#m-standard-filter

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

[preseriesdean]

for @spnficrecfest day six: case fics 🧡

Ions in the Ether by @nigeltde-fic 10.9k words, rated E, published 2019 When was the last time you trusted happy.

Gospel Truth by Cerberuss 15.2k words, rated E, published 2020 ‘DOES YOUR BROTHER KNOW THAT YOU WANT HIM?’ Individually placed letters, bold and tinged brown with the weather. Sam can’t look away and he prays, dream dream dream. This sort of introspection could have come from no one but himself. His secret, his affliction, on display as a reminder. He put this here. Don’t forget, Sam, you’re abhorrent. This is all you.

the constant vow by deadlybride / @zmediaoutlet 119.5k words, rated E, published 2022 With Crowley apparently dead and Sam's soul back in place, even though Eve is a worry and Castiel's fighting a heavenly war, Sam and Dean at last have some space to get back to what passes (for them) as a normal life. They've just finished up a pretty standard job and are killing time in snowy Wisconsin when Dean wakes up no longer looking like Dean. That's just the start of their problems.

Almost At Home by balefully 24.3k words, rated E, published 2008 Sam graduates from high school in early June in rural Tennessee. He and Dean start the summer with an all-nighter of celebration; the day after, while both fight hangovers, John calls to assign them their first hunt by themselves.

Suave & Complicated by OldToadWoman 56.9k words, rated E, published 2015 Sam and Dean discover a useful, little, magical artifact. No one is forcing them to do anything. No one is going to die if they don't. They don't even feel a strange compulsion. But… it would be really helpful if they powered up the magical stone… and… all they have to do is kiss.

Crossed Wires by @rivkat 10.9k words, rated E, published 2015, check warnings Dean thinks Sam is dead.

Yesterday, minnesota by @goshen-applecrumbledore 29.7k words, rated E, published 2022 Any initial awkwardness filtered away over a hundred miles of highway as Sam thumbed through the missing witch’s diary again. Some people had secret coke habits or secret second wives, and some people had passionate, pitch black, no-kissing sex with a family member every four to six months and never talked about it. You had to find ways to cope.

Sight Lines by kickflaw/kissyn 21.3k words, rated E, published 2012 Dad's on a hunt, Dean's acting strange, and Bilton, NY, is the last place on earth Sam imagined he would figure out how to make everything fit right.

They Then Ate the Sailors by coyotesuspect 24.3k words, rated M, published 2013 The summer before Sam leaves for Stanford, Sam and Dean sublet a student apartment in a heat-wave gripped Chicago. With John tied up with a case in Iowa City, Sam and Dean are left to figure what's behind a recent spate of drownings. Sam wrestles with the weight of the secret he's keeping from Dean, while Dean struggles with his feelings for Sam. Things come to a head when a young girl goes missing and Sam nearly drowns.

a thousand dreams within me softly burn by dooping_star 14.6k words, rated T, published 2020 "there is something fierce and terrible in me eligible to burst forth, i dare not tell it in words," - walt whitman, ‘earth, my likeness’, leaves of grass

[olderthannetfic]

I love that people who write het in my fandom on the fanfic site in my language tag their works as gen... and by love I mean hate. If I can accurately tag my slash as maleslash, why can't they?

I know this is stupid to get annoyed at, but I can't shake off the feeling that to them being straight is the default and therefore they don't need to tag it specifically. :/ Or maybe they think the romantic aspect of their fics is not enough to tag it as het? But then again, one fic I'm scrolling by now has "love story" as a genre and the summary describes a romantic storyline but still has gen as the pairing type despite the couple being m/f, so... meh :/

I wish fanfiktion.net was more like AO3. (Also wish you could hide your fics from search engines, that would be so neat, so fewer randos look at stuff from googling the characters' names. I just changed two names in a summary to their initials so people won't find the fic by accident because that makes me uncomfortable lol.)

--

Hi, just sent in an ask complaining about a fanfic website in a different language than english. I fear I accidentally wrote that it's fanfiction.net, which it isn't. It's fanfiktion.de and I blame my brain's confusion on the weather because it's too hot outside. Sorry!

Haha. I knew what you meant.

They absolutely see it as the neutral and unmarked default... just like people did on FFN and many a past archive.

AO3's wealth of m/m (and f/f relative to other sites, actually) is partly due to who founded it, but it's also due to one being able to filter out het. Unconsciously, everyone who doesn't see het as the standard for normalcy recognizes that AO3 is for them.

[8-dermestid]

it's like as if somebody was gripping my throat

relationship: eyeless jack x reader

word count: 6.2k

links: available to read on ao3

warnings: canon-typical violence

M. Eerie National Park is one of the most boring places to work. You hike the trails to make sure nobody is trying to stay after hours, clean up garbage, and befriend the local cryptid.

Nobody knows about that last part except for you.

(like/reblogs are greatly appreciated, requests are open ✷)

“—Shocking news for M. Eerie National Park. Another victim, twenty-one-year-old Penn State student Ryan Sheppard, discovered on the property—”

You dig into your food, tuning out the broadcast as you scarf down your lunch and prepare for work. You rinse your bowl, toss it into the dishwasher, and move into the bedroom to change out of your pajamas and into your uniform. You pull up your cargo pants and pull on a green collared shirt with the M. Eerie National Park logo embroidered on the pocket. After deodorant, you pull on your hiking boots, grab your jacket and bag, and leave towards your car.

She’s a beat-up old thing, but she gets you to and from work without too much trouble. It’s a short, red, rust-damaged Honda Civic. Your car’s engine is strong, and it, other than the external imperfections and duct-taped-on mirror, has treated you well, and you’ve never felt the need to trade up.

(Nor the want, being a park ranger hardly gives you enough money to keep your head above the water, but you love it, and working an office job sounds worse than pulling all your toenails out at once with rusty pliers.)

The car sputters to life, rumbling beneath you in her comfortable and familiar way. You look down at the radio—the clock reads 14:37—you’ll be on time for the start of your shift. The drive isn’t exciting, and you’d take your boring drive over a three-hour drive to the office any day. Your job is so easy, too, a simple routine you follow every day—go in during the afternoon, hike the trails before closing, watch for lost folks and garbage, and close up the park. It’s easy, so easy that your job is almost dull. You walk into the break room, your lunch in your non-dominant hand, and stumble into a meeting.

“Oh. Hey guys.” You hesitate, creeping over to put your food in the fridge. Usually, the break room was empty, and Leslie, your superior in the standard uniform with her beat-up clipboard, was marching back and forth like a drill sergeant.

In the kindest way possible, you hope she retires. She’s been working here for so long and managing everything that she deserves some R-and-R. Leslie is the backbone of the team, and one would have to pry her position from her cold, dead hands (even then, it would still be a fight), but she should consider passing the job to someone else.

You plop down in one of the three empty chairs. Two of your coworkers transferred to another park (quite suddenly, too, no two-week notice or anything). It’s not good, especially considering they were the only other people working your shift.

“Alright, we can wrap up this meeting with a quick problem,” Leslie begins again, waving quietly to you. “Guests have been reporting stolen items more than usual, lots of jackets, gloves, boots, ooh—food, too,” Leslie jots something down on her clipboard, “To be honest, I think people are just misplacing things and blaming it on the wildlife, but if you see anything, just radio me, and I’ll come to help you sort it out.”

You nod. People leave things where they shouldn’t be all the time—you can't count the number of times families wake up with ransacked coolers because they leave them outside unprotected.

Leslie sighs, “And—look—there have been more than a few teens sneaking off into the woods before we close. Please, I don’t want another 24-hour challenge incident on our record. Keep an eye out for them. I mean it.”

Everyone affirms, whether with a nod or a “Yes, Leslie.”

The team filters out of the break room, and one of your coworkers (with wild, dark hair and stickers nearly smothering the Molly on her nametag) bounds to your side like a deer.

“You think it’s a bear?” She asks. She’s practically bouncing off the walls despite Park Ranger being the least thrilling job on the planet.

You shrug. You don’t carry the same energy that Molly does. She is just a wee sixteen-year-old at your side working her first big girl job, and any excitement at this middle-of-nowhere park is a godsend for her.

“Well, it could be a bear. But, I mean, a bear wouldn’t be stealing men’s jackets or boots.” she suggests, “Maybe not a bear, or maybe it’s those kids again… Remember the kids from a few weeks ago?”

Oh. Oh, of course, you remember those kids. Three of them, two girls and some in-between kid, all seventeen and seniors at the local high school (local being the closest high school, which was thirty miles away) that Leslie caught trying to stay overnight for some silly internet challenge. One of them, the in-between kid with the flattest hair you’ve seen in a while, brought an Ouija board because of some weird internet gossip about your park. It was strange—super, duper weird—because the couple (apparently, maybe? You aren’t sure) ditched the third girl to make out under an abandoned deck. Leslie only caught them because the third (a taller, more heavyset girl with colored hair) was terrified of some tall, slender man who scared her on the internet.

“God, don’t remind me.” You finally say. You still remember the three of them yelling at each other, Leslie dragging them out by the collars of their shirts like scruffed cats after they got caught (because one of the girls was a crybaby, their words, not yours).

Leaving the break room and finally feeling the sun this morning, Molly waves you goodbye and starts jogging down her favorite trail. She’s got energy for miles; if she were older and wiser, she could compete with Leslie.

Speaking of, Leslie pats your shoulder. Her grey hair shimmers in the sun, and she, with wrinkles showcasing her long and fulfilling life, smiles down at you.

“Afternoon, kiddo. You doing alright?”

You nod, more focused on the heavy workload you have in front of you.

Leslie pats your back like a coach would to her favorite player, “I know Josh and Ryan quitting hasn’t been easy on you.” Her voice is too solemn for a work transfer, “I’ll be working tonight, too, if that eases you.”

You perk up, half with relief and half because working with Leslie is the best. It’s comforting to have a superior like her around when people start getting wild in the woods; she’s good at grabbing people by the scruff and dragging them out, kicking and hollering.

“You can take care of the Southern Reach, yeah? You’re a big kid—you can handle it.”

You’re more than just a kid, but between her being near retirement age while you are fresh out of college—you are a kid in her eyes. You nod, already unhooking your heavy flashlight from its carabiner.

“That’s the ticket. I’ll take Northern. We’ll meet back up here for closing.”

“No, no, I’ll handle closing.” You persuade, “Come on, Leslie, I can handle closing a big gate. Just handle Northern and go home.”

She debates it, rolling the idea around in her mind before conceding. “Alright, kiddo. Just this once, though.”

At first, with the sun just touching the horizon, your checks go well, and you clean up a few empty beer cans along the southernmost trails. Your trash bag is light, which is a plus. You don’t need to pull your flashlight out until past seven in the evening when the moon peeks out behind you. You find an empty can of soup (chicken-noodle but with star-shaped pasta instead of noodles). The top looks messily cut, as if with a knife, which isn’t at all uncommon.

Except, well, this can has a pull tab disregarded by the previous user. You turn over the can in your palm, examining the shredded metal and paper label, and toss it into the bag with the rest of the trash.

Further, closer to the center of the trails, there is another disemboweled can. You pick up one, the lid is also ripped off, the pull-tab forgotten about, yet this soup can has more than half of it ripped off into a swirly shape, almost like someone was desperate for something to eat. It’s Campbell’s, not Grandma’s cooking.

There’s another can further into the woods, more shredded than the last, with a deep dent in the center; the can was clean, too clean, which is both weird and disgusting. Dogs shouldn’t eat this stuff concentrated—too much sodium.

Another one; there is a streaky, black substance marbling with some soup still sitting at the bottom of the can; another, and more of that black slime. You carefully pick up each one and add it to the bag. The next can has more of that substance—almost too much. The smell is putrid. It burns inside your nose, and you get a whiff of formaldehyde or something that reeks of death.

You keep traveling into the woods, finding more debris and litter, an old chewed-through sleeve, a jacket, and a glove smattered with that syrup-y oil. There’s something wet beneath your palm, and thank the stars you chose to bring your gloves this morning. It’s red, with a black slime marbled in it. It’s sticky between your fingers, and it smells awful. You follow the trail of red and black with your flashlight.

The source is the mangled carcass of a hiker wearing a high-vis vest. You suck in a breath and reach for your walkie-talkie. It’s sickening, and you can’t stop looking at the body as you radio for your superior.

“Leslie? Leslie, you there?” You plead, hands shaking and mind racing. Of all the people you want to pick up, it’s her. She’s been working here since before you were born—maybe she’s found a mutilated person in her time working the trails.

The silence stretches for an eternity until you hear a familiar voice on the other end.

“Hey, I’m here. What’s going on?” She asks.

“Uhm, I don’t know,” You make the mistake of looking at it, at the remnants of a man, at the carcass before you. “I don’t even know what could do something like this.” God, it makes you sick, but you can’t look away.

“Come on, talk to me,” She barks, her voice firm with years of seniority, “What are you seeing? Talk.”

You swallow. “Some hiker got attacked. They’re not responsive,” You mutter into your little plastic lifeline. “I’m off Trapper’s—I don’t know—Christ, I’m going to be sick.”

“...Okay,” Leslie replies quickly, “Are you safe?”

You don’t know the answer to that question. You swallow a lump in your throat as you look frantically for movement in the dark woods. Leslie says something, but you can’t hear it over the sound of your heart hammering away in your ears. You see movement between the trees, the primal part of your brain attempting to identify any immediate danger. Everything is spinning, it reeks of death, and Leslie’s voice is staticky because of the shitty speakers.

“Answer me! Come on, kiddo, where are you?” She shouted, her voice laced with harsh static.

Your flashlight flickers, and you hope whoever ordered these flashlights has something horrible happen to them. Something rustles in the bush. The only thing you have to protect yourself is a bag of loose garbage and your shitty flashlight. Leslie is shouting so loud you can only hear half of her words. Whatever emerges from that bush will eat you alive—you’re sure of it.

The stench of death gets heavier as a figure crawls out from beneath the foliage, wearing a dark hoodie and a blue mask. There’s blood and guts caked under their fingernails, and they look filthy and smell worse. They lock eyes with you and try to stand, stumbling and letting out a near-inhuman cry. You hold your heavy flashlight like a baton—all it’s useful for, considering the lightbulb works when it wants to—as the masked stranger lets out a wheezy breath and crawls towards you.

You grip the flashlight so hard your hands are shaking, taking careful steps back to maintain some distance between both of you. Their approach doesn’t stop. They reach and grab at your leg and pull you to the ground. Your head is spinning as it collides with the damp earth, and you feel two hands digging into your abdomen, sharp nails scratching and attempting to burrow into your stomach. You shout as their ice-cold hands scrape across your body, their claws raking across tender flesh.

You thrash and try to push them away, but they hold you down with one hand and remove their mask with the other.

You always said you’d know what to do if you were in a slasher flick. You always called the protagonists stupid for freezing up in front of certain death, never thinking about what it felt like, knowing you were probably going to die. You look them in the eye—more so what’s left of them, staring into two tar-filled sockets where their eyes would be—and unable to do anything.

You lay back, each breath barely making it in and out of your lungs. They stop, hands still pressed firmly against you. They crane their neck, probably just as surprised as you for simply giving up. They tug your shirt back down, pressing a palm over it and smoothing the fabric with their palm.

It reignites something in you because before either of you can register what’s happening, they’re squealing in pain as you hit them upside the head with your flashlight. You scramble away, pulling yourself to your feet and running blindly to the main trail.

You don’t stop, even after the demonic cries die out under the sound of the beginning storm. You push and push yourself until you nearly collide with Leslie.

“Stars—! Kid, where the hell were you? What the hell happened to you?”

She shines the light across your face, then brushes a leaf from your coat. It’s hard to think about speaking; Leslie knows you’re trying.

“Hey, it’s okay. Come on, I’ll drive you home, kiddo.”

“But the—”

“Don’t worry about it,” She says as softly as she can, “You’ve done all you can do. Anything about you that I should be worried about?”

You pat your abdomen, a few lines of brown blood staining the front. You shake your head, and Leslie holds off on grilling you for details.

✷𓃞 ✷

She drives you home in her big pickup truck (she even went through a drive-thru and got you something to eat on the way home). She pats your back as you dig through the bottom of the bag for scraps.

“Don’t think about coming back tomorrow—Partly because you’ve been through hell tonight—but also because there’s going to be an investigation. Look—take it easy, maybe go see your doctor, don’t come back until at least next Tuesday.”

Leslie pulls over to the side of your street and pulls out a box of cigarettes. “I mean it, take it easy. You do enough work while you’re on the clock; don’t worry about anything—I have people that can cover your shift if you need more time off.”

You nod, gathering your things and walking towards your house, digging your keys from your jacket to escape the rainy weather. You shut the door behind you, and Leslie walks towards her truck, a thin line of smoke trailing behind her.

You open the door, and a warm puff of air welcomes you home. It’s quiet and dark, leaving you on edge from tonight’s incident. Instead of relaxing—like Leslie practically ordered you to—you drop your bag at the front door and book it to your computer. It hums to life, and you punch in your password and open your web browser. Surprisingly, being attacked by a person-shaped thing did not perturb your furious web-searching.

Creature in the woods near me

Masked creature, person that tried to eat me?

Blue man— you hastily hit backspace as Blue Man Group auto-fills in your search bar.

You keep trying outrageous combinations of words, eventually finding a near-defunct blog with a picture of the freaky humanoid that almost killed you.

EYELESS JACK. Well, the name fits. At least you’ve finally got a name for that face. You read through this article, which recounts this woman—a hiker-slash-rock-climber, to be more specific—coming into contact with a human-ish guy. They had a few photos of deep claw wounds that scarred over pale on her dark skin. You jot down the name, continuing to dig into the incident recounted by this woman.

You pause and close all your curtains and turn off all the lights (and you get yourself a drink to keep yourself awake). Sinking into your chair again, you continue the deep dive into this Eyeless Jack fellow, feeling like a detective from some once-popular show that wasn’t that good. You keep searching—jotting down leads for your search—until the sun is peeking over the horizon, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. Eyeless Jack has been around for longer than you first believed—they’ve probably been terrorizing after-dark visitors of your park for years, right under your nose.

Are there more missing-person cases? Did any of your coworkers who quit unexpectedly actually have a reason? God, this journey to the weirdest parts of the internet has left you with more questions than answers.

You look down at the big sticky-note pad you used for notes. It looks like you fell off the deep end with your feverish scrawling, smeared ink, and lots of quick notes about disembowelment, kidney removal, and even cult activity. You think this may need another night of internet excavation to answer those (and inevitably, come up with more, even crazier, questions). Based on a few accounts of unwanted kidney removal in their sleep, you think about getting something to eat—

—and staying as far from your bed as possible.

✷𓃞 ✷

You can’t even eat breakfast without being tempted by your thirst for knowledge; it’s unbearable. You don’t even want to think of spending more than a few days at home. Hopefully, the police hurry up and finish so you can start your investigation.

You quickly rinse and dry your empty dish, filling a glass of water and flopping onto the couch. Surfing channels and finding something mindlessly entertaining will probably take your mind off things.

The news is boring—talking about the recent storm off the southern coast—and some cooking show. A history documentary—about someone you don’t care for—a jewelry channel, another news channel, and a kids’ show.

(Tempting, but no.)

The local news, though not mindless, is entertaining. There’s an over-top camera view of the park. Dozens of police cruisers and K-9 units are parked—and you can see your car, your old, rusty girl in the lot—Cops are infesting every corner of your TV, some moving into the woods toward Trapper’s, others lingering to talk in the view of the helicopter. It cuts to a news anchor recapping the incident from last night. They think it’s a bear attack. Leslie says it was a bear attack. Your coworkers say it was a bear attack, and Wildlife Removal will deal with it.

They don’t know anything—Jack tore into that hiker like a wild animal—and left the poor guy’s insides all over the forest floor.

You don’t stop watching the news until they start talking about the weather, where you only half-listen. There’s going to be a storm tonight. The teams at your job are probably going to try to recover the body and bring it to the morgue before it starts raining.

You turn off the TV after that. You examine your abdomen, five short lines across your belly where their claws made contact. You decide to go to the bathroom to clean and dress them.

“Better to be safe than sorry.” You tell yourself.

After a few cotton balls soaked in alcohol and big bandaids later, everything is clean enough and about as well-dressed as you can, considering your supplies.

There’s not much to do at home, and trying to take your mind off things with your usual hobbies isn’t working. You even try scrolling mindlessly online, but you can’t stop thinking about last night.

Why did they stop—and so suddenly?

You lift your shirt and brush your thumb over the bandaids on your belly, the skin still too hot and tender. Maybe you were just lucky, stupidly lucky. You pick up your home phone and dial Leslie’s number. She at least deserves a warning about what’s out there.

“...What are you doing?”

“Leslie,” there’s some strain in your tone, “Hey, Leslie. How are things?”

“You’re calling about work? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

Yes. Yes, you are.

“I know, but—Look, it’s about last night. I know you specifically told me not to do any digging, but—”

“Kid,” She cuts you off. You can picture her frustration as she probably rubs at her temples, “Tell me you did not do that.”

Yes. Yes, you did.

She sighs dramatically. “You work too hard—even when I order you to stop thinking about work, you do it anyway.”

“Look, it wasn’t an animal. It was a guy.”

“...What.”

You pull the phone from your ear. You probably do sound crazy. And you will continue to sound crazy when you talk about what you found online from defunct blogs from 1999. No matter how you try to spin it—every time you start talking—you can not come up with the words to explain that the scary internet creature is real. Leslie will not believe you, and who the hell would?

“...Nevermind. I have to go. I have, uhh, laundry in the dryer.” You mutter.

“Well, feel better, and stop going on the internet—you’ll scare yourself out of your skin with stuff people make up for fun,” Leslie sighs, then her voice goes soft, “I mean it. Take care of yourself. We’re thinking of you, kiddo. Oh, and Molly says hi.”

You swallow a lump in your throat. “...Well, let Molly know I said ‘Hi’ back.”

“Will do. Okay, see you next week.”

You hang up.

✷𓃞 ✷

It’s damp. The fallen leaves are starting to rot and turn mushy under their boots. Jack tears through another can with their claws and downs a mixture of soup and soaked-through chicken. They drink, grinding the sinewy chicken and too-soft between their teeth, swallowing harshly and curling up at the taste. Police swarming the woods like ants to fruit has been awful; Jack is tired. Everything burns, they’re tired of running, and they’re still so hungry.

Other foods are necessary to Jack’s diet—they can’t live off meat. They need carbs and stuff—but if Jack has to spend more time seeing faces, they will start digging for their kidneys. They collapse underneath a fallen tree, curling up like a woodlouse. If the police find them, Jack just hopes it’s quick.

They can hear men shouting somewhere nearby with their big, angry dogs.

Jack falls asleep there, eventually, and they don’t know what time it is when they wake up, just that it’s dark out again, and it’s so quiet.

They survive off stolen clothing and soup cans between stays at the manor. Though their vision is gone, Jack still lives with psychosis (one would figure getting their eyes melted with hot tar would prevent visual hallucinations). Eating human flesh, though a taboo solution to their symptoms, allowed Jack to clear their mind and function.

Jack sunk deeper under the heavy log when they heard footsteps and a whining dog.

“I know, boy.” A man says, coughing as the air smells of cigarettes.

Jack’s nose burns at the smell. The dog sniffs at the earth and knocks aside a pile of leaves with its nose, whining and howling. The officer kicks aside the leaves and sighs.

“...Alright,” He says, the metal bits of the dog’s vest clicking together as the dog grows restless, thrashing against it.

The man hunches down, the sound of a plastic bag crinkling in his palm, muttering something to the canine.

“Atta-boy. Come on, Chester, it’s damn creepy out here.” With the tug of the leash, the officer and his canine retreat out of the woods.

When the two are out of earshot, Jack squeezes out from under the log and feels around in the dirt, sniffing the air and only smelling wet earth. Their chest tugs in a sickened sort of way, and they sink back into their hiding place and curl up into a ball. The rain picks up again. Wind howls and thunder crackles in the sky, rattling the earth.

Their new jacket, which they snatched off an unsuspecting hiker, was Jack’s only protection from hypothermia stealing the heat from their digits. Jack breathes into their palms, hot air flowing across their stiff fingers (which Jack promptly stuffed into their underarms to warm them up).

The wind doesn't hesitate to rob Jack’s already-deprived body of what little it has. Jack can’t stop thinking about how hungry they are—and how they see faces melting in their periphery whenever their mind wanders. They pick at the raw edges of their sockets in a measly attempt to soothe. It doesn't work. Nothing works anymore, even when Jack can consume human meat. After only a few hours, Jack’s skin is already itching with the need to keep consuming, to keep eating, to stave off their psychosis by any means necessary. They tug—and tug, and tug, and tug until they’re shaking—at their raw skin, where hardened pitch meets seared flesh and patchy brows. It’s unbearably cold, it’s so fucking cold, and going back to that hellish manor sounds like paradise right about now.

But that’s not an option.

✷𓃞 ✷

Tuesday finally comes around, and you can return to work.

You pack two lunches today. Your bag is just leftovers in a takeaway container (dinner from yesterday), and the other is a sandwich with a few slices of Swiss cheese and meat (far more meat than you’ve ever used at once). It’s got other things on it; you aren't going to give some hungry person—who’s probably been living alone in the wilderness for who knows how long—a boring sandwich. Too bad if they don’t like mayo (Well, you hope they like mayo, lest they rip you in two for the offense of a condiment on real-people food).

You fill your water bottle, grab your keys, and head out the door.

Leslie’s truck is humming outside. Your car is still in the lot at work. You were not in any condition to drive after, and Leslie would not have let that happen. She moves her bags as you climb into the passenger seat. You set down your things on the floor, trying to conceal the second lunch you made.

“...Glad to have you back, got everything?” Leslie asks.

You nod, jingling your keys.

She flicks her turn signal to the left and drives onto the road, turning right onto the main road.

The car is quiet, except for the radio playing old 80s hits, thick with the tension that you almost died the last time you went to work.

“You can work wherever you want today. Molly’s willing to work with your plans. I can imagine not wanting to do trail walks after, well, you know what.”

“I’ll be okay,” You say, ”I’ll do trails today. Not a problem.”

Leslie grips the steering wheel tight. “You’re sure? After you know what, I figured you would want to quit,” She turns left, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“No. I’m a little shaken up, but I’m okay.” You say, looking out the window.

Leslie makes some noise like she knows you’re lying. Your brush with death should have turned you off from any outdoorsy work, but here you are, making lunches for the thing that tried to rip you open like an orange. Maybe your too-empathetic and hopeful parts hope this sandwich helps them out. Everything you read about them was far from pleasant—Some of it didn’t seem real.

“A mixture of blood and hot tar poured into the eye sockets.” You recall.

This stuff about Eyeless Jack you read felt like fiction, but what you saw that night was real. God, it sends shivers down your spine, makes you feel ill—you don’t know what you would do if put in that scenario (blinded, abandoned, and left to die in the woods with an insatiable hunger for human flesh? Jack has been active for years, all alone, you think, you’re not sure how you would last even half as long).

“...Did they find anything?”

Leslie sighs. “No. But it’s an animal, so it’ll return next time it’s hungry. We’ve got more people on watch. Hopefully, we can get Wilderness Removal or Animal Control on it, maybe kill it if we have to.”

You hope not. Leave the critter that keeps eating people alone; they should just leave a plate of food out.

“Maybe don’t try to hunt down the wild critter-person like an animal.” You think. The rest of the ride is silent. You pull up to the park and see Molly chatting with a guest. She spots you looking out the window and waves, delighted to see you again.

“I wanted to give you this in case anyone tries giving you trouble.”

She passes you a black cylinder that’s roughly four inches tall. The button on top and the spray nozzle tells you it’s pepper spray.

“...Thanks, Leslie.”

“Anytime.”

You pull on your coat and leave your lunch in the fridge, taking the other out. Then, you jog over to your car and abandon the pepper spray in the cup holder; you hope that this choice won’t get you killed tonight, but you need to start on a good foot.

Your day-to-day rhythm comes back to you. You warmed yourself up on the more populated trails, picking up cans and directing folks about. It’s sparse, only seeing small groups unfazed by the recent killings (perhaps through ignorance or a belief that death is beneath them). The dread is heavier when you walk an empty trail that’s usually lively with people, even during the day, when dangers lurking in the bushes are more visible. As the sun creeps across the sky—and lower towards the horizon—fewer and fewer people choose to risk hiking after dark, lest they get disemboweled like the last guy who tried.

By 19:00, it’s empty. There’s nobody around other than you. But you know they’re still out there, listening to your every movement (and every breath and every hitch).

You scan the edge of the woods where they’re probably hiding, carefully stepping over the foliage while you intentionally stray from the carefully manicured path.

The trails are well-kept. The landscaping crew works diligently and takes pride in their work, keeping them free of debris and roots that would make the footpath a challenging terrain. Beyond the edges of the dirt roads, however, the forest is wild; vines writhe and twist along the floor, every plant fighting for sunlight in the undergrowth, with bigger-than-your-head leaves and trees wearing thick coats of creeping ivy. You witness the cycles of life and death within this delicate ecosystem—young trees climb higher and higher, growing larger and larger; insects feast upon the trees, rely on the trees, live and die by the trees; the trees, after centuries of life, die and rot; the lichen and insects feast on the rotting wood and refresh the cycle anew.

It makes you feel small and insignificant, as the world around you lives and dies without even noticing your existence. It’s like being surrounded by other people’s ideas in a museum, thousands of other people, forgotten by time, remembered by their art, or their shoes, or their stories through other people’s mouths.

Your boot slips on slick earth before you can continue your mental spiral about your insignificance as one among billions. Your boots squeal against pulpy mud and you nearly slip down into a strange recess; the earth is slick with that same slime, though it is more grainy and pus-like in texture. You follow the streaks in the muddy ground, where it slips underneath a large, rotten log.

You shine your light underneath, spotting a shivering, cobalt-blue mask underneath layers of jackets and stolen fabrics.

Maybe they’re sleeping, and waking them up (though with the promise of real people food) may upset them enough to maul you like a bear and eat you for lunch instead.

They shift and wiggle into the recess they carved out for themselves, hearing some shuffling outside of their burrowing. They suck in a deep breath through their nose, and the smell of human sears the insides of their lungs like smoke. They hunch a little bit, curling into a more upward sitting position, sniffing the air, inhaling once, twice, then a third time until they have that scent burned into their hindbrain. They can’t stop drooling, salivating at the thought of finally feeling okay again, having something to cut through the smoky, blurry feeling. They hear shuffling, their prey slinking back as they curled forward. They can’t suppress the growl that rumbles in their throat, teeth licked behind the mask. They don’t move like a person in preparation for a chase. Jack slips out of their nook, their body curled forward and arms hanging limp.

Jack reaches up and peels the mask like a second skin, revealing tar-filled sockets that bore down at your scent.

Jack lurches forward like they’re on a leash, sinking their claws into your arm and digging in, etching out five deep grooves, each weeping a stream of blood that makes Jack’s mind run wild. Without thinking entirely, Jack pulls your arm forward and sinks their teeth into your bicep, leaning their body weight against you, knocking you both to the floor. There’s kicking and screaming, high-pitched whining as Jack’s teeth tear through skin and sinew, coating your arm in blood and spit.

You cry out, trying to pull their steel trap of a jaw out of your arm—managing to loosen their upper jaw, and by shoving them away with the heel of your palm, you manage to rip out their lower jaw, too.

They shiver, licking their teeth over and over again. Feral, animalistic delight rattles their whole body; they’re giddy at the taste of your blood, but they hold some restraint at the sound of their name.

Your breathing is frantic, and your heart is hammering in your throat. Jack’s breathing slows, and they quit licking their teeth. You’re not sure where to start. You hold your breath as Jack’s tar-filled sockets bore down into yours. Their breathing is heavy, and there’s saliva dribbling down their chin. You squeeze your arm, your skin clammy with blood and sweat, while Jack stays still above you.

Your mouth is nailed and twisted shut like you’re at the morgue. Jack doesn’t finch as they, strangely again, don’t tear you to shreds like the last guy. You sigh, which comes out as an exasperated laugh, your chest squirming like a bucket of mealworms as Jack’s warm, blood-soaked breath enters your nose. Their hair is long and matted, greasy and cool-brown in color; their skin is a deep gray like the living dead, bulked up by layers of stolen sweaters and pants to keep warm.

“I, uhh…” You start, “I brought you a sandwich if you want it. I didn't know what you liked, so I just put a little bit of ever—”

Jack’s knee presses into your ribcage as they climb over you, feeling around on the ground for your bag. A wheeze rattles from your throat, and they dump your belongings onto the forest floor unceremoniously, sniffing the contents like a tracker hound.

They pinch the bag between their claws, disemboweling the brown paper bag, the contents hitting the floor with a wet thud.

You watch them eat, tearing through plastic and paper with their teeth, eating with no sensibility nor dignity. The sandwich is shoved into their mouth and swallowed in about fifteen seconds, and a crushed bag of potato chips you forgot at the bottom of your bag perishes, too. They crack open the plastic container full of your dinner and hesitate, neck craned in your direction. It takes a few moments to find them, but Jack finds the metal utensils you packed for yourself, showing the container to you.

“Oh, well, yeah. That’s mine. My dinner, I mean. You can have it if you want.”

They shake their head in a fit.

They push it in your direction, a flatly affective expression on the remainder of their face, but their body language pushes your cold leftovers on you with a lot of force. You gingerly take the container from their claws, crack it open, and eat. Jack listens attentively to you, sockets trained on you, on the sound of metal utensils clinking against your mouth, the sound of you swallowing your meal. Their hands squirm and play with the dirt and leaves, excited to share a meal of leftovers with somebody they nearly killed twice. Your arm is throbbing as you carefully feed yourself, your jacket’s sleeve shredded. Hopefully, your emergency fund can cover a trip to the hospital for however many stitches you’ll need, as well as the antibiotics you’ll be taking (or paying for amputation if this gets infected, but you try not to think about that as this demonic forest creature is enraptured by you eating supper with them). You scrape the bottom of the container, not missing a single morsel.

They move their hand under their chin, and you recognize what Jack is doing. You took a few classes in uni, so you pick up on the ASL as soon as their hand collides with the other in a neat thank you.

“Oh! You’re welcome,” You say, “Was it good? I was worried if you liked mayo or not.”

They grin. It’s small, subtle, and hard to do with the tar seared to their skin, but there’s a quiet peek of teeth as they chuckle at being understood. They like mayo.

You laugh, too, exhausted and relieved. After so many restless nights worrying about getting your organs surgically removed in your sleep, you’re looking forward to a restful night after the day you’ve had. At the hospital, because you’re arm is looking pretty ugly.

“Look, I think I have to go.”

They tense up.

“I won’t tell anyone about you, I promise,” You sigh, trying not to look down at your bloody limb, “They’re still looking for you, though, so be careful. If you need food, I can try to sneak you some from Lost & Found.”

Jack pats at their pocket, pulling out an old, beat-up phone. They pass it to you, and you type out your number and put it into a contact.

“I’ll, hopefully, see you soon?”

They shrug. It’s probably for the best that they don’t make any promises. Jack walks into the treeline, eventually disappearing from view.

[moralesmilesanhour]

Hello hello!! How you doing?? Hope you're doing good cause I got a fluffy request!

Could be either 1610 or 42 miles, but, that miles has reader over cause he wants to impress her with his cooking but fails miserably and nothing goes as he wants it to be and reader is entertained 😆

Doing this w Miles G because something abt that is funnier to me (also he is making Ivorian food bc that's just where my brain went so you're getting African!Reader today 😭 also this is based on what I seen my parents do so idk the standard way to cook anything whoops)

You felt your phone vibrate and grinned upon seeing the contact name 'Gonzalo' flash across the screen.

"Miles?"

"Ion know who else it could be," the boy's voice filtered through your phone’s speakers. "You busy?"

You shook your head, then remembered that Miles couldn't see you.

"Nah, I'm just hanging out."

"Come over, I got a surprise for you."

The sound of something hitting a surface repeatedly in the background catches your attention, as if someone's chopping vegetables.

"Ooh, is your momma cooking? Hey Mrs. Morales!" You attempt to call out.

"She not here," Miles laughs. "I'm the one cooking. You coming over or not?"

You raise an eyebrow at your screen, and he notices the brief pause.

"You know, I can hear your lack of faith in me."

Still, you stand up in front of your bed and slip your crocs on.

"Guilty as charged, Gonzo. I'm coming over anyway to make sure yo' ass don't burn down Rio's kitchen. She doesn't deserve that," you joke.

"I'm not gonna–aye, what'd I say about that nickname–?"

"Bye!" You sung as you hung up.

Miles set aside the last of the veggies he was dicing with a dull scrape. With a swift movement, he slid the pieces of onion into the frying pan with the filleted fish already cooking in it.

The boy took a step back for a second to assess his work: the attiéké you had brought him last week to try out was soaking in a large bowl, waiting to be drained as the scent of simmering vegetables and spices began to spread across the kitchen. Miles grinned, feeling accomplished.

It all went to shit once you rang the doorbell.

"Hey, ma," he opened the door to you grinning in the hallway, arms crossed.

He enunciated the greeting you had taught him carefully, "On...dit...quoi...?

"Very good!" Planting a kiss on Miles' cheek, you quickly slipped your crocs off before stepping inside. "What's with the apron?"

He looked down, and remembered he had borrowed his mother's 'Kiss the Cook' apron.

"Cuz I'm a professional and I do this," he replied, locking the door behind you.

"Are you sure? I don't think 'professionals' leave the stove on unattended."

You laughed as Miles' eyes went wide and he spun around to dart back into the kitchen, cussing under his breath.

"It smell good, though, don't it?" Miles called out over the sound of sizzling.

It does smell good. And familiar.

"You making what I think you making?"

You popped your head into the kitchen and gasped with delight.

"M-hm," the boy nodded as he stuck the bowl in the microwave. "It is supposed to go in here, right?"

"Yup, I'm shocked you remembered."

Miles stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

"C'mon, you don't believe in me?"

The smell of smoke and caramelized onions wafts beneath your nose, and worry slowly creeps onto your features.

"Baby, watch the stove!"

"Shit!"

-

Miles sighed as the two of you leaned on the counter. His stretched out his fingers, having had to wash the remnants of burnt fish and onions out of the frying pan.

"It's fine," you reassured him, rubbing circles into his back. "At least we still got the attiéké, right?"

"Yeah, it's still up there."

Despite attempting to sound casual, the disappointment in Miles' voice was audible. You reached out and toyed with one of his braids before gently tilting his chin towards you.

"Hey, we still got a few hours 'till your mom gets home. You got anything else in that freezer?"

Miles' eyes lit back up as he replied, "Hell yeah, we got a couple chicken thighs left. Round two?"

"Yup," you pecked him on the lips, "but I'm doing the frying this time."

[absolutebl]

Industry question for you, please: Why is it that it seems that Thai BL in particular has some really systemic issues with writing endings? Screwed-up pacing/editing, out-of-character/illogical actions, not being very satisfying... it seems like a show avoiding that fate is more of an exception than the rule, unfortunately. Do a lot of them just... not write the ending ahead of time? 😅 That would make having these sort of wacked-up endings at least make some sense, but... really, it makes *no* sense to me that that would be the actual standard writing strategy-- I mean, for example, one of the best living novel authors I know of *always* has very satisfying endings, literally without fail (I have read everything he's written and been perfectly content with the ending of every one), and the reason for that is he purposefully always writes the endings of his books *first*, then works everything back up to that point. Similarly, some of the best TV shows I've seen (from any country-- and this does actually include some Thai ones, to be fair) were written either all in one go or at the *very* least with their endings obviously already very firmly in mind, regardless of if they were completely original or were adaptations of some other source material. So... why does this often seem to be such a difficulty for the writers of Thai BL? 😅 (Sorry if I sound a little salty here, but endings either make or break all fiction for me {novels, manga/manhwa, TV, movies, games, whatever}, and I've been getting burned what seems to be more and more often lately with shows being great for the vast majority of their runtime but then inexplicably totally botching the landing, seemingly out of nowhere-- so I'm a bit frustrated with that when it seems to be a really simply-solved problem {that, indeed, has already been solved by many others before}: JUST WRITE THE DAMN ENDING *FIRST* and then work up to it? 🙃😅)

Endings huh? You a romance reader by nature? (Wait, no, you said... HE. So... Sparks? Green?) Anygay, where was I?

But yeah, I get it. I've always fancied the dessert course the most, myself.

To answer your question, not sure. I'm assuming its a narrative expectation based in culture. Like Japan and their lanes, China and 6 act structure, or Korea's adoration of love triangles. And producing culture comes to film and storytelling with its own set narrative conceits, archetypes, and tropes and aren't proscriptive but are leaned on a lot. Much as they come to film with a certain style as well.

Think about the "look" of Korean BL compared to the "look" of Taiwanese BL, for example. They have an entirely different flavor to them. Korean stuff is usually all bright and airy, lots of distance shots, super clean and uncluttered, filtered and filmy and atmospheric. Taiwanese stuff is much closer, more grainy, more bold with it's color choices and contrasts, kind-up n your face and gritty, a bit messy sometimes.

It's jarring to go from one to the other.

After watching nothing but Asian dramas for so long, I always find it jarring to go back to American shit. It feels over-acted and unsubtle and kind of brash. Over all "loud" and in my face. Jarring.

So when first encountering 4 or 6 act structure most westerners feel a little unmoored, it doesn't feel comfortable until you sink into it and leave 3 & 5 behind.

I'm mean I'm so used to K-dramas with that arbitrary year or more separation in the final episode I;m now shocked when it's not there.

I guess what I'm saying is maybe it's just a thing with Thailand, not to put that much truck in endings. The way (especially) romances do in the western world. There's a very fixed idea of what an HEA should look like in the west. Thailand may not share that idea.

I've not read the source books of any of these BLs, so I don't know if this is just their narrative style or not.

I mean there are some Thai BLs with good (if not great) endings, and plenty of Korean BLs with terrible middles, and far too many Taiwanese BLs with bad beginnings.

Ya just kinda get used to it, I guess.

15 Thai BLs with Good Endings

A Tale of Thousand Stars

Bad Buddy

Lovely Writer

2gether

Be My Favorite

Dark Blue Kiss (possibly my favorite on this list)

Destiny Seeker

Make a Wish

Naughty Babe

SOTUS

[sergeifyodorov]

please disregard if this isn't for you, and my apologies if that's the case, but if not. hello! i would like your opinion on what would be in the leafs' (or other hockey players if you wish!) scent profiles in the omegaverse

first couple lines of that scared me WHEW ok ok. im not like. an a/b/o Guy as in. like. it's not entirely my thing but ive been known to dabble occasionally if the going's good. that to say i'm taking "scent profile" to mean like. a) what "designation" they have (a/b/o) and b) what like their Smells are. if that's not the commonly accepted meaning of the terms that's ok but it Is the question i am answering

am34: to me in my beautiful world am34 is an omega BUT not in a standard way... he's transgender but re: a/b/o designation not gender. like a/b/o is essentially just a second sex class (there exist in the a/b/o universe 6 "sexes" (not accounting for intersex people in the normal way/intersex people in the a/b/o way): alpha male, alpha female, beta male, beta female, omega male, omega female) and auston is transitioning/has transitioned from alpha to omega. in my mind this works basically the exact same way transitioning does irl, but with different hormones, because obviously a/b/o hormones are diff from m/f hormones!) anyway he would smell similar but different pre- and post-transition: sharp, hot and chemical, like jet fuel and citric acid. eating grapefruit at the airport. it gets sweeter as his transition goes on. lemon slushy by a construction site. they're putting tar on the sidewalk.

mitch marner: mitchy's alpha thru and thru... the leafs uncles do Nawt enjoy this because why isn't he using his ALPHA VIBES to intimidate the other goaltender into sucking... ah well. anywhay... mitch smells animal. sticking your face into a cat. wet dog. wool. locker room, but how you imagine the locker room in gay porn fantasy smells. a little bit of light petrichor when things are getting Really weird.

william nilliam: ALSO alpha. when the leafs drafted am34 ppl were suddenly Weird about this realization there were 3 alphas on the team... were they gonna fight? for a while there was really only the one alpha (phil kessel) and now all of a sudden the big three prospects were all alphas. there was concern! they should trade the little swedish brat! and then auston transitioned and the core was balanced (2 alphas, 2 omegas, and morgan <3) and everyone was like. ok. okay. mitchy and willy (and auston pretransition) were all fun and cool with it they WERE. it's harder now that am34's an omega and they have to regularly resist challenging each other over him but it's all fun and good! they're friends! anyways william nilliam smells like open sky. the wind off the water. wild grasses and night air. ozone.

john tavares: jt has been bonded to his alpha wife since his isles days and understandably as a result he smells Super bonded, but also like leather and rubber and polyester. blue jeans. ironic for mr kombucha man but what can you do

matthew knies: OMEGA !!! two arizona omegas wrow! sidenote for the readers in this a/b/o world a's and o's aren't like. A huge section of the population but they also don't entirely tend to get filtered out of or into the nhl... alphas exist in the nhl at similar or higher rates to the genpop, and omegas at similar or slightly lower rates. if alphas and omegas are each 10-15% of the population (combined 20-30%) that means that there's usually ~4-6 alphas + omegas combined on any given nhl team, give or take a few because percentages don't usually work that way. leafs have 5 alphas (mitch, willy, max, benny, dewar) and 3 omegas (am34, jt, kniesy). kniesy is one of those handful of people who is randomly like super educated about a/b/o biology etc etc. like dude paid attention in sex ed class??? i guess??? he smells a little bit like cheap tequila and a Lot bit like breakfast food, scrambled eggs and that very specific diner toast smell and those maple breakfast sausages. don't forget your orange juice!!

max domi: max is an alpha, like his father. and he smells alpha like his father, salted caramel and bitter coffee and sour apple.

connor dewar: pine tar and unscented soap and smoke and a bloody steak. a lot of people don't always clock him as alpha because he doesn't have the often like. strong or dominant scents of a typical alpha, but he's just a Nervous Guy. get the right omega around him and you WILL be able to tell he's an alpha lol

simon benoit: also coffee like max, but much less of a cheap cup made by someone trying to stay awake and much more of a seven-dollar latte made by someone with a nose ring. a bowl of ramen noodles with the highest spice level they'd let you pick. spring onion. farmer's market in a big city with food you've never seen before.

[waywardwritesstuff]

Sleeping with the Shooter: A Crosshair X M!Reader

Crosshair X M!Reader (platonic/brotherly) Word Count: 1,489

Tags: fluff, comfort, platonic, intended to be brotherly (NOT INCEST)

Summary: It's been a while since The Bad Batch have been able to take a rest from missions on their home world of Kamino. But reader can't help but notice that things are changing, especially within the world of Clones. He seeks comfort in his brother Crosshair on the long journey home through hyperspace.

A/N: this is a self-indulgent one-shot I wrote for myself but I thought that maybe some others in the fandom could use the comfort from the ending of The Bad Batch. Enjoy!

Another long mission, another long flight back to Kamino, another sleepless night in the cock-pit of the Marauder. I was sitting in the cockpit, my legs up on the dashboard watching the light from the stars flash by us as we jumped through hyperspace. It was calming, serene, a gentle break from all the blaster fire, destruction and pressure of our missions. I was born to be a soldier, but this life was starting to feel less and less like mine. I’m starting to notice our disposability, it urks me, but there is nothing I can do about it, which bothers me even more.

As I continue to stare into hyperspace I feel a disturbance beside me. A creak confirmed my suspicion as the seat to my left now had the body of one of my brothers slumped into it.

“Tech’s not going to appreciate you having your boots on the dash.”

I shrug, “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him”

“Do you ever actually sleep?” Crosshair’s deep voice rattled out again.

“Do you?” I retort without looking at him.

He huffs continuing on whatever conversational path he had planned out in his mind.

“Your thinking too much again, aren’t you” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Blunt and plain.

But not without a hint of concern, something our brothers often miss when talking to Crosshair, I can hear it, the underlying emotions in his speech that our brothers cannot.

“How can I not-“ I respond “- its in my code, my programming” I knock on my head, a dull thud sounding back.

I sigh and continue to watch the stars as they whizz past us, focusing on one flash of light until it's gone and then focusing on the next, I can feel my eyes flitting around in their sockets. He sighs as well and I see him, in my peripherals, lean forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the fingers of his curled-over shooting hand.

“What is it this time?”

“Us” I say darkly

“Us?”

“Us, our purpose, our reasoning, our next mission for the republic, us” I elaborate numbly.

He’s heard this all before and every time he tries to convince me that the Republic will always have a purpose for us, they made us, and they need us. The same old bullshit. He never sees how they treat our brothers. We come and go too quickly and our names just become numbers in a data bank, dust that litters the battlefields of the galaxy.

Crosshair maintains the silence without giving me one of his usually patriotic responses. I listen to his breaths, the nasally sound as his lungs push the filtered air of the ship in and out. As I’m watching the stars go by I don’t notice that Crosshair has stood up and walked over to my seat, I am too lost, in space and in my own mind. I nearly jump out of my seat when he puts a hand on my shoulder. Out of reflex I immediately turn and grab his wrist forcing it back.

“Shit” he cries and I let go of his wrist instantly

“Damnit it Crosshair…sorry” I mutter

“No, that one was my fault”

I inhale sharply and close my eyes for a moment, hugging my arms to myself before blinking them back open. Crosshair is still standing there, though noticeably a pace or so back from my chair. He looks at the ground thinking a moment before he looks at me and nods his head in the direction of our shared room. If you could even call it that.

I was the second biggest compartment of the ship aside from Storage, it was deck out with standard issue barrack bunks, with a few personal touches of course. Wrecker and Tech on one set, Wrecker's bunk is always decorated with Lula sitting in the corner by his head and Tech, as usual, has fallen asleep with his data pad hanging loosely from his fingers. The next is Hunter and Crosshair’s bunk, Hunter’s bandana hangs on the edge of his bed and Crosshair's bunk is empty, though I know he keeps a chest under his bed with some nicknacks from missions and planets we have visited, but I never bring it up. And lastly, Echo and I, Echo’s bed is also empty and mine is covered in a few bits of graffiti here and there.

My bunk is on the bottom which is why I assume that Crosshair is gesturing towards my bunk instead of his own. He climbs into my bunk and gestures for me to follow. The notion takes me aback slightly, none of us have had to share a bunk since we were younglings, not out of necessity or choice. We used to do it when we were still developing in the Kaminoan facility, making sure to stay close to one another. Minus Echo of course, we weren’t joined by him until much later. But Crosshair had always been off put by the idea of sharing sleeping quarters when there was an option to sleep apart, even when we were kids, so this gesture was not something that was normal for him to so willingly offer.

However it would seem that Crosshair could see what kind of struggle I was facing in my head, my programming though good for tactical advantages and strategy is not ideal for anything else. Maybe my state had become more noticeable as of late. I would need to make sure to rein that in as to not screw up future mission.

I climb in beside him in my bunk and he shuffles over so that his arm is bent underneath me. I rest my head on his chest and once I’m settled he curls his arm over my shoulder and cups the back of my head, placing his gloveless fingers into the mess that is my hair. The softness of the touch from his hand takes me by surprise, it was unlike him to be so gentle. He was swift, aggressive and tactical, it was his design. But his nature was not his design, he could be gentle, and he was very calm at times when he chose to be. I know this, and yet still the gesture does not fit with the image I have of my brother.

My head rests on his torso, right where the red marking that we all share on our breastplates would be. His heart thrumming a steady rhythm under his ribs, I follow the sound in my head, counting the time between each beat thump bump thump bump thump bump. The sound of it and the gentle but sturdy feeling of his torso underneath my chest had made me feel safer than I ever had. All I had known was War but this…this made me feel like I could have faith in the hope of life after war, maybe one where me and my brothers have freedom and true autonomy.

I divert my attention to his hand in my hair and focus on the bend of his fingers that are cupped around my head. The smoothness of his palm. Maybe tonight won’t be a sleepless night after all. I know how the brain responds to stimuli that are connected to memories and feelings of being safe, but I know all of that in theory. Not in practice.

Following this train of thought my mind wanders and I get lost, staring into the wall above Wrecker's head on the other side of the compartment. Briefly I wonder if Crosshair needs this as much as I do, and he’s using me as an excuse and guise to get this attention he needs, whatever the case I am happy to give it, not only for myself but for him. I know what Crosshair is like, he never takes care of himself, he takes better care of his rifle than he does his own mind and body.

I am pulled out of these thoughts, my eyes suddenly refocusing as his other hand comes into view of my face. I think that maybe he is just moving in his sleep and waiting for him to settle down again, but he isn’t moving like he’s asleep, his hand is moving lightly towards my face, almost as if cautious. He is still awake. His hand finally come to rest on my cheek, the barest contact between my face and his hand, but he holds it nonetheless and whispers something

“You’re a good kid” I bite my lip at his statement, and my eyes begin to sting. What the hell am I crying for?

‘It’s the stimuli to positive attention after an absence of it’ I remind myself.

I breathe deeply and absently I nuzzle into his hand and hum contentedly. And with that, at least for tonight, I am at peace and drift off to sleep.

I take requests if you like what you see then send in something per my guidelines

[messymindofmine]

How long is this Owen hate thing going to go on? It's honestly kind of funny how people seem to just look for reasons to hate on him. I feel like 404 just gave them even more reason to do so while simultaneously deifying the Reyes'. The thing is, my problem isn't even with the characters, I like them all. My problem is with the double standards. The Reyes' are obviously not perfect either. And even though Carlos’s relationship with them seems to be better, the fact that he didn't feel like he could go to them after him and TK broke up shows that things are still not great between them. Not to mention Gabriel's comment about how Carlos should have corrected Andrea's mistake in 211 rather than think about why their son wouldn't feel comfortable introducing his boyfriend to them in the first place.

I think Carlos’s face says it all here. Mind you, this was after Bad Call yet apparently Gabriel still doesn't recognize his mistakes with Carlos. Not only that but now apparently we need do add the fact that he felt like such a disappointment to them that he married a woman and they just let him go through with it despite knowing he was gay. I love the scenes we got with Gabriel in 404 but I don't like how it seems that even those have been weaponized against Owen. Yes, Gabriel saved his son and it was beautiful but Owen has done the same more than once. I mean, the episode is meant to be a parallel of Bad Call where Owen and Carlos were the ones that teamed up. Not to mention when TK got shot in 108, Owen sat with him the whole time stroking his face and talking to him. He apparently didn't even leave the hospital for a shower. When TK woke up, it was his dad he called for before he even opened his eyes and Owen was right there. And then Owen saved him again in 110.

Even the scene where TK revives Carlos is a parallel to Owen reviving TK in the pilot

Look, there's no denying that Owen is flawed and to be fair it is easier to focus on Owen's flaws since he's the main character and we see more of him but that still doesn't make the double standard any less unfair. Owen didn't ignore TK at all in 404. He picked up the phone despite the FBI lady not wanting him too. He looked at her like she was crazy for even thinking that he wouldn't pick up the phone bc "it's my son" and gave TK the best advice he could with what he knew. And he did this while the FBI lady badgered him and almost took the phone out of his hand. Yet there's literally people saying that it would be a good thing if Owen died and cheering on the FBI lady for making that comment.

I also don't buy the argument that Owen hasn't been apologetic about his mistakes. Out of all three parents, Owen is the one that is actually seen reflecting on his mistakes and and apologizing. People go after him for the "about to be a father" comment yet Owen himself expressed regret for it unprompted. He did it again in 316 when in the midst of his own struggles and dealing with his trauma, he called TK up just to tell TK that he loved him and that he was proud of him. He apologized for the distance between them and promised to do better. And we know they're going to be talking in 408. That closeness they had that we all were so charmed by in s1 existed for a reason. And we now know that the reason we haven't seen it in a while is going to be addressed.

Look, I love all three of the parents plus Gwyn but at the end of the day parents are human and all humans make mistakes and have flaws. I like how the show reminds us of that. What I don't like is the double standard and the way people look for reasons to hate on Owen. It's gotten to the point where I have to filter tags and be very careful what fics I read bc I'm not interested in anything that just makes Owen out to be this awful parent when that's very far from what he actually is. My biggest pet peeve with fandoms in general is double standards and the ones people have for Owen compared to the Reyes' and even Gwyn are too glaring for me to just ignore

[arbitrarygreay]

Considering how important protecting the vocal cords becomes, it’s actually a missed opportunity for the costume department to have awesome neck armor. Do you think when witches from different countries fight each other that they’d go for slitting throats?

In 1x3's "After the Storm", showrunner Eliot Laurence mentions that the vocal-centered practices of the US military are specific to that colonial European origin.

Other nations' witch armies are similar to ours. Our witch army is mostly based on vocalization. There are armies like the army of India where a lot of their magic is based on gesture. Other nations have other kinds of stuff to work with.

We saw this with the use of sigils (speaking of After the Storm, 1x1's claims that learning magic before 18 is illegal, but we literally see Tally use a sigil in California, so those Cravens/Californians were never sticklers for the rules eh). We also saw how the Marshal's Work is done through whistles. Still sound-based, but whistling doesn't require vocal cords.

And, obviously, we saw the Camarilla develop the science to approximate effects through soundwave synthesis, although they apparently need to filter it through witch vocal cords for the Work to actually manifest. No idea if the Camarilla ever pursued replicating gesture-based Work in other parts of the world, but it was implied that it was only Hearst who made the vocal cord breakthrough, after studying with Santos. As the Camarilla are of European origin, they may not have as deep a body of research into other traditions.

We see both M and Alder slit throats when they fight Camarilla (and Izadora during the famous Fixing tutorial), so it likely is a go-to finishing move in their training.

Here's some looks at the actual field uniforms:

The default one has a raised collar. I don't know if it could be tightened into a balaclava or not. They don't have face covers during any of the Salva drops I looked at.

Everyone except Adil has a slightly different neck wrapping in Tarim, including the Biddies. The Biddy played by BJ Harrison even has her hood up!

But, of course, that doesn't help when NO ONE WEARS THEIR HOOD DURING ACTUAL COMBAT, leaving swathes of flesh available for a blowdart. And the jackets themselves don't seem to be made of aramid fibers, given how easily they get cut by knives.

My guess is that their uniforms are geared towards maybe camping durability rather than armor, as witches assume that they will use defensive vocal work like Windshear? And sure, Windshear theoretically would shred all projectiles like a blowdart, but then I'm not sure why Alder wouldn't have a couple of Biddies just always on "project a Shear Dome" duty to prevent exactly this kind of shit. Like we see in Liberia:

This is the posture we see Tally use in 3x1 to defend against Nicte's Windstrike. And it's why the rebels have to then switch to an underground attack via centipedes, because a direct vocal attack won't work against this shield.

Like, in 2x10 the Camarilla have anti-Work tech going, but in the Tarim that's not the case. They have zero excuse.

Considering that we see Anacostia use her voice to repair weak Windstrike dents in a steel plate, it seems really weird that their clothing isn't reinforced as armor. Why aren't there standard sigils embroidered into the fabric? And more importantly, why aren't they just hooded up in the field at all times? Maybe the value of unhindered hearing is that important? In which case they should have Greek/Roman-style helmets instead. Or even modern style military helmets! Do they really not get that many head injuries from bad Salva landings?

[ladydeadpoolismyspiritanimal]

Copied from Reddit

A Community Project to Celebrate a Year of r/OnlyFangsBG3

Hello to our lovely community of darlings, blood bags, and precious little Bhaal babes! As you may remember from last week, your hardworking mod team is in the process of putting together a little project to celebrate our one-year anniversary. We wanted to give ourselves a tiny head start (and, yes, maybe drum up some curiosity!) but we are now ready to announce that…

# We Are Assembling an Astarion Coloring Book!

The community we’ve assembled here is so incredibly talented in such an amazing variety of ways, and we thought this could be a fun way for our creative folks to get to come together and share that talent. ~~And. I mean, yes, *some* of us are slightly sad that we don’t have artistic skill but still want to make pretty pictures of the pretty vampire, *okay??*~~

We are currently looking for visual artists to help us by donating their original line art featuring Astarion, which other members of the sub can then color in whatever media they choose and share with all of us! **If you are willing, please send us your submission no later than September 23, 2024.**

While we are soliciting this art, we will be promoting a selection of charities that Neil publicly supports (more on those in a minute). No money will be going through us at any time, we will only be encouraging you all to donate to the charities directly. If you wish, you can then send us (redacted!!) receipts so that we can get a tally of how much the sub has raised and celebrate our community with some altruism. We won’t be requiring anyone to donate in order to get access to the coloring book, just encouraging donations to those causes on his behalf. At the end of the event, our sub’s birthday (September 30), we will share how much we raised and release a link to the compiled coloring book.

Anyway. That’s what we’re looking to accomplish!

## Requirements

* You are welcome to send us line art from an existing work, or create something new for the event. As long as the art is your own original work, you’re good to go.

* You may create line art by tracing or using filters on your own screenshots. If you use someone else’s screenshot, you must get their permission and credit them appropriately.

* Line art only, please!

* No AI artwork will be accepted.

* Artwork must contain Astarion; otherwise, please feel free to chase your muse. NSFW is fine, solo, M/M, M/F, multiple, the whole tadpole crew, Batstarion, comic panels, whatever floats your boat.

* Feel free to submit as much as you’d like! Depending on the volume of submissions, we may have to narrow things down a bit, but we will make sure that all contributors are represented in the final product.

* Include your name or handle in the bottom left corner. Those posting colored versions of these pages will be required to leave this legible (or rewritten elsewhere on the page) or they will be taken down.

* If you are not a frequent poster on the sub, we may do a bit of extra vetting to try to confirm that the work is your own. Please understand that this is us doing our due diligence to protect artists’ hard work and has nothing to do with you as an individual.

## How to Submit / File Info

If you would like to participate, you may submit your art in a few different ways. You can send an email to onlyfangsbg3@gmail.com with the attached image. Or you can send us a [modmail](https://www.reddit.com/message/compose?to=r/OnlyFangsbg3) and include a link to your art on Tumblr, Twitter, Imgur, or other platform that your image is hosted on.

As for file types, please submit them as something lossless - so no crunchy jpegs or anything. Types such as PNG, TIFF, SVG (hell even BMP if you can find space to host it lmao) will do splendidly.

For size, we are hoping to stick to "standard letter" sizes - either US Letter (8.5x11 inches), or A4 (21.0x29.7cm). We figure those sizes make the most sense for a coloring book project!

## What Charities Can You Donate to?

We’ve picked two charities from a handful that were listed on Neil’s Twitch channel that you can donate to. These two were picked just to narrow down the choices a bit for simplicity’s sake, but if any of the other ones speak to you, we won’t stop you from donating to them! The ones we’ve selected are:

* [The Red Card](https://www.theredcard.org/) - “Show Racism the Red Card (SRtRC) is the UK’s leading anti-racism educational charity.”

* [Black Lives Matter](https://blacklivesmatter.com/) - “Black Lives Matter Foundation is an abolition-centered foundation fighting institutional injustice and serving Black people globally.” (US-based)

From Neil’s Twitch page

> Please have a look at these charities- Be an ally. Do your bit.

> I am. My family are. We all can.

> Support, move, scream and keep the momentum to help even in small ways like this.

As stated earlier, there’s no requirement to donate to receive the completed coloring book at the end of the sub’s anniversary event; it just seems like a very nice way that we can show our support for Neil and our community! If you do donate, please send us a [modmail](https://www.reddit.com/message/compose?to=r/OnlyFangsbg3) with your receipt (blur out any personal information, of course) showing the total you donated. We will tally these up through September 29 and announce the grand total we raised for these charities on September 30th.

## Using the Coloring Book Pages

We’d love it if you shared what you did with the coloring book with the community! Whether you print it out and paint it by hand, color it digitally, use colored pencils, or whatever else your heart comes up with, we’d love to see! We will create a new flair for this purpose as we get closer to The Big Day.

That being said, be sure to credit the original artist! Any posts made with these images that fail to credit the original, or remove the artist's name/signature from the image, **will be removed**. Don't try to pass this off elsewhere as your original work.

## Spread the Word!

Do you know any artists, either friends or via patreon discords, that might be interested in participating? Then please (politely, gently!) see if they want to join in!

##tl;dr

* Send us line art by September 23

* Donate to charities and send us receipts by September 29

* We will release the full coloring book and the total we raised on September 30

* Share your beautiful pages, being sure to credit the original artists

Bonus Angel screenshot that I feel like has some meme potential

[eff-plays]

A personal rant about BG3, Larian, and writing fanfic

So let me preface this by saying that I'm weird. I'm a weirdo. I don't fit in. Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?

I am not really a fanfiction writer, which is ironic considering some of my first writing was fanfiction. Since then, it's been nothing but original fiction. The Wayhaven Chronicles was the game I started writing actual fanfic for, and that was only a couple of years ago (nobody look at me I haven't updated in forty years). I'm very new to the genre, basically. I barely even read fanfic, as for most of my life I've just been like "Well it's not canon anyway so what's the point of it?" and it's only recently that I've gotten more into it and understood the "point".

That is all to say that when I started writing my BG3 Tavstarion (I know, so new and never seen before) fic, I wanted it to be based as closely on the game as possible. To the point where I would boot up the game to get the smallest details right; which boxes were where and had what in them, the inflection of a character's voice, the movements, the animations. I could look it up on Youtube, but it felt like cheating -- I had to be there, as my OC, and filter it all first-hand through their thoughts. That way, my fic would have a solid foundation of canon on which I would build their story.

I admit, that's the main reason I've kept the game installed despite burning out of actually playing it months ago. Because of my stupid OC that I love. Here's what I even made the Steam banner look like.

It might be silly -- I would never hold a fic I read to these dumbfuck standards, anyway -- but it felt right. I'm writing a canon-compliant fic, so of course I need canon to support it. Maybe not to the extent I was doing it, but the fundamental idea made sense to me. I wanted my deviations from canon to be minimal and well-informed. Because I loved the canon and that's what made me love the game, and in turn my OC. It was all connected, you see?

Which brings me to the patches. The updates. The scene changes. All of it. I wanted to stay true to the game, so I hung onto it for dear life, letting it clog up my PC's storage just in case I needed it for fic purposes. But now ... what's the point? Larian won't leave well enough alone, so to which version am I staying true? Why should I respect canon when Larian can change it at any moment if a vocal minority has issues with something I personally enjoy and want to include in a fic? At this point, my personal experience doesn't matter -- my Tav's version of the game doesn't exist anymore. So looking up stuff on Youtube feels right. In fact, it might be my only choice, if I want to see the version of the game where they first and best existed.

And you might think "Wow Eff, that's a long-winded and melodramatic way of saying you're uninstalling the game!" Well, yeah. This is my personal gaming blog, so of course I will put my big gamer feels on here. That's just what I do. But this is the first time this has happened to me, where I feel like there's just no point in respecting canon at all, and I want to document that feeling. I was trying desperately to stay true to Larian's vision, playing the game when it brought me no joy just so I could then write fic which does bring me joy. But why do that? Larian does not respect me, and more importantly, they don't respect their own stories. So why should I?

Anyway, yeah. I'm uh. Uninstalling the game, finally. I will keep writing my fic, as that still brings me joy, and apologies for getting shit wrong, but at this point the game I remember doesn't exist anyway, so what's the point in getting the current game right?

The only thing I'll miss is being able to take screenshots of my Tav, and making gifs of them. I modded in a unique face for them (and long-time followers will know how much I struggled with that) and now that won't be as easily accessible anymore. I don't think it's a waste, though, not with how much joy it brought me, and I'll still have the files. Maybe I'll come back in a few months and gaze upon them again.

Goodbye for now, my blorbo. You will always be loved. The game you're from? Not so much.

[goatsludge]

Longtime lurker, hoping you can help me out.

I'd like to purchase a gas mask that is available for say...under $200-300...and compatible with aiming a rifle?

Can you suggest a couple of models that are affordable and easily obtainable?

I'm also (seperately) looking for a low cost self-contained (battery driven supllied air) full-face respirator for painting or spaying pesticides but the cost of the 3M system has kept me from taking the plunge. I find half masks or disposables really uncomfortable to breath through. Any suggestions?

That depends on a lot of things - let's start with the most important one, are you wanting to buy new or are you experienced enough to know what to look out for with surplus items?

Assuming you live in the U.S., imo the best option for most tactically-inclined individuals are ex-police Avon C50's; They sit smack dab in the middle of the pricepoint you described (going for $250+ on average) and they meet 80% of the criteria for what I personally believe a modern "tactical" mask (not just military) should encompass:

Panoramic eyelens with a wide ecosystem of lens outserts

Optical insert capability

Comms and/or Voice Amplifier-Capable

Mesh skullcap-type head harness with low-profile buckles for helmet integration

Butyl rubber and glass-filled nylon construction

Common, standardized drinking adapter

Threaded for Rd40x1/7" NATO Canisters for greater flexibility of protection (i.e.; using canisters intended for specific threats instead of just general purpose CBRN)

Left and right-hand capable side ports

Interchangeable inner nosecups for custom sizing based on individual facial ergonomics The only thing it really lags behind in is having poor passive voice communication (no voice diaphragm, just the outlet valve), as well as poor moisture drainage (you will have to lean forward to drain any sweat, spit, etc out the outlet valve rather than it draining naturally)

All gas masks are generally going to put you at a disadvantage as far as aiming a rifle, and even masks designed for improved rifle ergonomics like the Avon FM53/54 still give a massive amount of stand-off when attempting to look down your sights, so I'd definitely hop on the bandwagon of tall optic risers if gas mask usage is a legitimate consideration.

Other excellent surplus options include the older Avon FM12, Scott/Kemira M/95 (or more realistically, the Scott M110 if you can find them; the M/95's drinking system is hard to get adapters for), or even MSA Millennium or surplus M40A1 Protective Masks are all viable options with a fair amount of aftermarket support. As far as buying newly-manufactured masks, you're going to be cutting above the $300 mark - Avon sells their C50 (and FM50, which is the same but with proprietary cartridges) at an MSRP of $500

Mira Safety is a brand you've likely heard of, who are mostly known as a redistributor of gas masks manufactured for them by Czech firm Gumarny Zubri. Mira as a company is incredibly underhanded and shady - they make a lot of false claims about who they sell to and the capability of their products, and not to mention their ad campaigns are the most blatantly mudslinging/misinformed.

Objectively the only thing that Mira/GuZu masks really shine at is having slightly higher quality rubber and superior passive voice comms and downward moisture drainage over Avon designs. They fail at basically every other aspect. However, they do work and they are cheaper if buying brand-new masks is a requirement for you.

I sadly don't have many suggestions as far as commercial/industrial PAPR units - I know a lot of those are surplussed by the pharmaceutical/medical industry, so I'd browse options, get to know them and spend time obsessively browsing ebay for various models and knowing how to tell when they're complete and serviceable.

Oh and one last thing -

P3-rated Particulate Filters are your best friend if all you realistically expect to face off against is tear gas and nuisance dusts. Particulate filters don't really expire since there's basically no chemicals that break down and can be stored almost indefinitely provided there's no moisture to foul the filter element.

40mm threaded P3 cartridges made by 3M, Racal, MSA etc are super common on the industrial surplus market and can be had in bulk for reasonably cheap, especially as "expired" lots.

[machine-saint]

Excession.

Confirmed precedent-breach. Type K7^. True class non-estimal. Its status: Active. Aware. Contactiphile. Uninvasive sf. LocStatre: Esperi (star).

First ComAtt (its, following shear-by contact via my primary scanner @ n4.28.855.0065.59312) @ n4.28.855.0065.59487 in M1-a16 & Galin II by tight beam, type 4A. PTA & Handshake burst as appended, x@ 0.7Y. Suspect signal gleaned from Z-E/lalsaer ComBeam spread, 2nd Era. xContact callsigned 'I'. No other signals registered.

My subsequent actions: maintained course and speed, skim-de-clutched primary scanner to mimic 50% closer approach, began directed full passive HS scan (sync./start of signal sequence, as above), sent buffered Galin II pro-forma message-reception confirmation signal to contact location, dedicated track scanner @ 19% power and 300% beamspread to contact @ -5% primary scanner roll-off point, instigated Exponential slow-to-stop line manoeuvre synchronised to skein-local stop-point @ 12% of track scanner range limit, ran full systems check as detailed, executed slow/4 swing-around then retraced course to previous closest approach point and stop @ standard 2ex curve. Holding there.

Excession's physical characteristics: (¡am!) sphere rad. 53.34km, mass (non-estimal by space-time fabric influence - locality ambiently planar - estimated by pan-polarity material density norms at) 1.45x8^13t. Layered fractal matter-type-intricate structure, self supporting, open to (field-filtered) vacuum, anomalous field presence inferred from 8^21 kHz leakage. Affirm K7^ category by HS topology & eG links (inf. & ult.). eG link details non-estimal. DiaGlyph files attached.

Associated anomalous materials presence: several highly dispersed detritus clouds all within 28 minutes, three consistent with staged destruction of >.1m3 near-equiv-tech entity, another ditto approx 38 partially exhausted M-DAWS .1cal rounds, another consisting of general hi-soph level (O2-atmosphered) ship-internal combat debris. Latter drifting directly away from excession's current position. Retracks of debris clouds' expansion profiles indicates mutual age of 52.5 days. Combat debris cloud implicitly originating @ a point 948 milliseconds from excession's current position. DiaGlyph files attached.

No other presences apparent to within 30 years.

My status: H&H, unTouched. L8 secure post system-scour (100%). ATDPSs engaged. CRTTDPSs engaged.

Repeat:

Excession eG (inf. & ult.) linked, confirmed.

eGrid link details non-estimal. True class non-estimal.

Awaiting.

@ n4.28.855.0073.64523…

… PS:

Gulp.

[dykesynthezoid]

Cobra Kai: Femslash Ao3 Statistics

Yeah. This took a while and the results were kind of depressing. But I have graphs!

Some necessary notes/disclaimers before we get started:

- I am only human and it is inevitable there may be small errors in the data that I missed. This is a very rudimentary exploration and very little math was involved. I am not a mathematician or statistician and this is just an exercise, not a peer reviewed study (obviously).

- This is not a callout post. No one is attacking you for your writing habits specifically. This is an analysis of trends first and foremost, not a criticism of individual behaviors. If you feel yourself getting defensive while reading this, please take a step back and consider why you might be reacting that way. Also, if you say something stupid on this post, I will just block you, obviously.

- You may be thinking, “Wow, all that seems a little presumptive, why would people say stupid things on this post?” And to that I say: God I wish that were me. Unfortunately, people in fandom have a habit of being weird about femslash.

Okay. Let’s get into the numbers!

*Note: This data was gathered 6/23/23.

Firstly, we have a basic breakdown of CK’s Ao3 categories laid out in bar graph form:

As to be expected, M/M takes the lead, accounting for just under 2/3rds of all CK fic on Ao3. Granted, M/M’s popularity is no surprise when you consider the fandom’s most popular ships and the characters and relationships that feature most prominently in the show.

Now, note that these are taken from the category numbers as listed by ao3’s filter system. The number listed for F/F is 360.

However— This does not reflect the actual number of CK fics containing F/F hosted on ao3. This is because a. many authors have mistagged their works and b. the ao3 filter system is flawed, and some fics end up where they shouldn’t (the ‘Multi’ tag definitely contributes to this).

Soooo I went through CK’s entire F/F tag and counted which fics were, in fact, actually F/F.

(If you’re wondering about criteria—Firstly: they had to have a Cobra Kai character in an F/F pairing. Crossover fics with two characters of an entirely different fandom in an F/F pairing weren’t counted. There had to be at least one CK character involved in the F/F in question. Secondly: Actual textual mention of F/F, even if it’s just one tiny sentence. Literally I’d take anything. I need you to know I was NOT harsh about this, truly I was looking for “does this have F/F in any way whatsoever and is it Cobra Kai”)

The number for actual F/F fics came out to 313.

(*Note: there are some areas in this data where standards become unavoidably subjective, so there’s a necessary margin of error. Plus, your preferred methods may be different! These are just mine).

Here’s a pie chart comparing the number of actual F/F fics (313) to the total number of non-F/F CK fics (which was found using the total number of CK fics on ao3, minus actual F/F).

As depicted, F/F content comes out to 5.7% of the total CK fics on Ao3. 5.7%. That… Sure is a number!

Remember how M/M is the most popular category? I wanted to see what the data looked like if we controlled for it. In its simplest form (like, aggressively simple, this would go differently if this were a formal study), this means removing all M/M fics from the data; and dear god, note that this is not because I don’t like M/M or something (lmao), it’s just because it gives us insight into how the popularity of M/M can affect the overall breakdown of the data in question.

That being said, here’s a bar graph with CK’s Ao3 categories, now adjusted with M/M controlled:

Honestly, I found it nice that Gen fic is so popular in this fandom? You don’t see that everywhere. That being said, it’s obvious that even when we’re disregarding the most popular category (M/M), F/F still lags wayyyyy behind Gen and M/F.

(If you’re interested in more percentages: controlling for M/M, F/F makes up 10.4% of all the non-M/M CK fics).

Now that we have our overall categories data out of the way, let’s look at the breakdown of F/F specifically. This is a bar graph featuring the 6 most popular F/F ships (“popular” meaning they have more than 10 fics. I know. It’s rough out here), plus the overall number of genderbent M/M or M/F.

It’s so funny to see SamTory winning this one because I can tell you, it sure doesn’t usually feel like they’re that popular of a pairing when you’re someone who writes for them. But, considering all their canon interactions, it’s understandable why they’re the most popular F/F pairing, even if F/F overall is still underrepresented.

Our last bit of data focuses on how often F/F pairings are used as background for other ships. This graph takes the previous breakdown of the 6 most popular F/F ships, and compares it to the number of fics each pairing has where the F/F pairing isn’t just in the background.

The criteria for that: the F/F ship is a. featured prominently, b. has an impact on the plot/story, and/or c. features scenes that focus particularly on the F/F ship interacting.

(Note: in effort not to bias the data against drabble compilations, those fics are counted as long as at least one of the drabbles focuses specifically on the F/F relationship in question).

Man. Some of these are just brutal. Even Sam/Tory is cut down by almost a quarter.

Ok, so, this is all very interesting. But; what do we do with this information?

Well; I think the biggest takeaway is just that F/F is still really, really, really underrepresented in the fandom. And I think most fans would have guessed that was the case, but they might not have realized just how bad it was. While I would still expect M/M to be the most popular, given what I stated earlier, the fact that F/F is that far behind both M/M and M/F is… upsetting. Like, the discrepancy shouldn’t be THAT big. 5.7%. There are so many female characters in this show, interesting ones, who interact with each other and have complicated relationships. It doesn’t seem like it should be possible for numbers to be so extreme.

Some good news: we can always just write more F/F! I’ve been talking about potentially planning an F/F event and I’m definitely moving forward with that (let me know if you’re interested!) I’ll also soon be starting a blog to host that event and any other events that relate to F/F, basically a home for F/F CK content. If you’d be interested in helping mod that, please let me know for that as well.

Okay; thanks so much for sticking around to the end. I know that was long! Trust me, it took quite a while to write all this out.

[dndeceit]

I've been meaning to share more fanfic recs, and then not remembering to do that. Gonna try to make it a weekly thing on Fridays (we'll see if that sticks).

(I'll be tagging these "fander fic rec friday" if anyone would like to join me in reccing some fics they love.)

Animal Skin and Take a Bite by Willowanderer Supernatural AU. (Dukeceit, Prinxiety) Rating: M Janus and Virgil are brothers who meet a pair of intriguing twins. An amusing amount of drama (romance, mystery, patricide) ensues. Notes: I almost missed "Take a Bite" because I filter out the Underage tag, but I saw a post with art from the fic and decided to take a chance. The warning is there for mentions of trafficking involving an underage character, but nothing happens within in the fic itself. (It's also tagged for references to bestiality, but that's in the context of a hypothetical scenario involving a sapient shapeshifter, because Remus gotta be Remus. Not actually bestiality and again, nothing actually happens in the fic.)

Bonding over scales by FeelingGroovySmooth Canonverse. (Intruality) Rating: M Remus is pining for Patton. Janus plays matchmaker by roping them both into helping him with his scale-care routine. Notes: This one is so funny. Janus as a matchmaker is so underused in this fandom. I think it's rated a bit high for its actual content, I probably wouldn't have put this as more than a T (but then I also have very lax standards). (Warning though, if you have a fingernail squick like me: this isn't a shed fic so much as a manicure fic in disguise because his scales grow like fingernails. Not gonna lie, that gave me the willies.)

Here's a pair of older fics I reread recently. Pairing them together, because they have similar themes:

Rewrites and Losses by DoomedKelpie Canonverse. (Gen) Rating: T Janus wakes up in the mindscape with no memory of being Deceit. Notes: One of my favorite tropes is the idea of the Sides' roles changing over time, and this one plays with that idea really well.

Myosotis by cloakoflevitation Canonverse. (Gen) Rating: T Virgil loses his memories from the beginning of the series onward. He doesn't remember meeting Thomas in person or being accepted, and he doesn't know why Janus and Remus are so upset to see him come home... Notes: This one hurts so good. Love fics about Virgil mending things with the others.

WIPs (I don't read WIPs as often as I probably should, but these are some that have made me glad for making an exception.)

Wolfsbane by TheFoxofFiction Supernatural/Fantasy AU. (Loceit, slowburn) Rating: T Janus is a werewolf fleeing a past filled with isolation and tragedy who, after a brush with death, falls into the care of a witch (Logan). Notes: The angst in this is exquisite.

Friendly Neighborhood Criminals by LeFay_Strent Modern AU. (Gen) Rating: T Patton is a a sweet, abused puffball who manages to attract the protection of three quirky criminal guardian angels after they break into his apartment. Notes: The cutest shit, I swear to God. Putting it with WIPs for hinted intrigue down the line, but so far the chapters read as completed fics.

Me, Myself, and These Guys Who Kinda Look Like Me by LeFay_Strent Canon AU. (Gen) Rating: T A story about Thomas meeting his sides when they manifest in front of him for the first time. Notes: This one is so interesting because no one knows what is going on. The Sides don't know what they are or why they're connected to Thomas, they just know he's the center of their world, and that's...a lot for Thomas to try and wrap his head around. It's so good.