuch Docks (Full Scene)

Posted a snippet of this *mumble mumble* ago, promised that the full scene would be delivered, and then forgot about it... until today, on my BoCo high.

What does a Coppernob and Edward reunion in 1964 have to do with BoCo, you ask? Well, this scene is merely Nobby getting a cameo in a big Edward/BoCo WIP I've been tinkering with... on the side...

But this sort of stands alone and should be of interest to Nobbyverse fans. However, this scene is not canon to Bird at Barrow Central (Coppernob not making a visit to Barrow post-bombing until 1996). Indeed, this scene for that matter is based on a rather idiosyncratic interpretation of what was going on with Edward and the N.W.R. immediately prior to the events of Main Line Engines...

Bonus: You'd otherwise not get to "meet" Hal and Sphyrna the Hammerhead Cranes for ages yet...

Warning: It may not be "canon" to Bird at Barrow Central but it is the same fellow so. Be prepared for the angst. Edward's got some stuff goin' on in this WIP too — even if he's a bit in denial about it.

Buccleuch Docks (1964)

Coppernob wasn't expecting visitors at that hour. The sun hadn't yet put in an appearance, so there were no passengers disembarking from ships. Even the Steelworks were quiet — apparently, operations were no longer 'round-the-clock. A few of the Twenties had been able to make a visit, even though Coppernob was at the wrong dock for them to swing by on their usual route, and he expected to see more of them before his week was out. But not at the crack of dawn.

The last Furness engine he had not counted on seeing at all. Coppernob had been loaned to B.R. and stationed at Buccleuch Docks for the week in a blatant attempt to steal some rail-enthusiast thunder from the North Western region, and he well knew it. Odds were that Charles Hatt understood he was being snubbed, and he might have warned his own famous engines off crossing the line and feeding into the ancient engine's publicity. 

But the Seagull showed up. Albeit before six a.m. there was a certain amount of discretion involved.

That's what taking the morning post will do for you.

After dropping it off for the mainland engine the Seagull navigated the yard until he was alongside Coppernob's makeshift plinth. His eyes widened when he saw the damage on the older engine's dome and boiler, but Coppernob was well used to that, and for that matter the Seagulls were well used to pretending not to stare. "Good morning, Nobby!"

"'Morning, Two."

At that the Seagull blinked, and his boiler gave a little shudder. "Oh, that still feels so wrong!"

"And I still don't see a nameplate."

"Nobody calls me that."

Coppernob snorted. "Oh yes, you're riding rather high these days, aren’t you? A book named after you and everything. It's lucky you have me to keep your wheels in trim."

"It isn't that. My new name would sound wrong coming from you, too. But you might use my old Furness number... there's no one else left to use it."

"That," said Coppernob, slow and deliberate (a mighty bulwark, warding off sentiment) "would be arrant disrespect to your new owners."

"Ah. And you're famously deferential, of course, to humans not named Ramsden."

Coppernob rolled his eyes. "Your lot always fancied yourselves barristers," he muttered... not quite as crossly, perhaps, as he'd intended. "Though that Charles Hatt is quite a muckety-muck among those national rail types, these days."

"Isn't he just."

"I can remember that boy boarding L.M.S. trains after holidays to return to his apprenticeship… he was slimmer, then."

There was a pause, as both watched the great yellow-and-black hammerhead crane slowly swing a piece of container freight. Coppernob was impassive as ever, but Edward was smiling.

It was the blue engine who next spoke. "Town has never been the same without you… I expect you’re getting a good many visitors here?"

"By the train-load," said Coppernob, matter-of-factly. "They really ought to have put me at the new station. Me being here is a disruption to dock operations."

"They may move you, yet. Have you seen the new station?"

"No. But you needn't wrack your smokebox thinking how to break the news gently. I know very well how ugly it is."

Edward smiled again, tamping down a nostalgic sadness that he knew Coppernob wouldn't appreciate. (Or that he would appreciate, but would take aim at anyway, by reflex.) "Gordon complained about the new station every night for two years."

"He left off complaining too soon." Coppernob eyed the younger engine, committing several mechanical alterations to memory. "Are those new frames?"

"No?"

"Don't take that tone with me. Well, if they're the same old, then that paint is doing wonders. New boiler?"

"No."

"Then why did they raise it?"

"They did swap out for a new one for a bit, while mine was in repairs, and that one required these braces. It seems they liked the look. I'm still not so sure."

"No one cares what you think, son," said Coppernob dryly. "If you please your directors, it's all that matters."

"Thanks, Nobby. Can always count on you."

"Always. You're still taking main line trains, then?"

"Not often." Edward grew quite animated. "My friend BoCo usually takes this train. He offered it to me for a day so that I could come see you. He's a class 28 — you've seen them, haven't you? The main line diesel-electrics that are stabled here. Do you know, they were built by the company that merged with Vickers?"

"All right, son." Coppernob eyed him askance. Not exactly reproving, but bemused. "I didn't need your friend's life story." A faint blush began to grow on the Seagull's smokebox. "What do you do these days, when you're not swapping jobs with dodgy diesels?"

"He's not dodgy."

"Mechanically, son. Mechanically. They have something of a reputation."

"Their engines aren't well-made," Edward admitted reluctantly. "BoCo's very clever about managing around it, though."

"Ah," said Coppernob. "So you have something in common, is that right? But this isn't what I asked."

Edward twisted his lips briefly, the locomotive equivalent of a shrug. "I manage my yard, like always. I don't do much banking anymore, the trains are beyond me, but I help out here and there with branch line goods."

"Hmm. The steelworks engines say they heard your Controller uses you as something of an under-manager."

"The steelworks engines!"

"Yes. They're ex-Furness, you know. Well, the steam engines, obviously."

"Oh, I know. But I never knew them, you know. I hadn't expected they knew anything of me." Honestly the Sodor engine was surprised they were still extant.

"The Twenties have always kept up with the doings of the world. And they knew I'd want to know what was going on with you. Is what they say true?"

"No? Well, sort of. People have been saying I’m a manager now as a bit of a joke. Controller has put me in charge of trialling our newcomers for different things."

Coppernob's expression didn't change, except for his eyebrows to slowly rise. "That's a fair bit of responsibility."

"Well, I've been training up other engines since the '20s. But I'm expected to make recommendations now, and that's new... I suppose. The real difference is that this is fast becoming my only use."

Something between melancholy and bitterness stained those last words. Coppernob acknowledged it only by silence. They spent several minutes watching the activity in the docks. A great bulk carrier was being loaded at one pier. At another a tanker was slowly being siphoned of some of its precious liquid cargo.

"What's it like," asked Edward, "being back?"

Coppernob eyes followed the crate's progress upwards and then over to deck before answering. "The aluminum doesn't seem to do as brisk a trade as the hemitate did."

"No."

Coppernob was still not quick to speak. Edward, however, was these days a practiced listener, and wore him down. "More raw wool and foodstuffs go out. I suppose there are not so many locals to feed as there once were."

"Yes."

"The new crane seems strong."

"Oh, Sphyrna's very good. She's nice, too."

Coppernob gazed at the younger engine, eyes hooded against some hidden emotion. Or joke. "I suppose it would be ungracious of me to say I prefer the old one?"

"Oh," teased the ex-Seagull, "very."

"So many things these days, that I’m not to say."

"Of course you miss Hal," said Edward, more seriously. "There never was such a crane."

"His design was very common. But none braver, no." Coppernob snorted, but his heart wasn't in it. "People make much of what I did in the blitz, which was nothing. Hal kept this place going day and night. He couldn't take shelter when everyone else could. Nice easy target. But they had to take him out before they slowed him down. He never missed a beat."

"No."

"I wonder if the people remember him."

"The locals do," said Edward quietly. "One still hears him spoken of, sometimes. Our new Caledonian engines came and asked me if I knew who they were talking about, and they've only been here a couple of years."

Coppernob seemed to consider some more, eyes continuing to examine the yard. 

Finally, with an air of great deliberation, he gave his verdict. "I think my lot ran this place better."

Edward laughed, though subsiding to a diplomatic murmur when he spoke. "That's no very great boast. I hear those Hudswell Clark shunters are rather troublesome."

"To be sure. I've seen for myself." Coppernob, though to be sure his voice had been low to begin with, did not trouble to lower it further. Might have raised it, even. "Not open cheek and frank mischief, either. They've some sly game going. I don't know exactly what scheme they have, but whatever they’re about I know that a hundred years ago you could be scrapped for it without a second's thought. Do they try tricks with your lot?"

"Well, we generally shunt our own goods here. But no, they don't seem to dare give us trouble." Edward heard himself, and chuckled. "That may sound rather brash. It's because of our Controller. Though to be sure Gordon and our Scotsengines are plenty intimidating, even on their own." He gave Coppernob another would-be discreet survey. He was better at it than he and his lot had been back in 1908, that much was for sure. "How's the museum, Nobby?"

Coppernob thought it over. "All right. The Government projected 140 thousand visitors last year, and we had nearly 175."

"Oh, congratulations are in order."

"Government's still not happy. Somehow the money doesn't work out. But it sounds as though the money never is quite right, for a museum. I reckon things are going fair enough."

Edward waited, until seeing that was as much as he was going to get. "Do you like the other engines and things?"

"They're a little mad." Coppernob's mouth quirked as he owned: "So I get on with them. But don't pump me for tales about the others. Unlike some engines I hear of, we make it a point to guard each other's privacy."

"Well, then. Are many of the visitors Londoners? Or do they mostly travel in?"

"About half and half."

"... and do you like them?"

"A few, I suppose. Most I neither like nor dislike — they’re just part of the crowd."

Edward make a little hiss of amused exasperation. "Yes, but — are — are you happy there, Nobby?"

For his trouble he found himself, predictably, pinned by one of Coppernob's most inscrutable gazes. Predictable... and yet in years past it would have been more a blazing glare.

Certainly old Nobby had mellowed in the past few decades. But whether that was something to celebrate or something to mourn was unclear.

"Happy?" muttered Coppernob. "What is this preoccupation everyone has with happiness. In our day no one was happy or unhappy... men no more than their machines. You were decent or shiftless. Honest or ne'er-do-well. If you were happy you were born well or you were dead."

"Yes," agreed Edward. "I think it's been getting better, too. But now it's you who hasn't answered my question. Do you miss Barrow very much, or are you happy at Clapham?"

It hadn’t been easy to make himself ask. And when Edward saw his blank expression, saw how the ancient engine struggled with the question, he suddenly understood that none of them had ever before enquired after Nobby’s well-being, not really. No one had dared think of it. The entire railway, in Edward's day, had run on Coppernob being exactly what they all needed him to be: a source of legitimacy for the directors, entertainment for locals, an attraction for visitors, a role model for engines in service, an ally for the retirees, a minder for the young, a rod of correction for the errant, a reservoir of memory; the old number three seemed to have fulfilled all that was wanted of him effortlessly, with his own feelings immaterial. 

And now Coppernob blinked at him. Only vaguely annoyed, instead of wrathful.

"Oh, I'm all right enough. I miss Barrow as it was — but it's not coming back. Better to be among other engines like me and have something to do, than to watch strangers run this town. Clapham is a very comfortable place to sit around and be a well-polished curiosity. Though I rather miss Horwich."

"Horwich!" That had all been a bit surprising, a bit new. But it was that last sentence that really shocked the ex-Seagull. "I should have thought..."

It was Coppernob's turn to twist his lips. "I should have thought, too." Horwich Works had been a curse on Furness engines after the Grouping, its appetite for scrapping younger and younger engines never seeming to abate. In the immediate aftermath of the bombing of Barrow station Edward had needed to make several inquires before learning Coppernob's whereabouts, and the news "taken to Horwich" had chilled him to the firebox. He'd been genuinely surprised several years later when he'd had news of Coppernob putting in an appearance at some centenary celebration in Manchester... alive. "But it's not as if I had to see their scrap lines. If anything I felt closer to the rest there than here. Anyway, I liked being in the shop. There was always something going on — work-y, engine-y sort of things. The workshop really is the heart of a railway and while I was there I could almost feel... But then again, it was dark and noisy, and not the sort of place children come to visit. And I suppose these days B.R. is mismanaging it into the ground. I'm fortunate to be just where I am. Doubtless some other old thing is rusting away in storage because I have their spot at Clapham." And on that note, Coppernob seemed to feel confidences were over. "Tell that absurd Mogul to come over before I've gone."

"I will. Thomas sends his regards. He can't possibly get over this way, but he wanted to say hullo."

"Thomas... ah, yes, that's the little lost sidetank, isn't it." Coppernob's expression didn't change. "Haven't heard that name in a minute."

"Oh yes. I'm sure children who visit transport museums never ask every steam engine they see if they know Thomas the Train."

"Please tell me he has no idea how famous he is."

"Fortunately not. He knows he's a fixture on Sodor but not how far that fame extends. It's about the only secret Controller's ever tried to have everyone keep and succeeded."

"Speaking of fame, I don't know if you noticed that man in street wear. He's taken at least one photograph of us and will probably take more at close-range. You meant to be discreet — will your Controller be angry?"

"Oh, no. Why would he? No, I only wanted to come when it was quiet so as to not get you in trouble. I suppose the whole point in B.R. having you out here was to try to overshadow our region."

"Oh, it was. It very much was."

"Then ought I head off the man with the camera?"

"They care. I don't."

Coppernob gave a secret, wicked smirk, as if to his own self, and Edward grinned. For an instant it was the old Nobby, a Nobby that for the Sodor engine had been bumped askew on his pedestal since 1915, the fearless golden hero of his youth. "Right. Trust you for that. Though I'm afraid I must be saying good-bye. I'm to pick up that petrol and take it back over the bridge."

"Write more often."

"More often! You never answered."

"Perhaps I didn't. Do it anyway."

"Only, I thought I must have annoyed you."

"Son, your lot has been annoying me since before the turn of the century. Don't break tradition at this late date." The old engine looked typically indifferent. Edward knew that expression very well, too well to be fooled by it, but he looked his fill anyway, re-committing it to memory. Coppernob seemed to be doing the same with him, though if he really were then he was much more subtle about it. "After all, you're my only source for news of that blasted island. No more than half of any letter about that Vickers diesel of yours, if you please."

"Very well. And I'll pass on word to James and the others today. I'm so glad to have seen you again, Nobby."

Edward half expected an idle remark in return that he, handsome old Coppernob, was of course well worth the seeing. But Nobby's playful mood — or what passed as a playful mood, for Nobby — had already passed over. He was staring ahead listlessly. Perhaps the mention of tradition had sent him on a reverie. Perhaps he was gloomy at the thought of a new day entertaining modern, unsatisfactory Barrovians. Edward did not imagine for a second that Coppernob's heart was breaking to say good-bye to him. The old engine was too tough for that.

Indeed, it seemed he was too tough to even acknowledge his departure. Edward was about to give up waiting for a response, and he gave a whistle to signal his movement.

He hadn't quite gotten off his brakes, though, when Coppernob, voice urgent and somehow bare, stopped him with a single word.

"Thirty-Four. Don't — " Coppernob broke off for an instant. Then he took a deep breath and finished, as if angry at whatever invisible force had stopped him. "Don't let them do to you what they did to me."

Edward looked over at him.

There was a new Coppernob there. One he had never shown any of the Seagulls. One he probably had shown very few engines at all.

The old engine grinned twistedly, as if to mask it. "That is what young Hatt wants, isn't it? Have you get the newcomers settled, run out your boiler ticket, then stick you on a plinth, probably at that little station of yours. The railway continues to benefit from your experience without your operational costs. I remember. I know how it goes. Don't let them, don’t you dare let them. Better scrap than that. Preservation isn’t any sort of life."

Coppernob didn't look a bit sad. But the intensity of each hissed word betrayed years of solitary pain, and Edward was terribly shaken.

"I — I can't let them scrap me," said Edward numbly. "I've been fighting to prevent that for ages."

"I know."

"Not only for myself, Nobby. I'm not a coward, I know I'm no better than all my brothers who faced the torch. But it would set a precedent for the others — Thomas and the others. I must keep going, at least until they're safe — "

Coppernob gave a harsh laugh, humorless. "Save your puff. I know. Don't I know! You mustn't fall into every single trap I did, son. Anyway, what of it? Do you suppose your friends would be happy in that position? Could you stand by, and watch it happen to them?"

"I — don't know," said Edward, still blank. The truth was that he'd assumed that the younger engines, most of them more popular than he, would be kept operational even if the future Nobby predicted for him (a future that he himself indeed saw coming) came to pass.

Coppernob's gaze was piercing. "I tried to fight them. I knew what a terrible thing they were demanding of me. You won't even try to resist — I taught you too well, didn't I? Duty above all else — that's a rule for a younger engine. It was a good rule for all those other poor sods with their short, normal lives. But you... maybe it makes no difference. It didn't for me. But fight anyway. Once you give your railway fifty years of service, you're allowed to say no, damn it. Loudly, and often."

And then Coppernob looked away. Clearly he thought there was nothing more to be said. 

After a dazed moment Edward whistled again, limply, and chuffed off.

He almost forgot the petrol altogether.

[arnold-layne]

cooking a very spicy scene in the tommy/nikki/vince sci fi universe i mentioned 👀 will get down to it once im done with homework for the week

[cardiomason]

Hey Guys, its Been a while. Some of you might remember me from my old posts... I used to drop animation snippets here and there, exploring heartbeat focused visuals that many of you really seemed to like. I really loved how supportive and curious so many of you were despite the fact I eventually lost interest in animating around that time.

That said, I’ve also had a few rough experiences here, which led to me deleting and reactivating my account multiple times. I just want to be honest and say: I’m back for now, but this isn’t necessarily a full or permanent return. More like a creative send-off.

I won’t be keeping DMs or inbox open this time — please don’t take that the wrong way. A lot of you were truly kind and respectful, but for my own peace of mind, I’ll be keeping direct messaging closed. I may still reply in comments though, depending on how things go.

Now for why I’m really here again:

I’ve been working quietly on a final animation project...something more ambitious and personal than anything I’ve shared before. It's called “A Place in Her Heart.”

It’s an intimate, cardiophile-inspired short film, not lewd, not explicit but sensual, symbolic, and focused on the emotional weight we carry in our bodies. It takes the phrase “a place in my heart” and explores it literally. I also tried to make it look more cinematic than normal.

This is a visual metaphor about , love, toxic relationships, emotional stagnation, and letting go. Think detailed internal heart visuals, realistic anatomy, paired with outer physical stimuli all animated together. It's supposed to blend vulnerability, intimacy, and real cardiac dynamics into a story of someone who once lived in another’s heart… until they didn’t belong there anymore.

💔 Part 1 tells the story of a man who has grown too comfortable inside a woman’s heart...literally. But her body, and her emotional self, begin to shift. Until a new, more compatible presence looms and offers her heart more stability. The old love grown complacent is unavoidably, threatened to be expelled as she begins to move on. Not with hate but with clarity. It’s a story of growth. Of moving on. Of no longer fitting where you once did.

The full short will be made available soon, likely through Patreon or a similar platform, for a limited 2–3 week viewing window. After that, it may be made public. I’ll be transparent about access and pricing in advance — but I want to set expectations now that this is a paid-access release.

Depending on how things go, I might consider opening for commissions down the line — but again, no promises yet.

Just wanted to say thanks to those who remembered me, and to those who supported my past work. This is my proper goodbye project, and I hope some of you will find something beautiful in it.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Movie Week

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Male Yandere x Fem Reader, 5k words

After your accident, you wake from your coma in fragments and pieces.

There's the blackness first. A nothingness somehow deeper than sleep. Then the voices, snippets of conversation that you're too hurt and drugged to understand. And finally, in those few hours before you fully wake up, there are the dreams.

You're always running in your dreams. Bare foot, the rain pounding down. Running from something you can't see.

When you wake up, you don't remember. The feeling lingers though - that hair raising knowledge that you're being hunted.

You notice the heart rate monitor first. The constant beeping spiking straight into your head.

You groan. Open your eyes.

An IV drip, bland beige walls, a cheap watercolour painting. Voices out in the hall. Painfully bright florescent lights.

You stay perfectly still for a few seconds, feeling strange and out of place.

What happened? How long has it been? Where exactly am I?

You try sitting up. A bad idea. Your whole body is an unresponsive mess, numb and weak all at once.

"Hey, take it easy."

A palm settles on your shoulder and gently pushes you down.

"You've been through an awful lot. The last thing you need is to push yourself."

You try and focus on the stranger, your vision still murky around the edges. He's wearing a surgical mask and a baseball cap, his eyes squinted at the corners like he's smiling at you.

"Where am I?"

"Riverfate Private Medical Centre."

"Isn't that way out in the mountains?"

"Yes ma'am."

Your head hurts. So does your left leg. And your shoulder. And a dozen other places, now that you think about it. It's hard to focus.

"But I live in the city."

He raises a brow. "You don't remember?"

You shake your head. A bad idea. Pain and light lance through your skull.

You hiss and touch your temple. You're met with a thick wrapping of gauze and bandage.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I...um, I think I was supposed to go out to lunch with my boss. I don't know what happened after that."

"Do you know what year it is?"

You tell him.

"Do you know who I am?"

He pulls down his mask and leans a little closer to you, his eyes searching your face. You don't recognise him at all.

He's handsome, in a clean cut sort of way. He's wearing a sweater and jeans, a pair of glasses hooked in his pocket.

"I don't think so. I don't remember you."

"Not even a little?"

You don't like the way he's looking at you. Like he's watching for the smallest twitch or stutter. Like he doesn't quite believe you.

"I'm sorry. I really don't know you."

He leans back and pulls his mask back up, but not before you see his smile.

"That's okay. I'm not offended. You've had a pretty hard knock on the head."

You figured that part out from the throbbing headache and persistent, low grade nausea. But you suppose it's nice of him to tell you.

He raises his hand and you realise he's holding the nurse call button.

"Let's get you properly checked out, yeah?"

It buzzes when he presses it and it doesn't take long for a nurse to pop his head into the room, quickly followed by a doctor.

"How long has she been awake?"

"Not long," your visitor answers, even though you assume it's been a good few minutes.

Your doctor runs you through some basic questions, her lips getting thinner with each answer.

"Post-tramuatic amnesia," she announces, "Not surprising given the nature of your injuries. Some of it will come back to you, some of it won't. For now, I want to keep an eye out for any signs of cerebral edema. Beyond that, it's just a matter of rehabilitation."

"How long until I can take her home?" the stranger asks.

She glances at him. "And you are?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Her fiancé."

You stare at him, not sure you heard him right.

"I'm engaged?"

He shoots you a look and reaches out to briefly rest his hand on yours.

"For a few months now. I'll tell you all about it later, promise."

The doctor raises her brows but doesn't comment.

"She can be discharged in a week or so, bar any complications," the nurse answers.

"Good. I want to get her home as soon as possible. Better to be in a familiar place, right baby?"

You're too overwhelmed and confused to answer him. Engaged? Really? You haven't had any long term relationships, much less had a guy get serious enough to consider marriage.

The doctor shrugs and checks her watch. "I think there are a few police officers who want to speak to the both of you. But it's better if the patient rests for a few hours. You need to take things slow, especially so soon after waking up."

She orders the nurse to give you something with a complicated sounding name, and less than fifteen minutes later you're knocked out. Drifting back into the dark of your dreams.

Your fiancé watches you until you fall asleep, his expression hidden by his mask.

The police officers are tired. You can tell, even though you're still a little out of it yourself.

"You don't know what happened? Nothing at all?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"She's injured," your fiancé snaps, "Of course she doesn't remember. Take it easy."

"What about you? Where were you when your wife was being admitted?"

"Rushing here, obviously."

"The hospital staff said they didn't contact you."

"You must have spoken to the wrong shift. I was here at three, right after they released her from surgery."

The cops sigh, shift in place. You reckon they want to be done with you as soon as possible.

"Seems pretty straight forward," one says, "It was raining heavy last night. Driver didn't see you crossing the road. A bad accident that could have gone a lot worse."

What were you doing walking in the rain at two in the morning? You don't get a chance to ask before they're already standing to leave.

One of the cops pauses at the door and points at your fiancé's mask. They briefly asked him to remove it but now it's right back in place.

"What's up with the mask?"

"I hate hospitals," he says simply. "Can't stand the smell. Or the germs."

The cop shrugs, tries to smile. "You'd hate my line of work, I can tell ya that much."

When they're gone, your fiancé comes to sit on the edge of your bed, wary of your leg in its plaster cast.

"Look what I found. I thought you lost it in the accident, but the nurses kept it aside."

He carefully takes hold of your hand and slips an engagement ring onto your finger. The metal pleasantly cool against the feverish heat of your skin.

You stare at it for a long time. Gold, with a huge rock front and centre.

You don't remember picking it out, don't remember saying yes. But it very much feels like something you'd choose. It looks perfectly at home on your finger.

"Do you like it?" he asks softly.

"Yes." You look up at him and smile, your heart fluttering and the heart rate monitor going crazy. "I love it."

"But it isn't jogging any memories?"

You shake your head.

"Well, guess we'll just have to make new ones." He doesn't sound upset at all.

You look down at his hands. He's wearing gloves, even though the AC is pleasantly warm.

"Can I see yours?"

He chuckles and tugs off his glove. He let's you take hold of his wrist without complaint, watching as you tilt his hand this way and that.

His ring is clearly a twin to yours. A simple gold band scratched a little from daily wear.

You carefully pull it off his finger. He doesn't stop you, though he does lean forward a little. It's a bit too loose on him. Needs to be sized down just a tad. Did he lose weight recently?

There's an engraving on the inside.

"Forever and a day?"

"Mm-hmm. It's what you promised me. From the moment we met."

It's cute, you have to admit.

"You gonna give it back? Afraid our engagement has a very serious no take-backsies clause."

You giggle as you pull him closer.

"We've got to do this properly, you know," you tell him. "So. Will you marry me, handsome stranger?"

He doesn't hesitate even a second.

"Yes. Right now, if I can nab a priest from the hospital chapel."

"I don't think those come with priests."

"What, not included in the comprehensive package?"

You laugh a little and slip his ring back on. It looks good on him. You wish he wouldn't keep covering it up with his gloves.

"It's the germs," he tells you when you bring it up. "And I know you're going to say hospitals are like the cleanest, most sanitised places on earth. But I swear I get sick every time I visit one."

You raise your free hand and press it against his neck, the only bit of open skin on his body. He stills. Hell, you think he stops breathing for a second or two.

"Warm. But not feverish. I think you'll be okay, big guy."

It takes him a moment to reply, his eyes fixed on your face.

"Thanks. Feels good when you say it."

You smile at him, your cheeks tingling.

"You flirt."

He catches your wrist when you start to pull away. You can't be sure, but you think he's smiling.

"Only with you, baby. Only ever with you."

Recovery is a long process, and one that continues even after you get discharged. Your doctor is diligent in monitoring you, and tyrannical in making sure you play all the memory and card games recommended for rehabilitation.

They annoy you at first. Kids games, almost. Remember where the apple is and match it to the other apple. Shuffle the cards and remember where each one goes.

But it's not long before you realise exactly how important it is that you get better at them.

Your brain is awfully slow, never focusing on one thing for more than a few minutes. Your recall isn't nearly as good as it was. You get headaches whenever you think too hard on the blank spaces where your memories ought to be.

Your fiancé watches you from the edge of your bed as you lay out your cards and then lay them out again. He doesn't help you, not even when you get so frustrated you want to hit something.

He just lays a hand on your thigh or your calf and tells you to take your time, that you'll get it right eventually.

You get used to having him around. Find yourself looking forward to seeing him every morning.

The day that you're scheduled to be discharged, he shows up with a huge bouquet of your favourite flowers and a basket packed tight with your favourite chocolate.

"How did you know?" you squeal, your nose buried in the petals.

He laughs and runs a hand through your hair, careful of your stitches.

"You're my wife to be, baby. I know everything there is to know about you."

When he helps you into your wheelchair he presses a kiss against your temple.

"Are you ready to go home?"

You ought to be hesitant. Ought to wonder a bit more about the man with your ring on his finger. But in the confusion of waking and the rush of being around him, it doesn't occur to you at all.

"Absolutely. Rescue me from these awful beige walls, my handsome knight."

He laughs and kisses your cheek.

"As you wish, my lady love."

The discharge papers are a thick stack, and by the time you're done signing, your fingers ache. His name isn't anywhere to be seen, except for as the emergency contact.

"We still haven't updated our health insurance," he explains. You shrug and hand the papers back to reception, glad to finally be going home.

It's only when you're in his Jeep and driving further into the mountains that you think to ask where home actually is.

He tells you the address and laughs when you stare at him.

"Did I not mention it? We moved a few months ago, after you quit your job."

"But I love work. I find it hard to believe I left."

He hums quietly. "I think you'll understand when we get home."

Home. When he says it, you can't help but think of your apartment in the city.

It's coming back to you in bits and pieces. The security guard at the door, the long week spent picking out and assembling furniture when you first moved in, the scramble to get ready for a night out in your cramped bathroom.

You don't remember your fiancé though. No matter how hard you try.

The drive up to his house (yours too, try and remember that) is much longer than you expect. You doze off at some point, and when he wakes you the last bit of sunlight is fading into dusk.

The house is huge. The windows already blazing light, the front door standing open for you. It's all wood and stone, with pretty French doors.

You don't recognise any of it. 

"Is it only us out here?"

"Yep. Pretty big place for just the two of us, but you like the quiet. Here, put your arms around me. The gravel will just get in the way of your wheelchair."

"You're going to carry me in?"

He grins at you, half his face in shadow.

"Just like I did on our first night."

He pulls you out of the car and you curl your arms just a little tighter around his neck. No need. He's much stronger than he looks, walking all the way to the door without once loosening his grip on you.

He pauses on the threshold.

"Welcome home, baby."

He carries you into the house, the picture perfect husband to be. It makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks burn. How the hell did you manage to snag a man like him?

"We'll save the tour for tomorrow, yeah? I think it's best we get you to bed."

You nod against his chest. Tired in the bone weary way that comes from medication wearing off and pain setting in.

He takes you to the master bedroom - a sprawling, wood panelled room with a huge fireplace and a balcony that looks out on the trees.

"You should see the view in winter," he murmurs as he sets you down. "White and sky as far as the eye can see."

You're hurting, true. But there's a heat coiling through you wherever his touch lingers. A husband to be... doesn't that mean a wedding night too?

"I can think of better things to do in here than look at the trees," you say softly.

He tilts his head. "And what would those be?"

You still have your arms hooked around his neck. You pull him closer to you, until his hands come to rest on the bed.

"Is this where we celebrated our first night as an engaged couple?"

He freezes up and then nods.

"And did we enjoy it?"

"Yes," he answers, breathless.

"Not fair that only one of us remembers it, is it?"

Your brush your lips against his. Not exactly a kiss, but very close.

He stops breathing.

You let go of his neck and rest your palms on his cheeks. It's a little strange seeing him without the mask, and a little strange to be touching him so intimately. But he's spent almost every waking hour taking care of you. Has been nothing but sweet and gentle. Doesn't that deserve a proper thank you?

"Love?"

He pulls in a sharp breath and pushes you down onto the bed. Crawls on top of you, his knees on either side of your waist.

You laugh, breathless.

"Oooh, didn't think you were so pent up," you tease.

He doesn't answer you. Just drops his head to your neck and buries his nose in your hair.

You heart is going a mile a minute. Your whole body feels electric. Doc said to take it easy but what else is a girl supposed to do when her man is so handsome and so unbearably close?

You run your hands through his hair. He makes a small, choked sort of noise and brings his palms up to cup your face.

"I love you."

A mix of desperation and want. He straightens up, fisting the duvet on either side of your head.

"I love you," he says again.

You smile, reach up to brush your knuckles against his cheek.

"I think I'm falling in love with you, too."

He moves forward and the moonlight catches in his eyes.

You freeze.

That look. That hungry, scorching look...

Adrenaline rips through you and your jerk up, pushing yourself backwards.

He almost falls off the bed, catching the frame at the last second.

"Baby? What's wrong?"

He follows you and you almost scream.

"Baby?"

He stills, one hand reaching for you.

"I don't... I don't know. Just... just give me a minute."

What the hell was that?

It's like your body remembered something your mind couldn't. Threw you right back into a moment where you were terrified, where your heart was racing and a scream was being stifled in your throat.

He reaches for you again and you jerk away without thinking.

You don't want to be touched. Not by him, not by anyone. Not while that awful half memory is still running through your synapses.

"I'm sorry. Can we take a rain check, please? I'm not ready."

He doesn't answer immediately. He drags his eyes down your body, the same searching way he did when you first woke up. Trying to find something in your eyes, in your posture.

"Fine," he manages. "Rain check."

He pushes himself off the bed, his entire body stiff.

"I'm going to take a shower."

He doesn't wait for you to answer.

You pull your knees to your chest and try to tell yourself that it's nothing to worry about. Your brain was rattled loose, of course there's going to be sparks firing in the wrong cylinders for awhile. These strange reactions don't mean anything.

You have no reason to freak out like this. Your fiancé has been nothing short of perfect.

You tell yourself that, but you still flinch when he climbs into bed with you.

You pretend to be asleep when he slings an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. He buries his nose in your hair, sighs like a man coming home at long last.

"It's going to be okay, baby. You and I will be just fine. I'll make sure of it."

He's long gone when you wake up. The sun is slanting across your pillow and you give up on going back to sleep.

He left your wheelchair next to you, and after a few false starts, you manage to haul yourself in. You're still wary of putting too much pressure on your injured leg, and you flinch when an accidental knock sends a sharp pain lancing through your ankle.

Ouch. Not so easy when your man isn't around to hold you. If you needed yet another reminder, the dull throb in your ankle serves just fine.

Whatever happened last night, you still need him.

You take your time exploring the bedroom, opening all the drawers you can reach. Your clothes are neatly packed away, your heels lined up on the floor of the cupboard. Your books are sitting on the shelves, complete with all the knick knacks you've collected over the years.

There's a picture of you and your fiancé on the nightstand. He's got his arm around your waist and you've got your head tilted back to look at him. It's cute. And something about the way he holds you makes you feel warm and safe.

The room door is the only thing that gives you trouble. It's heavy, and difficult to swing open from your wheelchair.

You fiddle with the handle for a few minutes before finally giving up and calling for your fiancé.

You worry that he might not hear you through the wood, but a few minutes later your hear his footsteps.

He swings the door open and smiles at you.

"There she is. How did you sleep, gorgeous?"

"Okay. Was the door locked?"

He shrugs and fiddles with the latch.

"I don't think so. But it does tend to stick sometimes."

He leans down to kiss your cheek. "Don't worry about it, baby. I'm here to save you."

He makes you breakfast, and in the bright light of day its easy to forget the way he looked at you last night.

Easy to relax and laugh at his jokes and admire the way his forearms flex when he works.

You forget about your worries until lunch time rolls around.

He's chopping vegetables for a salad, the light bouncing off the knife. You aren't sure why it catches your attention - maybe you're just attracted to shiny things - but it has no trouble holding it.

There's something in the way he holds his knife that makes the back of your neck prickle. Makes some long dead gut instinct stir.

"Love?"

"Hmm?"

You aren't sure what you're going to ask until the words are already spilling out.

"I hate to be a bother, but do you think you'll be able to run to town later? I want to make my mum's chocolate mousse and I need a few ingredients. I'm really craving it."

He raises a brow. "Y'know, I've never tried it. You kept promising to make it, but work always got in the way."

"You promised to marry me without trying my chocolate mousse? Terrible oversight. The sort of thing that leads to divorce."

He winks at you. "I had some other sort of dessert in mind when I proposed."

He locks the front door before he leaves, and waves at you before he drives off.

You give it five minutes before you start searching. Enough time to make sure he isn't turning back.

You aren't sure what you're looking for - you just want something to jog your memory. A smell, the angle of the sun on the tiles, a picture or two. Whatever it takes to explain why your body is afraid of a man who's given you no cause to fear.

Most of the rooms are locked. That bothers you. Why would you need locked doors in your own house?

It's his study that seems the most promising. But his laptop is encrypted and you give up after five failed attempts at cracking his password. His desk drawers don't yield much beyond discarded receipts and half empty pens.

Well, until the last one.

It's locked, but after a few minutes of searching, you're rewarded with a key. Taped to the underside of the desk, totally out of sight and reach unless you're in a wheelchair.

Score.

The drawer is stuffed to bursting and it takes you a while to work it open. When you finally succeed, you're met with a stack of meaningless papers. Names and places you don't recognise.

You try to bite back your relief. Don't get too happy too soon. There might still be - if not skeletons - bones in the closets.

You shuffle through the pages without finding anything suspicious. You're about to put them back when you notice the phone.

It's tossed at the very back of the drawer with a few other odds and ends. You dig them out, not sure what you're looking at.

A man's ID. Neither the name nor the picture bear any resemblance to your fiancé. You don't recognise the owner.

Odd, but not insanely so. Maybe he's just holding onto it for someone.

A leather bracelet, with a metal band attached. You flip it over to read the engraving.

Forever and a day.

Still not suspicious, you tell yourself. You don't wear every piece of jewellery you own. It's crazy to expect your man to.

It's only when you power the phone on that you run out of excuses.

The wallpaper is a copy of the framed picture in your bedroom upstairs.

Except it isn't your fiancé that's holding you.

You breath catches in your throat. The man from the ID, his dimples showing as he smiles at you.

The phone isn't locked but you're not sure where to start. There isn't any signal, and when you scroll through the call log you don't recognise any of the names or numbers.

Pictures then. Those ought to clear things up.

They don't. The gallery is messy, but it isn't hard to find the pictures of you. There are hundreds.

Casual pictures of the two of you hanging out - kissing this stranger on the cheek and doing mud masks together. Corporate shots from work conferences - the two almost always next to each other.

You scroll and scroll, a widow into a life you don't remember.

The man is wearing a ring in some of the most recent pics. The same simple gold band your fiancé has.

He's wearing the bracelet too. That promise - forever and a day - pressed against his pulse.

You can't hear your own thoughts over the pounding of your heart. If this stranger is your fiancé, then who the hell was in bed with you last night?

"Baby. What are you doing?"

You whirl to face the door, your wheelchair shrieking against the tile.

Your fiancé (is he really?) is standing in the doorway, his eyes on the phone still clutched to your chest.

"How did you find that?"

You don't answer him. When he takes a step into the room, you back away.

He stops, watches you with his hands raised, palms up like he's calming at animal.

"Who the hell are you?"

Your voice isn't strong, but it's strident. Rough with the edges of panic.

He flinches. "It's not what you think."

"What else could it possibly be? You lied to me. Why?"

A thousand little things are clicking into place. Small mysteries that don't seem quite so harmless with the full picture laid out in front of you.

You have to dig your voice out of your throat before you manage to speak.

"You're not really scared of germs, are you?"

He looks at you for a long time. The sweet, kind, caring man who isn't at all who he claims to be. 

"No," he says at last, "I didn't wear the gloves or the mask because of the germs."

You try again, somehow more caustic.

"Tell me who you really are. Don't I deserve that much?"

"I'm the man you're meant to marry. What else matters?"

You grab the sides of your wheelchair, fulling intending to push yourself past him. Let him explain his story to the detectives and the district attorney. You want no part of it.

He jerks forward on instinct.

You blink and he closes the gap between the two of you. Slaps a hand over your mouth before you can scream.

God, how does he move so fast? You remember the hard muscles you felt when he hugged you to his chest last night. He might look harmless on the surface, but you're quickly realising the depths of his strength.

You twist your free hand in his shirt to shove him off but it's useless - you don't have any leverage at all. Your wheelchair rolls backwards until it's pinned against his desk.

He sighs and pulls the phone out of your hand.

You watch helplessly as he scrolls through the gallery, deleting one picture after the other.

"This is just a bit of silliness, baby. A little lapse in judgement. Your mind isn't what it used to be, you can't trust everything you see."

Whatever you try to say is muffled by his hand.

He sighs again and looks up at you, smiles in that prince charming way.

"Don't freak out, okay? This is exactly how things are meant to go. You and I were always endgame, baby. You just... forgot."

Your head is starting to ache. That same sharp, splitting pain you felt when you first woke up. His cologne is different today. Something woody and deep that makes your stomach churn. It's familiar, though you can't remember ever smelling it before.

He shuts the phone off and shoves it in his back pocket, his attention back on you.

His eyes have that awful glint to them again.

You think back to you hospital discharge - his name isn't anywhere on your papers. He's unrecognisable on camera with his mask and his hat. He's a ghost, as far as the investigation goes.

If there's an investigation at all.

As far as the authorities are concerned, you're safe at home with your fiancé. Your friends from the city (do you even have any? It's been so long since the last clear memory) probably assume you're on some incredible honeymoon with no cell service. No one knows where you are. 

He tilts his head and runs his free hand down the column of your throat.

"We just need to jog your memory, that's all. You'll calm down once you realise exactly what happened."

His hand falls from your throat to your jeans, his thumb stroking half circles against your inner thigh.

"You were always meant to be mine, baby. That's what you told me, the night you asked me to kill your fiancé. You promised me it would be just the two of us, for forever and a day."

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

Taglist: @jsprien213 @trolleri-trollera @mel-vaz

[revelboo]

Do you mind writing an Optimus Prime part 2? Whenever 😄 inspiration finds you.

Sure! Also, I just accidentally found out that a single post can’t have over 100 links in it by accident with my Masterlist... Guess I get to par that down to the first chapters of everything and add actual previous/next links to the individual posts to navigate within a storyline.

And I’ve had a few people speculating about it and tried to make it a bit clearer now on the masterlist: the IDW stuff is all one big continuity with Lost Light and the random kink snippets clearly separated as alternate takes/AUs now.

Gravity pt 2

Optimus x Reader

• “You’re going to give them a heart attack when they come to if you don’t stop looming like that,” Ratchet mutters and Optimus looks up trying to decide if his old friend is joking. Given the frown, Ratchet’s serious and he’s not sure what to make of that. He’d known humans were fragile, but your heart can just stop? From fear? “They’re a little banged up, but fine,” Ratchet adds as Optimus stretches out a servo to touch your still form and then hesitates. You’re just so tiny, he’s not sure he can touch you without breaking you. “Who are you giving this one to?”

• Like it’s a forgone conclusion he’ll pawn watching over you on someone else. Someone less busy, less weighed down with duty. “It’s my responsibility,” he says, watching your chest rise and fall. You’ve been out since he caught you and so very still. He keeps his optics on you so he doesn’t have to see Ratchet’s expression. Because this is his responsibility and his guilt. He knows it’s not fair to trap you on the Ark, but keeping the surviving Autobots safe is his priority. And the other humans seem fine. Mostly.

• “Bumblebee would take them,” Ratchet offers, a hand touching his arm. “I think he’d be glad of the company.” Shaking his head, Optimus carefully curls his servos around your limp form and lifts you. Hears Ratchet venting tiredly behind him as he walks out and carries you through the halls to his quarters. Trailbreaker and Hound both turning to look when he walks by, curious. Maybe it’s been a mistake to try to keep his people far from humans. Maybe not. Sideswipe probably won’t be the last to abuse his rules, but he’s not ready to trust the humans to not betray them yet. He can’t.

• Your head is ringing, sinuses burning as you stiffly shift and your body complains about it. Why do you feel like one big bruise? There’s a blanket wrapped around you, but whatever you’re laying on isn’t that soft. Something presses so gently between your shoulder blades that it’s a ghost of a touch then slides down your spine. Repeats the stroke. Lifting your head, you squint up at a huge face staring down at you and everything slams back into focus. The Jeep that wasn’t a Jeep. The wreck. Giant, alien robots. One of which is holding you in one hand while it runs a huge finger down your spine again and again. You start shaking. That petting stopping when it notices.

• You’re awake. And not screaming. That has to be good thing, but remembering Ratchet’s warning, he rumbles and presses a servo carefully over your heart. It’s not stopped, but it is racing. A little, warm hand lands on his servo, your eyes wide in fear as you just tremble. And he understands, you have to realize how tiny you are compared to him, how easily you can be hurt. “You’re going to be okay, little one. I have you,” he says, optics snared on that tiny hand on his. And he knows he’ll protect you just like his Autobots. Be sword or shield for you, whatever you need. You’re his to care for now, that trembling fear hurting him to see.

• That rumbly, deep voice sings in your bones where you’re touching him, because that voice erased any doubts. Blue eyes is definitely a he. And as crazy as it is, you believe him despite the fear. There’s an earnestness in that voice that’s almost a promise of safety. Wonder mingles with the fear still thrumming through you as you stare at those pretty glowing eyes and think that they look unbelievably kind. The thought almost immediately followed with the certainty that you probably have a concussion.

Previous

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[anotherspookyarchivist]

I have sinned some more. Here's another Stan in a Can snippet. For story context please look at this post, which includes the first two parts. Warning for those unaware, but this is a dark story; The funny name is misleading. "Communication". (CW: death, implied suicidal ideation, dehumanisation, emotional manipulation)

78467. 78468. 78469.

Lee was feeling something. An approximate of something. He tried to squish the feeling, because he didn’t want to risk Stanford’s mood before they’d even started.

Trepidation. That’s the word. It didn’t like the idea of complete detachment. Appeasing Stanford was important, but there was a part of him that knew that complete detachment would leave it with nothing.

It couldn’t see. It couldn’t touch. It couldn’t do anything. It’s trapped in this emptiness that is vast and unyielding.

Oh. That’s… interesting? Stanley stopped the mental count, disrupted by an actual memory. It liked the memories from the outside, it was hard to remember what reality looked like once – and Ford’s descriptions just weren’t enough for him; But the occasional memory – when he remembers seeing the outside world? Those memories have become his most cherished possession.

Thinking about its state reminded it of something that happened before Lee’s undeath. A different sort of darkness. A different sort of blindness. He’d felt so much back then, hadn’t he?

Rope burns on his arms, as he tried to shuffle out of them. Feelings of panic? Fear? Anxiety? Probably quite the mixture of it because it had been afraid to die. What a silly thought, he had been naive. Naive and in a lot of pain. Moreover as he had aggravated his injuries while trying his best to get out of that trunk. He had felt the pain for weeks after, its teeth were ruined; bruises everywhere on its vessel as it’d tried its best to find a new hiding spot.

If Stanley could smile, he would have. If he tried hard enough he could maybe remember what that felt like. To possess and be in control of a vessel and to feel its damage. The darkness of the trunk was still more than what he could see now, but maybe he could ‘play’ as if it were the same. That in just a few numbers he’d be finally try and move and feel a sting of something.

Then he discarded the thought.

Too risky.

He let go of the memory for now. The count was already quite high, and Stanford promised he’d return. So it’s better to not fall into any sort of emotion. Emotions were a low number thing. It was risky to dwell on them after 7484… or was it 6135?

Especially not now, where it was already struggling to keep itself in check. This must be the closest to happiness it’s felt in a while, and that was already dangerous. There was no need to add more.

It continued to count, and at 91362 it happened. Ford returned.

“Hello Stanley”, his brother always sounded so happy when he visited it. But Lee knew that he had to stay calm.

Hello Ford

“You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

Let me guess, the portal?

“Yes, the portal. Again.” Oh, Stanford sounded… annoyed? Or maybe frustrated. It was hard to grasp. But the other continued quickly, before Stanley could get a word in. “It’s already been syphoning most of my time but today, had proven itself to be worse than usual.”

That sounds bad.

“I apologise for my delay.”

Don’t worry about it.

“Though, in all fairness, I should be blaming McGucket.” If that was the case, then Stanley would blame them too. He’d never met this McGucket person, but since Ford knows them, they have to exist… but it didn’t want to miss its chance, so it quickly asked for elaboration.

What happened?

“Oh, I know you’re curious Stanley. I’ll tell you about, if you’d like – and if you promise not to tell anyone else.” One nice thing about wherever it was placed in – Lee could hear Ford so well. All the nuances of the other were somehow transmitted to it. It wasn’t like he was hearing it, and yet it was. There was no other voice than Stanford’s, no noises or interruptions. And yet, it could hear his brother’s sighs, and laughter, as well as the other’s anger during moments where it had messed up. Ford was such a good scientist; To be able to create something so impressive (and empty. It’s empty so empty and it hates being left so alo-). Focus. It wasn’t worth thinking about this. Not during their conversation.

He could hear Ford laughing at his own joke. Ford being happy was good. It meant that it hadn’t messed up, yet.

I won’t tell, I promise.

“We’ve attempted another parallel expedition” is what Ford started with. The portal, Stan had to admit, was something it didn’t quite understand, but he didn’t mind Ford telling him about it. It didn’t matter if it understood or not.

“We’ve been increasing the amount of excursions for a while. It’s mostly to fulfil those frustrating quotas as presented by the government.” the other paused for a moment, and Stanley tried to imagine what Ford looked like right now. Eyes twitching? Hands shaking? Those were things that a person could do….

Oh, it had nearly missed his brother’s next words. He really should be listening. He was being rude and ungrateful. Ford was talking. It liked it when Ford was talking, so he’d better be attentive.

“Oh Lee, you wouldn’t believe how demanding they’ve become. I’ve been tempted to use McGucket’s Memory Gun and to… erase some of our work from their memories, though that would also erase any potential of future funding.” Ford sounded unhappy about it.

“Sadly, the upkeep of the Institute demands that we work with the government, even if we don’t like it.” and there was it again. A huff. Oh, this one the thing in the void recognised all too well. It’s had enough experience by now to keep itself in check.

“But it’s not like you can judge me, Lee. I know what you did to survive.”

I wouldn’t have judged you either way, you know.

“I know you don’t like to hear it, but I still don’t understand why you didn’t consider asking me for help. You sold yourself for scraps. Debasing yourself over and over, instead of asking for my help; Not even when we met up again did you think about telling me. You drove off. Stanley, you’re impossible.”

It didn’t respond.

“This is exactly why we’re in this position now, you know? If you’d been honest with me, I could have helped you earlier.”

I know. I’m… I’m sorry.

“But at least I get to keep you safe now. There’s nothing that could hurt you.”

Yes. Thank you. Thank you. And I’m sorry.

“I forgive you. You hadn’t known any better, and now you do. You’ve been doing so well, Lee. I know you’re trying your best.”

I do. I am.

There’s only silence. It was familiar.

1. 2. – wait Ford was probably still there. For some reason the other wasn’t talking? But Stanley didn’t worry. Worry would only lead to Ford leaving for real.

Ford? So, what happened with the portal?

“You’re right. I was supposed to tell you about today’s mishap.”

It waited.

“There was an incident during today’s parallel expedition. McGucket and his team were visiting dimension 4546B, while I was observing their trip from the lab; The dimension had previously shown up on our scanners – and we’ve already categorised it as ‘dangerous’… but we had not been aware of any additional dangers.”

So wha-

“One person from the expedition team came into contact with their parallel self.”

Oh.

“We hadn’t even known that a simple touch could cause such destruction. The dimension was immediately falling apart – and I had to ensure that the expedition team would return safely nonetheless.”

The guy?

“Sadly, the team-member didn’t make it. Seemingly disintegrated before the rest of the team, which was a whole other issue.” It was sure that it could hear Stanford thinking loudly.

“It was both fascinating, as well as horrifying. A danger that we’ve been completely unaware of.”, there was amusement in his brother’s voice.

“Poor Fiddleford. He’s still really bad at handling these intense moments. I do wonder if he’ll be willing to continue leading these excursions.”

Maybe Fiddleford would also need to learn how to ignore emotions?

“The whole dimension collapsed. It doesn’t exist anymore. So much potential information lost in a blink of an eye. The government asking for reports that we don’t have. That’s why I’ve been gone for so long, Stanley.”

Don’t worry. The number wasn’t that high. I’m glad you’re here.

“Moreover, it was suggested that we increase security and change our protocol for interdimensional travel – again. For safety purposes. Just to ensure that it doesn’t happen again.”

That sounds like more work.

“I agreed”

oh. it knew what would come next. That’s why Ford had been so happy to talk about his day.

“I really thought that this would be done by now – but work really keeps piling up. But I know you. You don’t want me to overwork myself, and you don’t mind waiting for a bit longer for that communication model, do you, Lee?”

…

“I knew you wouldn’t mind. Thank you, Stanley. And you know that I’m just so happy to have you here with me, have you support me throughout all of this. As always, my closest confidant.”

…

“You’ve settled in so well, really. I promise you, you’ll get that communication device as soon as I can make the time. I know this is important to you.”

…

“You just have to trust me.”

I do. I have to.

...It wanted to trust his brother so badly. He wanted to be able to have more at his disposal than this mimicry of a real conversation. The illusion often shattering at inopportune times. Leaving Stanley with this empty feeling, because anything else was not allowed.

“I’ll see you again soon, right Stanley. Stay safe.” a chuckle, and then nothing.

Goodbye Ford.

It waited for a bit. And then for a bit longer. And when nothing else changed and it remained in the void, he began once again to count. He wanted to trust his brother… but he just started the count. The number was low. Stanford wouldn’t return before he’s reached a higher number. It allowed itself to feel. Just for now. No one would have to know. Just until the number was higher.

And it let itself feel; It tried to grasp the first emotion it could find within its being, and so he let himself feel fear.

[thatbanditqueen]

The Cactus Tree TOST One-Shot Snippet

I've been writing this on and off for months, among about five other wip chapters ficlets etc....I am setting a goal for myself to finish it this week because I want to return to this world and dive back into Elvis and Midge and explore different times from my fic The Only Sure Thing.

This is a snippet of a TOST one-shot I'm writing set in 1968. Midge has been on her own working in TV for the last couple of years, and after a rough up and down journey is trying to claw back her career. One Friday night she finds herself stuck in Palm Springs when a blast from her past rides out of the desert and back into her life....

Warnings: Nothing...yet.

Let me know if you want to be tagged or tagged - I copied an old taglist from my last TOST posting..... thanks to my friend whositmcwhatsit for alpha-ing this post from the afterlife outside tumblr and to @vintageshanny for cheering me on in my writing when I doubt myself.... To all my friends here in elvis fic world I am grateful to connect with you through him

9:34 p.m. Friday, December 11 1968

Starlite Diner, Palm Springs

I was looking out at the desert as I whined to Rona. I caught my scowl staring back at me in the mirror above the payphone and frowned deeper.

“Midge? You still there?” 

Rona’s voice echoed over the phone line.

I balanced the phone on my shoulder and wiped off the liner and mascara under my eyes, doing my best to smooth the flyaways jumping off the sides of my french twist.

“Sorry, Ro. Lost my train of thought - what was I saying? Oh yeah, no, so then she just took the script and told me - no, ordered me - to come back tomorrow morning. She must know I drove out here from the studio. What does she think I’m going to do for the next 14 hours?”

Rona’s voice purred back at me, warm and reassuring like a cup of coffee on a cold day. 

“Oh pussycat, you know how this game works. Lucy can do whatever she wants. Besides, I thought you told Helen you’d do whatever it took to - ”

“I know,” I sighed, thinking of my desperate promises. Promises I had made when I got out of The Farm and was back in LA, made begging my old boss for a second chance. “I just  - I didn’t think she’d stick me with Bobbi. That woman has it out for me. You should have seen her jump at the chance to send me here.”

“Stop sulking, Midge, it will give you wrinkles. You’re in one of the most exclusive resorts in the world. Why not take the opportunity and spend the weekend out there.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the lifeless main street on the other side of the diner and sighed.

“I’d consider it, but it’s emptier than Macy’s after a sale. I'm at the edge of civilization out here, I can’t figure why people make such a fuss about getting away to Palm Springs. Who would want to spend time here?”

Rona coughed. Pointedly. “Ahem. Well, me, for one.”

“Oh yeah.” I gulped, remembering why I’d called.  “So, can I crash at your pad?” 

“You know I would almost be insulted, Miriam, if I weren’t used to your meshugas.”

I could hear Rona rolling her eyes.

“I know I know,I’m a thoughtless jerk always sticking my foot in my mouth.”

“Enough with the half-assed apologies already. Of course you can stay at my place, Midge. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and try to enjoy it. Because getting away from civilization is the whole point.”

“I guess I just don’t get the appeal.” 

“Peter Lawford has the house next to mine. If you see him, you should ask him why he'd want to hide out from his wife or the studios and their morality clauses, and spend the weekend suffering by the pool with his harem of mistresses. Behind all those tall hedges. In our gated community.”

“Hmm, so you’re saying Palm Springs is for sex. Of course. But wait, you can’t tell me Lucy is coming out here to have secret orgies.”

I heard a dish rattle, and turned to see the diner’s lone waitress filling my coffee cup back at the counter. I wondered if she had heard me and smiled awkwardly at her as I listened to Rona.

“You might be surprised.”

“Rona. Not everything is about sex.”

“Ok, so, it’s also privacy. Status. And relaxation. You should try it. Maybe you’ll hit it off with Peter.”

“Ha, no thanks. I’m done with men for a while.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. A good schtupping is just what you need, it’s been what, a few months?”

I caught myself frowning again and twirled the pay phone, clearing my throat.

“It’s been - a  - look. I’m just starting to get things back together, I don’t want any distractions.”

Rona tutted at me.

“Who said anything about a distraction? You’re overthinking this. Unless, what, is this some sort of AA thing or something?”

“No, not really. It’s more of a me rule.”

“OK, but wait, what if Peter doesn’t stick it in all the way, just an inch-”

“Rona!”

“That doesn’t break your rule, right?”

“That might work for the Kennedys, Ro, but not for me.”

I had to cover my mouth after another curious look from the waitress followed our burst of giggles.

A small potted cactus sat next to the cash register at the front of the diner and I stood there, studying it, as the  waitress drew me a map to Rona’s place. 

I nodded at the plant. 

“Isn’t it hard enough trying to avoid these things outside without bringing them inside as pets?” 

The waitress paused and looked up at me. Her face was framed by her long blonde hair hanging down around her face unstyled. Upon closer inspection, I realized that she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Or a bra.

“My heart is full and free like the cactus tree.” She hummed lightly. “I think she’s beautiful -”

“- she?” I mused.

“Oh yeah, she’s definitely a girl. She told me so when I liberated her.”

“Liberated, huh?”

“Mmmm. From the sun. Takes a lot for cacti to survive in the desert. Can’t blame them for trying to protect themselves, and I think it makes her all the more beautiful.” 

“Well, that’s a first. If being prickly makes you beautiful, I must be a knockout.”

“Huh?” The waitress looked up at me, eyes squinting, as if I’d just grown a third eye.

I looked at her, like really looked at her, for the first time that night. We were probably about the same age, I bet she was 25 or 26, but she spoke to me like I was some 100 years old. I wanted to pick up her liberated cactus plant and use it to pop her free spirit. Instead, I smiled sweetly and took my map.

“Well. She doesn't seem very free to me, all caged up in here just for you to admire.”

The waitress started to say something, but I didn’t hear it. I was suddenly distracted by a large cloud forming in the desert behind her.

“Say, is that some sort of nighttime sandstorm?”

She looked over her shoulder where I pointed.

“Ugh, it’s those bums -  just a bunch of rich teens from Las Palmas racing the sand dunes.”

“You’d think it would be illegal after dark.”

“It is.” The waitress shrugged. “But those pricks don’t think the rules apply to them, and I guess the cops agree. No one ever comes after them. They've done it every weekend this month.”  

The sand clouds grew until they were not more than fifty yards off, and then an army of ants drove out from under the dust, growing larger as they swerved haphazardly toward us.

“Well, I guess if you can’t find the nightlife you have to make it yourself.”

The waitress folded her arms and directed her disdain towards the fleet of buggies zooming over the sand.  “Oh yeah, they think our parking lot is just here to be a turning point in their relay race.” 

“Teenage boys are idiots. How did our species ever evolve?”

She nodded halfheartedly, quiet as we watched the buggies jump the top of the concrete wall that divided the desert from this part of town.

“Gosh, I thought for sure he was gonna eat it.”

“Nah, they make it alright. ” She turned, nonchalantly, to finish my map. “S’like Dylan said, the rich man drives his Lincoln past the red light with a grin.”

“Ain’t it the truth.” 

The sounds of teen boys hooting with delight followed me to my car, and I smiled at their youthful exuberance, trying to think of the last time I’d done anything reckless. Probably the last time I’d seen Elvis. 

And then, as if my memories were coming alive, one of the racing karts crossed my path and I was staring into a face I knew all too well. 

I blinked, frozen in my tracks. Was I hallucinating? This was no teenage boy. No. It was Alan. One of the guys in Elvis’ entourage. One of the guys I’d known almost all my life.

Alan had watched from the sidelines living, like I was, in Elvis' LA homes as I’d gone through all the cliche stages of first love in the arms of an insecure movie star incapable of fidelity: smitten idiot, playmate, devoted lover and scorned lunatic. And Elvis had played his roles impeccably, hitting all the marks of besotted loverboy, impulsive child, jealous partner and spiteful cad. 

One of the good things to come out of all those sessions at The Farm was understanding that I had done this to myself. And working with Shirley, my AA sponsor, I’d been able to let go of all the resentment I had carried around toward him like a bucket of mud I’d been carrying around on my head. When I was honest with myself, I knew that I had been with Elvis, as always, the architect of my own demise.

I had known from the moment I first smiled at Elvis that the spark I’d felt in my belly was dangerous. That to pursue him was a bad idea. Before we even kissed. He’d been dating Anita then, along with every co-star and a cadre of fairweather girls from Los Angeles to Memphis.  Facts I had known well, courtesy of my brother,  Artie, who, like Alan, was in Elvis’ entourage. Yes, even at 17 I had known all the way to my core that getting involved with Elvis was a no good, very bad absolutely train wreck of an idea. 

But I hadn’t been able to help myself. 

And it had been the mistake that kept on giving. Even after I had stopped living with him, even after I had sworn to never see him again, something would happen. I’d run into him, or Charlie would call me out of the blue, and suddenly I forgot all the pain and heartache and ran right back to him like a ship purposefully charting course for a hurricane. Until she destroyed herself.

I wasn’t that girl anymore though. I had left her and all her other bad decisions in New York when I went to The Farm a year ago. I was smart. I knew better. And I knew how to act like it too now. 

And so, when I heard his voice there, in the cool desert night, bringing me back from the past and into the moment, I took a deep breath and steeled myself against the pounding of my heart

“Quit scaring the locals, Hog Ears. Damn boy.” The buggie stopped moving and Elvis turned toward me. One arm was snaked around a petite blonde, while the other waved at me and his tone shifted to the aw shucks Southern charm he used on unsuspecting strangers.

“Sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to forgive my friend here - he can’t drive for nothin’ - “ 

Our eyes met and I blushed when the recognition knocked the words out of his mouth.

His tall, slim body was still only for a beat as he did a double take, and then launched out of the buggie like a rocket to pull me into a tight embrace before I could even say hello.

“Miryum, is it really you? I can’t believe it.”

“Uh-huh-um-yeah.”

His eyes were bright as he looked me over and I pinched my nail into my palm trying to quell the nervous flutter in my chest.

“You out here looking for me, honey?” 

His voice was low and sweet, and his hands found my waist with a familiar squeeze. They rolled over my body the way he might run them over an old coat, checking to make sure his wallet was still where he left it.

I wanted to collapse into him, soak up the smell of sweat and cheap cigars and earthy desert air that I found in his chest and stay there forever. The intensity of his fingers grasping my sides tempted me, but then I heard a cough and found a sweet blonde looking back at me over his shoulder with an even sweeter smile.

Elvis stepped back and shook his head as if coming out of a daze, then ran his hand through his hair, but it didn’t do any good. The black shiny mess flopped back out like a mushroom over the sides of his head.

I laughed out at it and he narrowed his eyes at me, licking my shin with the tip of his shoe and then shuffling back and jamming his hands into his back pockets as he glanced at his companion.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, uh, this is “

The blonde smiled bigger as she stuck out her hand and tried to hug me too. She must be a native Californian.

“Susie.”

Elvis rested his arm on her shoulder and pointed at me, 

“This is uh Miryum, Artie’s - uh - friend. Sister. From Memphhiss.” 

Susie took my hand in hers, warm and kind all the things I was much to try to even try to fake.

“Neato, I love that guy. He’s so fun. You guys here for the weekend?”

Fun. A word I never applied to my brother and his permanent frown. I smiled even bigger and friendlier. 

“Oh, no. I’m actually in Palm Springs for work. I didn’t even know you had a place out here.”

His steady gaze faltered, just for a moment, like a candle flickering in the wind.

“I guess it’s been a while, ain’t it.”

“Mmmhmmm.” 

The husky, low grain of his voice sent a shiver down my back and I had to look at the ground to escape his eyes as they searched my face.

“Artie was just here last weekend, wasn’t he, El?”

Elvis looked up at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten she was here. Even as his hand hung over her shoulder. 

“Huh, what honey? Oh yeah, we should get back. Joe and Richard liable to have eaten all the chow.”

Elvis gave me a kiss on the cheek and murmured how good it was to see me.

“You need anything, you just let me know, ok? Anything, baby. I mean it.”

His breath was warm against my skin and I had to bite my lip to stop the sigh at the back of my throat from coming out. I nodded and mumbled at my feet.

“I know.”

I hit his shoulder, and Susan ambushed me with a big hug and whispered “I hope I see you around.”

Our bonding was cut short by Elvis’ loud stomping back to his buggy and I watched her scurry to catch up. He waved his hand in farewell from the go-cart, and with a final wink, started his engine and descended back into the desert from whence he had emerged like a mirage at an oasis.

I clenched my fists and sighed at the moon; Ready to let gravity take me down to the dirty, rough ground of this empty parking lot, but, instead, I took a deep breath and summoned the strength to force my legs to carry me to my car and contemplate the twisted sense of humour of the universe.

Six months ago, I had returned to LA and I had purposefully been avoiding Elvis since coming back. Of course I would run into him here. Tired, disheveled, hardly able to form complete sentences after a day from hell.

It was almost too absurd to believe.

I began to doubt if this had really happened. Had Elvis been here at all, or was I having a nervous breakdown?  Maybe I was still at The Farm, strapped in for another electric shock treatment and, any minute, I would come too, sweaty and naked under a robe, screaming as I convulsed into the lights above my head. 

I slapped my cheek.

“You’re crazy, you know that? You need sleep.”

Scott McKenzie was on the radio, and I began to sing along as I put the car in first gear. Then there was a loud slap on the window and I screamed at the top of my lungs as I turned to find Alan standing there, asking me where I was staying.

comment and let me know what you think.....

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[fairytalegonewronga03]

New BuckTommy Fic!

Bare Baking With Buckley

Rated E Read here! 🥧🥧🥧🥧

After his breakup with Tommy, Buck starts a baking vlog to cope with his feelings. When Tommy sees the videos, he realizes he still loves Buck and wants him back. The two reconnect and find their way back to each other.

Or the one where Buck starts a vlog baking half naked. Snippet below! 🥧🥧🥧🥧

As the layers of his elaborate cake baked, filling the kitchen with a mix of sweet aromas, Buck found himself typing "hobbies to get over an ex" into the search bar. His fingers hesitated for a moment, hovering over the keys, before he hit enter. The screen filled with an array of suggestions, each promising a path to healing and self-discovery.

Scrolling past recommendations for yoga, rock climbing, and learning a new language, Buck's attention was caught by a colorful blog post titled "Finding Your Voice: How Vlogging Saved My Broken Heart." Intrigued, he clicked on the link, his eyes scanning the page as the author described how putting their thoughts into videos had helped them process their grief and rediscover their passion for life.

As he read, Buck found himself imagining his own vlog. He could picture himself sharing his baking adventures, documenting each creation with carefully staged photos, videos and detailed recipes. Perhaps he could even branch out, exploring the history of different desserts or reviewing local bakeries. The possibilities seemed endless, and for the first time in weeks, Buck felt a spark of excitement ignite within him. The timer's shrill beep jolted Buck from his reverie. He quickly pulled on his oven mitts, and carefully extracted the cake layers from the oven. As he set them on the cooling rack, the sweet aroma of vanilla and chocolate wafted through the air, mingling with the lingering scent of cinnamon. While the cakes cooled, Buck returned to his laptop, his mind buzzing with possibilities. He began jotting down ideas for his potential vlog, his handwriting becoming increasingly messy as his excitement grew.

As he brainstormed, a notification popped up on his screen – a new comment on his Instagram post from last week. It was a picture of him proudly holding up a tray of freshly baked croissants, his biceps flexing slightly as he smiled at the camera. The comment read: "Those croissants look delicious, but I'm more interested in the baker." Buck felt a blush creep up his neck. It wasn't the first time he'd received such comments. Friends and acquaintances often complimented his physique, a result of years of working out and staying active. Tommy loved his physique. Buck's mind wandered to Tommy, memories flooding back unbidden. He remembered how Tommy's eyes would light up whenever Buck emerged from the shower, droplets of water still clinging to his defined abs. Tommy would often trace the contours of Buck's biceps with his fingertips, marveling at their strength and definition. "How did I get so lucky?" he'd whisper, pressing a soft kiss to Buck's shoulder. Those compliments had always made Buck feel invincible, like he could conquer the world. 

Suddenly, an idea struck him. What if he combined his love for baking with his... physical assets? He pictured himself in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron around his neck and a pair of snug boxer briefs, whipping up delectable treats while explaining the intricacies of French pastry techniques. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. It was outrageous, perhaps a little risqué, but it could be just the thing to set his vlog apart from the countless other baking channels out there. Plus, it might be a fun way to boost his confidence and rediscover his sense of playfulness after the breakup. If Tommy happened to see it and got jealous, well that was a bonus. Buck's fingers flew across the keyboard as he began to flesh out his concept. He'd focus on simple, approachable recipes that even novice bakers could tackle. But the real draw would be his charismatic personality and, well, his physique. He imagined the camera panning to his muscular hands as he kneaded bread dough, or zooming in on his arms pulled taught as he whisked a meringue to stiff peaks.

As he brainstormed potential names for his channel, a grin spread across his face. "The Half-Naked Baker"? No, too on the nose. "Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice"? Too cutesy. Then it hit him – the perfect blend of cheeky and charming: "Bare Baking with Buckley." Laughing to himself, Buck closed his laptop and turned back to his cooling cake layers.

🥧🥧🥧🥧

[lossie92]

I know I'm a bit late, but hey, at least I'm posting something, right? 🫣

The promised snippet comes from an unnamed story in which Madara encounters a feral Tobirama in the Uchiha territory.

I hope you enjoy it!

-

Warnings: a/b/o au, mentions of kidnapping

-

Kagami was alive.

His little bean, his baby… He was alive.

Madara couldn't believe it despite how much and how desperately he had been praying for it. Yet here he was now, a little dirty and maybe slightly thinner than Madara remembered him being, but alive.

To say it felt like a miracle would be an understatement.

How he ended up with Tobirama was a mystery, though Madara had his guesses.

“Can I come closer?” He asked, his eyes locked with Tobirama's. His body was as relaxed as he could make it and he had his hands by his side, open palms turned towards the omega.

When he received no response, he started to slowly inch closer. Predictably enough, Tobirama's growl grew louder with each step he took and he was also showing his teeth now in a snarl that twisted his face into something truly wild and animalistic. That was to be expected though. Feral omegas were known to be incredibly wary and aggressive, and Tobirama was no exception.

Having a pup in his care didn't make things any less stressful for him either. An omega’s instinct was to protect their pups by any means necessary. The intensity of that instinct varied depending on an individual. There were omegas who barely responded to a pup in danger and those who started producing milk any time they heard a pup cry.

Tobirama's instincts and drive to protect seemed strong to say the least, and the way he was shielding Kagami, obviously intent on dying if need be in order to keep him safe, meant he wouldn't back down from a challenge.

Madara wasn't interested in challenging him in any way.

Kagami seemed perfectly content strapped against Tobirama's chest in a makeshift carrier. He was safe and asleep, and that was all that really mattered.

However, that didn't change the fact that Madara wanted to get a whiff of Kagami's scent; to touch him and hold him again. He had missed his baby so much it physically hurt to think about it.

With that in mind, Madara moved another step closer and then another, and another. Careful, measured steps that he hoped wouldn't trigger or provoke the omega.

He was almost an arm's length away when Tobirama suddenly stopped growling. He then started to sniff the air around him, likely able to catch a whiff of Madara's scent by now, before his eyes widened only to then become glassy with tears that soon began to fall down Tobirama's face seemingly unnoticed.

“M-mate?” The omega whispered in a raspy, wet voice as he leaned forward, a shaky hand extended towards Madara. “Mate!”

“I'm not—” Madara started to deny before he thought better of it.

There was no point in arguing with Tobirama right now, was there?

[myownwholewildworld]

wherever you go (a joel miller’s ff) - chapter 4

chapter 3 | series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 5

pairing: outbreak!2003!joel x f!reader.

a/n: hiya! i already mentioned all of this in my snippet post, but i'll do so again. in this chapter we are going down some dark path. probably not wise considering how shit has been going down as of late in the pedro pascal fandom. i have tried to write this chapter as sensibly as i could given the circumstances reader is in. i know this is a sensitive topic so please, PLEASE, read the warnings before you go ahead. i promise i'll make it up to you guys in the next chapter. other than that, i do appreciate any comments, reblogs and/or likes you may want to leave! i love engaging with you guys. take care of yourselves <3

warnings: MDNI, 18+. please proceed with caution. if any of the following warnings trigger you, skip this chapter. DARK THEME. r4pe threats (it doesn’t happen, but still). death threats. mention of voyeurism. unsolicited dirty talk. slapping. reader is humiliated. derogatory terms (bitch, whore). swear words. masturbation (m to himself). body shaming (well deserved though). blood. violence. gore bc joel loses his shit. murder (but it’s okay because i say so). soft!caring!joel. pet name (dove). reader is female, no other description given. reader is mid-late 20s, joel is 36. no use of y/n.  joel's and reader's pov.

w/c: ~2.3k.

tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed from the list pls!): @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

Joel groaned, face down on the ground. His head hurt like hell, to the point where he could not even open his eyes. A drilling pain on the back of his skull pierced through the whole way to the space between his eyebrows. He squeezed his eyes, in an attempt to clear his sight, before opening them. The whole world spun around him like a merry-go-round ― he felt like throwing up.

He motioned his hand backwards to where the searing pain was coming from, only to find a new source of aching ― his right shoulder felt like it was dislocated, but the reality was that he had been shot.

I have been shot, he repeated in his mind.

Why though? He couldn’t remember what had happened nor where he was.

“Joel! What the fuck is going on?!”, Tommy’s voice forced him to close his eyes again. He kneeled beside Joel, putting pressure on his shoulder. “Where is she?”

Where is who? he wanted to reply.

And then it hit him. You both gave in to your passion, and he ruined it by labelling it “a mistake”. And then hell broke loose ― his last memory was your screams before you were dragged away.

Consciousness flooded back into him. Joel sat up quickly ― too quickly as his head pulsed in excruciating pain.

“Easy, Joel”, said the younger Miller, removing his hand to inspect the wound and tying a piece of clothing around the shoulder to contain the bleeding. “The bullet has gone through cleanly. You’re going to need to take care of that wound but should heal just fine”.

“They’ve taken her, Tommy”, Joel managed to mutter.

Doom washed over him. He felt sick to his stomach at the mere thought of what your destiny might be. He should have paid attention; he should have known you both were being watched. But at that moment in time he was thinking with his cock, not with his brain. He put you in harm’s way. He knew he shouldn’t have exposed you like that. He would not have done it had he known someone was spying on you both.

His last words to you basically meant that you were a mistake he regretted. His heart contracted so hard at the realisation of what he had said, his lungs evacuated all air within them. Where those going to really be his last words to you?

Joel gulped down the knot in his throat. He truly was a damned man. Everyone he touched, died. His deceased wife, Sarah, now potentially you too.

Death might be her best way out, that intrusive thought scared the shit out of him. He shook his head at the idea, in denial.

“Who have?”, Tommy asked. Joel could hear fear in his brother’s voice, mirroring his own.

Joel stood up with the help of Tommy and touched the back of his skull, finding the sore spot. It was wet ― blood covered the palm of his hand, which he cleaned on his jeans.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. If something happens to her, I swear to fucking God, Tommy, I will―”.

Tommy nodded in understanding and handed Joel the rifle and his jacket.

You were finding very hard to come back to consciousness. Your thoughts were a tangled mess, not being able to connect them in a way that made sense. You felt like you had been sleeping for ages, but it had only been five minutes. Your heart was beating slowly on your chest, your breaths shallow.

You heard two male voices nearby. For a second, you thought they were Joel and Tommy. But even in your semi-conscious state, you knew it wasn’t them. You managed to open one eye, looking around. Memories started to crawl back ― you and Joel fucking like the world was ending, him being a prick once again, then the gunshot, Joel falling to the ground, two men approaching and taking you away. Your heart began to race.

Was he alive? He had to be. He couldn’t have died. You would know, you would feel it in your guts. You felt like your chest was being crushed. No, he can’t be.

“God, I am gonna come”, you spotted the first man you saw, the one who shot Joel, jerking off besides you.

Had you been fully conscious, you would have retched when he cleaned the cum off his hand on your T-shirt.

“She was fucking that guy like a whore, she won’t mind if we use her for a bit”, said the second man. “I bet her cunt is still fucking wet. But we should wait for the others to get here first”.

You were slowly coming back to your senses, starting to understand the gravity of your situation. By the way they talked, it was pretty clear what their plans for you were. The prospect of being raped awakened your fight-or-flight instinct, your brain racing with thoughts, trying to come up with an escape plan. Either you fled, or you died trying.

You were sat up, your back against a tree, your hands loosely tied up in front of you. You rubbed one hand against the other, the right one slowly coming off the knot.

“I want to fuck her mouth so bad ― I don’t think that lucky bastard did”, you were not sure who said it, but you didn’t care.

“With such a small dick, I bet you I still would have plenty of room in my mouth to be able to talk unbothered”, you couldn’t stop the snarky remark.

The first man didn’t take your comment very graciously, probably ashamed of such a small dick. He slapped you with such force, the ring on his finger slashed the skin on your right cheek. You fell to the ground on your belly, your hands becoming free in the process, which you hid under your body so that monkey of a man wouldn’t notice.

“We’ll see how much you laugh after we’re finished with you and leave your broken body somewhere for your boyfriend to see”, he threatened with a laugh, touching himself again. "Open up, bitch".

He grabbed you by your hair, forcing you to face him, his ridiculously tiny dick too close to your mouth. You pulled away from him with all your might, releasing yourself from his grasp.

Although you put on a mask and pretended this was not affecting you, you were so fucking frightened. Your survival instinct kicked in again when the same ape tried to snatch you by the T-shirt as you slithered away, partially ripping it. You turned around quickly and scratched his face ― your nails sinking in his skin as deep as you could. You thought you hit his eye ― and you wished him blind. You growled like a cornered animal when the second man approached you, while the first one was on his knees wailing like a newborn baby.

“So you’re a fighter, huh?”, he chuckled.

When he got close, you knocked him off his feet by swinging one of your legs sideways under him. That was your chance ― and you took it. You got up and started running, the second man shouting blasphemies while going after you.

You had only run like five yards when a gunshot echoed in the middle of the night. You ducked and tripped, falling to the ground.

You looked back and saw that guy face down on the dirt, not moving. The back of his head was blown to pieces, half of it had disintegrated into thin air. Blood and brain bits had started to soak the leaves under him.

Then you saw Joel a few feet back, rifle on hand, Tommy just a few metres behind him.

You sighed with relief.

Joel had one look at the state of you and wished he hadn’t shot that man. He should have suffered a more terrible death. He felt anger ―no, fury― burning up his insides. Joel was seeing red, not being able to tame his feelings back under control. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins with solace ―you were alive― but also with rage.

“Man, we’re sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not what it looks like, I had nothing to do with this”, begged the man who had shot him ten minutes earlier.

Joel slowly turned around to face him. The asshole was on his knees, his left eye bleeding profusely, trousers pulled down and his micropenis dangling out of his underwear. With his eyes fixated on the poor excuse of a man praying on the ground, Joel handed the rifle to Tommy and unsheathed the folding hunting knife he kept in his boot.

“No, please, I promise you I didn’t touch her, I would never―”, his pleading fell on deaf ears.

“You fucking liar”, Joel said under his breath, positioning himself behind the kneeled man.

Joel grabbed him by his hair, pulling his head backwards to expose his neck. He could see tears on the edges of his eyes. He was young, probably around twenty, but Joel didn’t give a fuck. He deserved to die. Joel unfolded the hunting knife by removing the safeguard, placed it under his chin and slit his throat slowly but steadily. The man gagged, desperately trying to fill his lungs with oxygen ― his hands had flown to his neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but blood was pouring out like a fountain.

Joel looked at him dead in the eye until the man’s arms fell to his sides. When he was sure that motherfucker was dead, he let go of the head, the body making a thudding sound when it hit the floor.

Only then he dared to look in your direction. He wasn’t ready to see you down on your knees, dry tears on your cheeks. You looked like a baby deer in the middle of the road at night, blinded by the headlights. One side of your T-shirt was ripped from top to bottom, one of your breasts showing. You were not moving, your big eyes widened in shock.

Joel did not want to imagine what had happened to you, but he saw semen on your T-shirt and his brain started wandering off to the darkest of places. He was frozen in place for a few seconds before finally approaching you slowly, afraid you were going to step back away from him. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. He put away the knife before kneeling in front of you ― his hands, palms down, up in the air.

“Are you…?”, he didn’t finish the question because it was obvious you were not okay.

“It’s okay”, you answered immediately.

Joel gave you a puzzled look.

“No, it’s not fucking okay”, he whispered.

Then reality dawned on you. Your body had been on high alert this whole time, your instincts forcing you to put your feelings away so you could focus on the task at hand ― escaping as unscathed as possible. It wasn’t until those men were dead and Joel faced you, that you allowed emotions to take over you.

Your eyes welled up, your entire body shaking as the adrenaline abandoned your system.

“I… I don’t… It’s just…”, you couldn’t form coherent sentences.

Joel closed the distance between you two and hugged you. You buried your face in his chest and sobbed silently for minutes on end. His left hand stroked your hair as he held you and whispered calming words in your ear. When your eyes dried up, you looked up at him through damp eyelashes and he swept away the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, the rest of his fingers gently placed on your jawline.

“Your cheek”, Joel���s lips wrinkled as he hovered his thumb over the wound.

You could tell he was trying to control himself, but as the seconds went on, he got calmer.

“Can I?”, he muttered, looking down to your teared T-shirt.

You nodded and he helped you take it off. Joel blocked Tommy’s vision with his broad body while he removed his jacket and helped you put it on, discarding your dirty T-shirt to one side.

“They didn’t…”, you tried to explain, your bottom lip trembling.

“We don’t need to talk about it now, only when you’re ready ― if you’re ever ready”, he spoke softly.

You greatly appreciated he didn’t push you for an explanation of what had happened. You were not sure you could talk about it without breaking down again. You breathed in deeply and nodded again. Then you noticed the blood on his shoulder. You raised one hand, softly touching the improvised dressing.

“You’re hurt, Joel”, you mumbled.

“It’s nothing, it’s not even painful. Let’s go back to the cave. You need to rest and I need to clean that wound on your cheek before it gets infected”, said Joel while helping you up.

You saw Tommy in the distance ― he had been kind enough to give you some privacy. Joel guided you through the trees, his left arm firmly wrapped around your waist to aid you in your walking.

You didn’t get too far though, not even with his help. Your legs were so wobbly you were afraid you couldn’t stand any longer. Joel saw you struggling and with no hesitation whatsoever, he picked you up in his arms to carry you to the cave.

"You're gonna hurt your shoulder even more, Joel", you complained.

"Nonsense", he whispered, softly kissing your forehead.

You did not protest after that again and hugged his neck, your face hiding in the curve of his neck.

In his arms, you felt safe. Your haven on this twisted, revolting earth.

“One of the men said they were waiting on more people to arrive”, you remembered suddenly.

Joel briefly looked down at you. You could tell he was controlling his face expression.

“Don’t worry about it, dove. I’ll take care of each one of them”.

That was a promise he kept religiously.

[quintessenceofdust88]

Fuck it Friday

I was tagged by the amazing @typicalopposite for Fuck it Friday and I decided it'd be a great occasion to post a little more of my 'Nonna Rosa fixes her stupido grandson's relationship' that I started on Wednesday! It's really just a snippet, but I hope to have if finished and published this weekend, so yay ♥ Happy Friday, everyone! (and later today I promise I'll get around to publish the prompts that are in my inbox!!)

“Pronto? Tommasino?” She answers the call, as always with the camera too close to her face to the point where Tommy can only see one glimpse of her eye, and that at least brings a smile to his face.

“Nonna, you need to stretch your arm a little. Remember, like Charlie showed you?” He asks with a chuckle; Charlie being his cousin’s daughter, Charlotte, who taught Nonna how to FaceTime so she could ‘see Tommasino’s pretty face more often’, in her own words. 

She stretches her arm and Tommy gets a good look at her. Nonna looks the same as always, sharp blue eyes in a soft face that’s wrinkled both from age and from a lifetime of smiles. Her hair is wrapped in hair rollers and tucked safely behind a red bandana. Tommy misses her fiercely, and wishes more than ever that he could get wrapped in one of her hugs. 

They always did wonders for him when he was a little boy who used to climb trees and get scrapes and bruises; when he was a scared eleven-year-old missing his mother (and as a grown-up he can appreciate Nonna was hurting at least as much as him, having lost her daughter, but still never let it show) and dealing with an angry abusive father; when he was a scared eighteen-year-old leaving the only home he’d ever known to join the Army. And when he was a scared 33-year-old man, coming out as gay to his 75 year-old-grandmother, afraid of being rejected by the one person alive who truly loved him, and Nonna had stood on her tiptoes, pulled him into one of those hugs, and told him all she ever wanted for Tommy was to see him happy. 

A hug from his grandmother had always made Tommy feel like the world was an easier place to be faced, and right now, that’s exactly what he needs. And his longing must show in his face, because she’s frowning at him, her eyes full of concern. 

“Oh, Tommasino” She says softly. “What’s wrong, bambino mio? You look so sad” She asks, and to Tommy’s horror, he finds his eyes filling up. Nonna has that way of bringing out every emotion he tries to repress.

“Everything’s wrong, Nonna, and it’s all my fault”

-- Np tagging @bidisasterevankinard @unhingedangstaddict @30somethingautisticteacher and whoever else wants to join! :D

[tired-reader-writer]

Something possessed me these past few days (as I was coughing my lungs out T_T) and I just for no reason started collecting snippets from the Khorda Avesta site? Anything and everything that caught my attention????

I'm still not sure if I can formulate these into a proper post since I was aimlessly exploring when I picked these up but... I'm gonna try—

[EDIT: I suddenly remembered the reason as I was compiling the quotes in the drafts! I was curious about the royal bracelets' design (which @innerchorus pointed out likely drew inspiration from tauroctony scenes as they were described as being engraved with a design of a young man on the back of a bull, stabbing the bull in the head with a short sword) and I thought, okay, why does specifically this imagery indicate royalty? And so I started looking around about the tauroctony, then Mithraism, then Mithra, then cue me scratching my head and screaming in confusion, then going around for the actual prayers 😭]

I won't get too deep into the tauroctony stuff (mainly bc there just isn't much to get into in the first place) but long story short it's a Roman thing, not a Persian thing, it was the cult of “Mithras” and though they shared a deity/name, I don't think there was any substantial link between Mithraism and Zoroastrianism— David Ulansey even apparently said that “there is no evidence that the Iranian god Mithra ever had anything to do with killing a bull” and I think I am inclined to agree, considering that he in Zoroastrianism is a protector of cattle instead. (In the hymn dedicated to him, he is repeatedly referred to as “lord of wide pastures”).

So anyways, I don't currently have a concrete explanation on why imagery connected to Mithra (kinda, not really) was used to indicate the potential royal status of three characters in the second part of the novels, but I may have concocted... something.

Bear in mind that this has nothing, nothing to do with real history, do not take it as such, by me trying to adapt things to fit the ArSen narrative we've already left the harbor of historical accuracy. So here goes—

I posit that in Pars, Ahura Mazda, Mithra, and Anahita in particular are revered as “civilization-building” deities, aka foundational to the prosperity and functioning of a nation as opposed to individual and spiritual righteousness.

Yeah, this still doesn't quite explain the tauroctony imagery, I got nothing for that, I think I might just end up changing shit, we'll... see...

Mithra is the divinity of covenants, light, oaths, justice, the sun, contracts, friendship, and also a judicial figure, an all-seeing protector of Truth (Asha), the guardian of cattle, the harvest, and the Waters (Anahita)— which, a lot of it sounds pretty essential to a prosperous civilization functioning, doesn't it?

Mithra is invoked in several royal Achaemenid inscriptions:

“Ahura Mazda, Anahita, and Mithra protect me against all evil” — Artaxerxes II's inscription at Susa and Hamadan, where he “beseeches them to protect what he has built”

“Ahura Mazda and the God Mithra preserve me, my country, and what has been built by me.” — inscription of Artaxerxes III

Mithra is also featured in rock reliefs depicting the coronations of Ardashir II and Khosrow II

Mithra is considered a member of the “Ahuric Triad” along with Apam Napat (this one is complicated, more on that later) and none other than Ahura Mazda himself

“The ruffian who lies unto Mithra brings death unto the whole country, injuring as much the faithful world as a hundred evil-doers could do.”

×

“Mithra, the lord of wide pastures, gives swiftness to the horses of those who lie not unto Mithra. Fire, the son of Ahura Mazda, gives the straightest way to those who lie not unto Mithra.”

(I... will get into the whole Mithra-Asha thing later on, I promise, I'm assuming “fire” here refers to Asha due to the truth divinity's associations to fire)

“We sacrifice unto Mithra, the lord of wide pastures, who is truth-speaking, a chief in assemblies, with a thousand ears, well-shapen, with ten thousand eyes, high, with full knowledge, strong, sleepless, and ever awake; To whom the chiefs of nations offer up sacrifices, as they go to the field, against havocking hosts, against enemies coming in battle array, in the strife of conflicting nations.”

×

“We sacrifice unto Mithra, the lord of wide pastures, .... sleepless, and ever awake; Unto whom nobody must lie, neither the master of a house, nor the lord of a borough, nor the lord of a town, nor the lord of a province. If the master of a house lies unto him, or the lord of a borough, or the lord of a town, or the lord of a province, then comes Mithra, angry and offended, and he breaks asunder the house, the borough, the town, the province; and the masters of the houses, the lords of the boroughs, the lords of the towns, the lords of the provinces, and the foremost men of the provinces.”

×

“We sacrifice unto Mithra, the lord of wide pastures, .... sleepless, and ever awake; Who upholds the columns of the lofty house and makes its pillars solid; who gives herds of oxen and male children to that house in which he has been satisfied; he breaks to pieces those in which he has been offended. Thou, O Mithra! art both bad and good to nations; thou, O Mithra! art both bad and good to men; thou, O Mithra! keepest in thy hands both peace and trouble for nations.”

— Mihr Yasht (Hymn to Mithra)

A lot of nation imagery there!!

So then, my attention was drawn towards the rest of the Ahuric Triad, but I'm choosing to make it that for Pars in this fictional setting, Anahita is there in Apam Napat's stead.

Here are my reasons:

It is very likely that Anahita, even irl, gradually usurped the position of Apam Napat in the Triad, causing the latter's place to be lost and his veneration to become limited to the obligatory verses recited at the Ab-Zohr.

She is described as “life-increasing, herd-increasing, fold-increasing, who makes prosperity for all countries” in the hymn dedicated to her.

Anahita is featured in a rock relief depicting the coronation of Khosrow II, the same one Mithra featured in

As a river divinity, she is responsible for the fertility of the soil and for the growth of crops that nurture both man and beast.

The hymn dedicated to her features like. Multiple stanzas(?) of multiple people praying to her “that [they] may become the sovereign lord of all countries” which is super interesting

I don't know how related this is to everything else I've written so far but I also found it interesting that apparently, due to the association between water and wisdom, she is “the divinity to whom priests and pupils should pray for insight and knowledge”.

Anyways here are some of the verses I yoinked:

“Offer up a sacrifice, O Spitama Zarathushtra! unto this spring of mine, Ardvi Sura Anahita, the wide-expanding and health-giving, who hates the Daevas and obeys the laws of Ahura, who is worthy of sacrifice in the material world, worthy of prayer in the material world; the life-increasing and holy, the herd-increasing and holy, the fold-increasing and holy, the wealth-increasing and holy, the country-increasing and holy;”

×

“To her did Haoshyangha, the Paradhata, offer up a sacrifice on the enclosure of the Hara, with a hundred male horses, a thousand oxen, and ten thousand lambs. He begged of her a boon, saying: "Grant me this, O good, most beneficent Ardvi Sura Anahita, that I may become the sovereign lord of all countries, of the Daevas and men, of the Yatus and Pairikas, of the oppressors, the blind and the deaf; and that I may smite down two thirds of the Daevas of Mazana and of the fiends of Varena." Ardvi Sura Anahita granted him that boon, as he was offering libations, giving gifts, sacrificing, and entreating that she would grant him that boon.”

(there were multiple instances of multiple people asking her for a boon, and she either gives that boon or withholds it depending on who's asking)

“Offer up a sacrifice, O Spitama Zarathushtra! unto this spring of mine, Ardvi Sura Anahita... Whom Ahura Mazda the merciful ordered thus, saying: "Come, O Ardvi Sura Anahita, come from those stars down to the earth made by Ahura, that the great lords may worship thee, the masters of the countries, and their sons.”

— Aban Yasht (Hymn to the Waters)

So yeah. A modified Ahuric Triad of sorts being revered for the more “practical”, society-wide, civilization-related domains. Or, well, Ahura Mazda is Ahura Mazda. One can't not include him as he is the god of light and everything good. (Tanaka seemed to have taken Ahura Mazda out of Pars' faith entirely, oh whatever I'm putting him back in)

Yeah. Still haven't really... figured out a way to connect the tauroctony to any of this. Maybe I'll have the design to feature Mithra and Anahita instead, blessing a royal birth of sorts (Anahita is associated with fertility, after all! She is said to purify the wombs of women and the seed of men, as well as encouraging the flow of milk for newborns. Plus, it's a royal birth. Surely something could be bullshitted here?

(as for Ahura Mazda, I saw in the Zoroastrianism subreddit that you can't really depict Ahura Mazda, he's just a strong, pure light, he can't be captured in image, which probably is true? I haven't been able to confirm it but I think it makes sense. ANYWAYS—)

Also very neat how Ashaya (the secret royal child who rejects their origins) has like, people who kinda sorta represent Mithra and Anahita in her life— Farangis' entire existence, of course, but also Shapur keeping the promise he gave to Sâyezân, the whole Mardi clan situation coming from a broken oath, and then the Mardi clan embodying the whole life-increasing herd-increasing healing fertility thing with their magic and such.

And I based her name on Asha, the Zoroastrian divinity of... ah, fuck. I'll just leave this here:

Asha (/ˈʌʃə/) or arta (/ˈɑːrtə/; Avestan: 𐬀𐬴𐬀 Aṣ̌a / Arta) is a Zoroastrian concept with a complex and highly nuanced range of meaning. It is commonly summarized in accord with its contextual implications of 'truth' and 'right' (or 'righteousness'), 'order' and 'right working'. It is of cardinal importance to Zoroastrian theology and doctrine. In the moral sphere, aṣ̌a/arta represents what has been called "the decisive confessional concept of Zoroastrianism". The opposite of aṣ̌a is druj (Avestan: 𐬛𐬭𐬎𐬘, lit. 'deceit, falsehood').

Look, for the purposes of this post I'm gonna grossly simplify it into “truth” and “righteousness”. It's more complicated than that even in the AU Parsian society, but I don't think I'm equipped to get into it.

(also I've been referring to Asha as feminine all this time before this post, apparently the hymns refer to Asha as a male... do I wanna modify this or not................ arrrrrrrrrrrgh)

Remember that “Fire, the son of Ahura Mazda” thing? So I've been thinking about it. I don't think Zoroastrianism has a genealogy and such like say the Greek pantheon situation, but maybe for the AU version of the Parsian faith (which I'd named “khuda-yasna” for “khuda” being the Persian word for “god”, more than likely referring to Ahura Mazda but let's just say that here the meaning expands to the other divinities as well) (kinda kills me inside a little that faith and religion in ArSen is just flattened down and lumped in with nationality like “Parsian faith” like, could you not have named it?? Also the Yaldabaoth religion? Does it not have a name??) (anyways back on track) I had imagined taking this snippet rather literally. Asha is the child (or the closest child) of Ahura Mazda the holy light. And Mithra is who serves and protects Asha. They're both really tied together, aren't they? Truth and oaths and lies and such. Maybe, in Pars, in this setting, Asha is the spiritual and moral righteousness that must be nurtured in every individual person while Mithra has to do w those civilization/society stuff. Not that I think Asha would be any less revered? Just different axes, different paradigms of worship and veneration, if that makes sense?

Anyways here are some snippets that caught my eye:

“He will smite the most oppressive of the oppressors of men, he will afflict most oppressive of the oppressors of men.”

×

“The most lying words of falsehood fled away; the Jahi, addicted to the Yatu, fled away; the Jahi, who makes one pine, fled away; the wind that blows from the North fled away; the wind that blows from the North vanished away.”

×

“He smites the most lying words of falsehood; he smites the Jahi, addicted to the Yatu; he smites the Jahi, who makes one pine. He smites the wind that blows from the North; the wind that blows from the North vanished away.”

— Ardwahisht Yasht (Hymn to the Highest Asha)

(the part about smiting oppressors in particular made me go 👀👀👀)

Anyways I just wanted to lay out some stuff for the AU worldbuilding to help myself make heads and tails out of this really, I don't have a conclusions, uhhhh hope y'all enjoy this

[tairona-is-taken]

A snippet of my current WIP, in which the Prequels characters time travel into the post-Callista Legends era and inexplicably end up at one of Karrde's bases — which means Mara is one of the first people they meet, along with Lando, since he and Mara are in their fake relationship phase. In this scene, Mara and Lando are having a little side bar about informing Luke about this unexpected development, and Lando's explaining a) that Luke's actually gone comm silent on everyone and b) what he thinks might be the reason for that ...

“Luke said they parted amicably. Said that he’d finally accepted that he had to let her go, and he sure seemed like he meant it. But I don’t know.” Lando sighed in clear sympathy with his friend. “The first time she left, she promised they’d be together again someday. Now he knows it’s permanent. And maybe the full weight of that has finally sunk in. All the hopes he had for the two of them—marriage, kids. Rebuilding the Order together. A whole lifetime together. All of that gone.”

“Mm.” Mara made a somewhat strangled noise of assent, suddenly out of snide comments. An unseemly brew of emotions was coursing through her veins: anger that Callista might’ve broken Luke’s heart for a second time, plus jealousy and self-pity that he would never feel that way about Mara. Would never yearn for all of those things with her, would never fall apart without her.

But that was a self-indulgent line of thought if there ever was one, and she brutally quashed it as soon as it started. After all, she’d already made up her mind after Byss that she wouldn’t pursue her feelings for him—that she would be a fool to get any closer to someone who was susceptible to the Dark Side. She shouldn’t be upset that in the years that had followed, he had made it so easy for her to stick to her resolve.

“But anyway,” Lando was saying now. “That’s all just to say that it might be harder to get Luke to help out with this than you’d think.”

“Well, he’d better suck it up,” Mara said. “He’s not the only being in the galaxy who’s been dumped. And I, for one, am definitely not dealing with his time traveling father all by myself.”

“Fair enough. Although speaking of fathers—” Lando glanced at the door as if to make sure the Jedi weren’t lurking right beyond it. “This is wildly inappropriate, but I just have to say—I’m sure I saw holos of Anakin Skywalker when I was a kid, but I did not remember that he was that fine. I mean, I used to wonder who in their right mind would sleep with Darth Vader, but …” He gave a low whistle, then adjusted his cape around his shoulders with a little tug. “Apparently the answer is anyone with a pulse.”

“Oh, gods.” Mara’s face contorted into an expression of disgust. “Control yourself, Calrissian.”

[anonymouse-notarat]

2nd installment of the religious Wolfstar AU! (I haven’t come up with a title for it yet😭). I’m thinking about making this into a cohesive one-shot/microfic instead of just posting snippets on Tumblr if I can get my shit together & I find/make the time for it & I don’t lose interest (those are all really big “ifs”). Will also probably end up editing this part to oblivion like the last one, but here we go:

~~~~~~~~~~

CW: internalized homophobia/homophobic behavior, mention of conversion camps, sexual content

The black-haired boy is desperate, Remus thinks when he first sees him. Desperate to be loved, desperate to be fucked—it doesn’t matter; it’s the same thing. What’s more important is what he started coming to church in the first place for: to be fixed, to be cured. To have the sin siphoned out of him until there is nothing left. He will not indulge in these sick, twisted fantasies, these temptations of the flesh. Not even when he can feel his pulse rushing like a second heartbeat in his head, or his palms suddenly becoming very sweaty, or his face overly warm when he meets this boy’s eyes from across the church. Nope. No no no. His father’s voice reverberates around in his skull, echoing from the last time he caught him with another boy. The neighbor kid’s head had been bobbing between his legs, Remus’s head thrown back in white-bliss ecstasy when the lock clicked and Lyall walked into the room. Remus didn’t remember much from the rest of that god-awful night—just the frantic doing-up of jeans, “Dad, it’s not what it looks like, I promise!,” tumultuous yelling—“Get the fuck out of my house!,” hushed voices behind cracked bedroom doors—“you know, the McKinnons sent their daughter to one of those places.” In the end, his parents settled on this: Remus and the boy were never to contact each other again, and at the end of the school year, the Lupins would move to a new town a few counties over. “It’ll be a fresh start,” his mother had reassured him as they pulled out of the driveway, boxes stacked in the back of their cramped sedan. And Remus, the oblivious fool he was, had believed her.

[woooshhsworld]

It's quite clear to Andrew neither one of you will ever be truly okay without the other.

Of course, it's always been an afterthought; something left unsaid on both ends till those odd hours of the morning. He still remembers it, sneaking into your bed, or you finding your way into his-- holding onto your body as if huddling for warmth, and murmured words spoken before eventually falling asleep.

The years draw on like days, and eventually, you two wander further past any boundaries and lines crossed between siblings. With you though, he thinks it's the easier than breathing.

Still in the shared bedroom, the place you and him started off in; twin beds on either side of the small-ish room, he finds solace in your arms. He keeps himself buried inside your warm, slick walls, letting his mind reel at how the sensation makes his cock ache. Yet, it always manages to satisfy the constant desire he feels in your presence.

Promising not to move, he believes you, resting his hands onto the skin of your hips to ground himself. Still being true to your word, small sounds of pleasure leave him and sense of contentment enters his now-empty mind. Unable to resist, he tightens the hold he has onto your body, relishing in any closeness and intimacy he's able to grasp on.

The slumber itself is otherworldly, something dreamless from his exhausted state, but so warm and comforting; it's difficult to focus on anything but that. The man struggles with nightmares, being vulnerable and facing memories he'd rather forget-- tonight though, he avoids its grasp and instead clings onto whatever you'll give.

GENRE: smut? cookwarming. I'm not sure what else to put.

NOTE: this is my first ever fanfic I posted on the internet and it's for some sister fucker. NONETHELESS, you're his sibling in this <3

OTHER NOTE: I wanted to capture a more domestic setting between Andrew and reader because even though their relationship is taboo and unhealthy with codependency, they still have a genuine care towards one another.

FINAL NOTE: I was thinking about writing more stuff in this light, like small snippets like this or full on fics. I'm not sure tho. ANYWAYS, Enjoy!!

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

happy DADWC Friday :) sending you “You were always on my mind.” for Fenhawke

Ty for the prompt!! I've been thinking about Fenhawke post DAV, and I think I'll put a little series of snippets from my thoughts into some Fenhawke prompts on Tumblr for @dadrunkwriting! This will be #1, and I'll link the rest (so feel free to send more Fenhawke prompts, folks!) Under a cut, because Veilguard spoilers. Vague, but still there.

Night had given way to the sharp edge of a winter dawn while Fenris sat in the chair beside the frost-painted window. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, but he hadn’t slept even a moment of the long, dark night. He could feel the circles under his eyes, the skin heavy, his vision blurry with exhaustion. Even as he blinked and scrubbed his face with a hand trembling from the abundance of coffee he’d consumed, the reason for his vigil stirred in the bed several feet away. Something unknotted in Fenris’s chest as Hawke stretched his arms over his head, curled one around the pillow that should have been Fenris’s, and pulled it closer. He buried his face in it, shoulders shifting with the inhalation of breath. Just as quickly, he saw those same muscles tense, stiffen, and then the pillow was shoved aside. Hawke shot up in bed, the blankets pooling at his waist, exposing so many scars across his torso. Some Fenris remembered. Others he thought were new, but he wasn’t ready to ask. Their eyes met and it was like Hawke had taken a punch to the gut; the air rushed out of his lungs and his shoulders slumped. A look of chagrin replaced the naked fear on his handsome face and he tried to fit a smile onto his lips. “You’re still here,” he said, taking another deep breath. He’d said the same thing the morning before, and the one prior to that. “Still here,” Fenris promised again, finally rising from his chair, stiff muscles protesting. He crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge, and they looked at one another. It still felt like a dream. It had been ten years since Fenris had received that letter in Kirkwall, since he’d burned Varric’s story into his mind. Hawke, the man he loved, left in the Fade. Left behind in the one place Fenris could not reach him. And then the Blight had come, and the world had been poisoned, and the Veil ripped asunder. He’d read another tale in a letter from the Inquisitor, about another death, and another prison in the Fade, and the woman who'd freed herself from it. The Inquisitor had borne a bone-deep regret for Hawke’s loss that may not have rivaled Fenris’s, but it drove them both to the same end; into the Fade, into Nightmare’s prison. Hawke reached out for him with one hand and Fenris took it, sighing with relief when he felt the mortal warmth enclose his fingers. The tightness in Hawke’s features smoothed as well at the contact. “Ten years,” Hawke murmured, blue-gray eyes searching his face. “It seemed like…days. Weeks maybe. In there. And yet after all this time, you remembered me.” Fenris squeezed his fingers. “You were always on my mind,” he promised, feeling an answering weight in his chest. “Every day.” Hawke nodded, eyes flicking to the window. The look on his face reminded Fenris of how he’d felt just after escaping Danarius—free but unsure what to do with it, unsure if it would last. It was why panic flooded Hawke when he woke, until they touched, and why Fenris couldn’t sleep. A need to make sure it was all still real.