#sludge saturday or whatever

[tatonslice]

uhh sergey saturday sunday its uh. its basically midnight have some ego doodles

yeah the last 3 are just ruina ego sorry its because i have a hypothetical realization lineup for him. knight of despair isnt on it but i still think it fits him anyway. the full lineup is skin prophecy - notes from a crazed researcher - schadenfreude - nameless fetus - CENSORED (oh hey its the two with the roulette)

none of them actually are in ruina so i have to draw the ego myself. outfit design was never my strong suit :(

[too-deviant]

jackie and wilson.

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pairing: luke castellan x unclaimed!reader

summary: you haven't been given a quest, but you have made it your personal mission to make luke castellan smile

word count: 5.3k

content: fluffff, loser!reader, happy!luke if you squint and a sprinkle of loser!luke, brief mentions of suicide but nothing heavy, we finally find out which state reader is from

notes: this is so cute i love them.

PART III — she’s gonna save me, call me ‘baby’, run her hands through my hair

Wading through a misty green lake with Luke Castellan was not on your camp bucket list — something you’d produced with a young girl called Silena who you’d met in the arts and crafts cabin — but alas, here you were; knee deep in pond water and ankle deep in whatever sludge lived at the bottom, hands searching blindly along the floor while you tried your best to keep your chin dry. 

You probably wouldn’t have been there if you were any good at Volleyball — which really doesn’t make much sense with the given context. 

Okay, here’s what happened. It was Saturday at camp halfblood — and while you had been there for a solid three days now, you were yet to experience the joy of the weekends. Not that you knew they were any different, not until Travis Stoll approached you after breakfast. 

“Heyyyy, uh...newbie.” He chuckled, sidling up beside you while you were occupied with deciding whether your camp shirt was better tucked into your shorts or left hanging over them. 

You turned to the boy with an amused smile, reminding him of your name. He snapped his fingers at you, “I knew that. I did. I just prefer newbie.”

“What’s up, Travis?”

He dropped his finger guns, rocking back and forth on his feet and looking at you sheepishly, “Well, me and a few friends were gonna chuck a ball around on the beach and we need an extra player to make it even. Now that Luke’s not an option.” 

He muttered that last bit low and under his breath, not in hopes that you wouldn’t hear but in hopes that Luke wouldn’t — there was no telling how far he was from you at any given moment, but he wasn’t going to tell you that, so he just put on his charming Stoll Smile and said, “So, wanna join us?” 

You didn’t have anything to do that day, and since you’d assumed you were in for another long eight hours of finding out what you were good at and failing, a friendly game of ball (which you were safe to assume was volley, per what Luke told you yesterday) seemed like a great idea. 

Only it wasn’t — friendly, that is. You wandered over to the net set up on the beach with Travis at your side and a taller girl with curly blonde hair narrowed her eyes at you in suspicion, “How good are you at this?” 

“Uh —“ You shrugged, shaking your head slightly, “I’ve never played. We don’t have many beaches where I’m from.” 

“You don’t need a beach to play volleyball, newbie.” Connor Stoll appeared out of nowhere, grinning at you, “But it’s easy to pick up. You can be on our team.”

Their team consisted of Connor, Chris, Poppy from the Demeter cabin, Evie and Evan (twins from the Ares cabin) and now, yourself. Apparently it was a lost cause whenever the Stolls were on the same team, so Travis was on the other side of the net with the blonde girl from earlier — who’s name you’d learnt was Sabine, and who’s godly parent was Nike, which did not decrease your nerves even a little bit. 

“It’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it.” Evie explained to you once she noticed your unsure eyes. “Just don’t hit the ball twice in a row, Sab’s a stickler for that rule.” 

“Other than that, we’re pretty lax.” Her brother tagged on, smirking at you, “This isn’t the Olympics.” 

“Tell her that.” You side eyed the blonde on the other side of the net, who was cracking her knuckles and discussing strategy with Travis and Brynn, an Athena kid with a bright blue buzzcut. 

The twins let out identical chuckles, sharing a look before patting your shoulders, “You’ll be fine.” 

You didn’t have time to quip that the pair of them talking at the same time was a little foreboding before the game was on, and a volleyball was heading straight for you. 

To be fair to you, you lasted longer than expected. Maybe it was your battle instincts kicking in, but you hadn’t missed the ball once — sure, your defence lacked any real strategy and was more you hitting the ball in whatever direction and hoping for the best, but it was working, so why complain? You wouldn’t qualify for varsity, but at least you were one upping a Stoll brother — the same couldn’t be said for most campers, you knew that much. 

You actually thought you were getting pretty good, too. Your team was up by a few points (no thanks to you, all thanks to Evan. Seriously, he was like six foot four) and Sabine was getting angry. Every now and then she’d turn and scowl at Rhea, one of her teammates, and the girl would just shrug in response before returning to her position. But then, just when you started to get confident with it, Travis got you. 

Hard, too. You were paying close attention to your feet, making sure you didn’t trip over any sand when you had to move, and unfortunately didn’t notice the ball coming at you until it clipped you in the face. You went down onto your ass, both hands flying to your nose and groaning when you felt a warm trickle of blood slide through your fingers and down your hands. 

“Holy shit, newbie.” Travis sped over, dropping to his knees next to his brother and hovering over you, “I am so sorry, are you okay?” 

Your speech was muffled and nasally when you replied with a swift, “No, asshole!”

“Shit.” He muttered, looking between Connor and Evie, “Uh, I can take you to the infirmary if you want —“

“I’ll take her.” Evan interrupted. He was crouched somewhere behind you, looking at your teammates over the top of your head. You felt his hands flatten on your back as he pushed you up to stand, the rest of the group joining him and wincing when some blood dripped onto the sand. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to —“ You held out a hand in his direction now that you could see him, only to press it firmly back against your face when your nose simply started to gush once the pressure had been removed. 

“Yes,” He nodded, “I do. Let’s go.” 

You let him lead you, sending an apologetic look to the remaining teens on the sand — you were pretty sure it looked nothing like an apology since your hands were covering half of your face and there was blood seeping through your fingers, but it was the effort that counted. 

You didn’t receive as many looks as you thought you would’ve on the walk to the infirmary, although you assumed demigods had gotten worse injuries than a nosebleed before, so it wasn’t exactly odd. When you got there, you stopped on the porch and tried to speak to Evan as best you could without letting any more blood spill. 

“You can — you can go.” You said through your hands, “I got it from here.”

He looked a little unsure, but you nodded firmly and he turned back the way he came. It was pretty embarrassing, walking into the infirmary with a bloody nose on your third day at camp, but the Apollo kid who took care of you said it was only a matter of time before you shed first blood, and that you’d better thank the gods it was a volleyball and not a hellhound that did the damage. 

They stopped the bleeding with some sort of special gauze and told you to be a little more careful before sending you on your way — which was when you found Luke. 

You didn’t even see him at first, more focused on folding the gauze you’d been given into a perfect square while you stepped off the wooden porch. But then a voice muttered your name in slight shock and confusion, and you looked up to meet those baby brown eyes you couldn’t help but love. 

You grinned, “JoJo.”

Luke shook his head, “What were you doing in the infirmary?” His eyes tracked all over you, assessing for any visible injuries. When he found none, he turned his questioning gaze back to your face. 

You sucked in some air through your teeth, embarrassed, “I, uh, got hit in the face with a volleyball. Turns out, I’m awful at it.” You let out a weak chuckle, and Luke rolled his eyes in amusement. 

“Of course. I thought baseball was your thing?” 

“It is.” You nodded, “But there’s nobody out here to play with, so…” Then an idea sprung, and your face lit up so visibly that Luke took a tentative step back, “Hey, why don’t you come watch? We’re playing on the beach.”

“Oh.” The boy paused, eyes sliding to the beach and back to you, “I don’t think so…I, uh, tend to spend my weekends alone.”

“You spend your everything alone.” You pointed out with a raised pair of brows. He pursed his lips. You sighed, “Come on. You don’t have to play.”

He looked as if he was thinking about it, and your hopes were raised a little. You liked Luke, you wanted to know him better and one day consider him a friend rather than a guy you harassed every day. But you were very aware of his aversion for all things social — the comment Travis made about Luke not playing with them anymore saddened you, and it pained you to imagine Luke all alone while his brothers and friends still had fun around him. But then his face dropped, and so did yours, Luke shaking his head no. 

“I just…” He shrugged, “I don’t really…”

“It’s okay.” You interrupted before he could spout out his excuse. He didn’t need one. “We can do something else.”

“Oh, I —“ Another shake of the head, “You go back to them, don’t let me ruin it.”

“You aren’t ruining anything.” You said plainly, and you thought that those four words hit Luke a lot harder than expected, because he had this pensive look on his face that didn’t fade until you spoke again, “Listen, I know baseball isn’t exactly a camp sport, but I’ve got a ball. This place has gotta have bats — I mean, if it’s got swords, it’s got bats, right? So we grab them, we go off somewhere and take turns batting. I need to stay in practice anyway, if I’m gonna make varsity.”

You sent him your shiniest smile paired with some doughy eyes, and after squinting at you for a solid ten seconds, Luke agreed to your idea with a hesitant nod. You weren’t exactly expecting him to jump up and down in joy, so you took the liberty of doing that before asking him, very enthusiastically (because if you stayed positive, maybe it would rub off on him), to go look for a bat while you grabbed your ball. 

Chris caught you exiting the Hermes cabin while he was filling up his water bottle using the outdoor tap not far from the porch, asking you what you were doing with a baseball. You explained that volleyball was definitely not your thing and ignored his chuckle of agreement in favour of informing him that you would be teaching Luke how to become the next Babe Ruth. He raised a brow. 

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah.” You replied, a little put off by his reaction. “Is that a problem?” 

“No, no.” He backtracked quickly, hands raised and water sloshing around his bottle as the movement, “I just…I dunno. Luke’s been a little off recently. If I were you, I wouldn’t meddle in it.”

“Meddle?” You asked, shaking your head, “In what?”

“In his…” He puffed out his cheeks, trying to find the words, “His funk.” He shook his head then, eyes glossing over as he thought about it, “He failed his quest, he’s a little butthurt, but…he’ll get over it. Y’know?”

You didn’t know. 

“I just don’t think he needs babysitting.” He firmed, looking confident in his wording now that he’d found it, “He’s just gonna talk your ear off about how much he hates his life until you’re borderline suicidal. I wouldn’t bother, personally. He's a big boy, he can get over it.”

You rolled your lips over each other, staring blankly at Chris as he sent you a polite smile and walked back to the beach. Slowly, your eyes narrowed, and your brows pulled together. But you didn't say anything, you just turned around yourself and walked to where you’d asked Luke to meet you. 

He was tossing the bat between his hands when you got there, dropping it in his left when he spotted you and nodding, “Alright, where are we doing this?”

You stopped, snapped out of a stupor you didn’t even realise you were in and blinking at him. For the first time since you’d met, it seemed that he was more focused and lively than you were. It irked him a little bit, and he frowned, “Sunny?” 

“Sorry.” You responded immediately, shaking your head to rid yourself of your spiralling thoughts, “I just…uh, let’s go somewhere clear. We don’t wanna hit anyone with the ball.” 

Luke led you to a clearing in the woods, explaining that the wood nymphs would be able to help you if the ball got lost in the foliage, so there was no need to hold back the arm you’d been bragging about for the entire walk. You just smirked, raised the bat level, and nodded at him to serve. 

Yes, you were a thousand percent better at baseball than you were at volleyball. You knew that, of course, but it was nice to be reassured. Luke wasn’t half bad either, but you were also a really good runner, so you kept having to remind him that an average level fielder wouldn’t have a chance against his bats — you just so happened to be way above average. 

Plus the wood nymphs were very helpful — apparently they didn’t get to watch many demigod activities other than capture the flag so it was refreshing for them to see you two play, and to actually be able to help. 

All in all, you were having a great time. Which of course meant that you were long overdue for something going wrong. Of course. 

“I can’t find it.”

“What?” You asked breathlessly, staring at the tree nymph who shrugged at you plainly. 

“It rolled into a pond, I think.” He sniffed indignantly, “And I am not climbing into a pond.”

“Oh, and you expect us to?” 

And that, kids, is how you ended up knee deep in pond water and ankle deep in something else — with Luke Castellan right by your side. 

“This is so gross.” You whispered, grimacing as your hands ran over the murky bottom. You couldn’t see anything but your own reflection when you looked in, so you were replying on touch alone to help find your ball. “I can’t believe this. My lucky ball and it falls into a pond! Not so lucky anymore, huh? Yeah, lucky my ass.”

“Hey, Sunny?” A slosh of water rippled over you and you had to straighten up to avoid the tiny waves splashing in your face. They only increased at your movements, but you were too busy glaring at Luke to notice. He pressed his mouth together, holding in a chuckle, “You’re not being very sunny right now.” 

You huffed, flinging your arms out at your sides and wincing when you splashed water on yourself by doing so, “I —“ A huff, “I don’t feel very sunny, Castellan. I am wading in sludge.” 

He actually had the audacity to let a tiny grin slip through, “Wow, the last name? You’re acting like me right now. It’s weird.”

“I can’t believe this.” You repeated, narrowing your eyes at the boy, “I’ve been trying to cheer you up since the day I met you and when you finally do, it’s because you’re relishing in my pain? Fuck you.”

As if he was trying to piss you off, Luke laughed. He actually laughed, exactly like he had yesterday and if you weren’t so annoyed you’d be smiling at him for it. But you were annoyed, so all you did in response was send a wave of pond water at him and drench his front. 

He stopped laughing. You started laughing. 

“Okay, is that how you wanna play this?” He asked, stepping closer, “Is it?” 

You grinned, stepping back. The water moved when you did, and the paired struggle of your’s and Luke’s legs under the water just increased the waves that oscillated around your knees. It slid up to your thighs and threatened to wet the denim of your shorts, but you were too busy prying your foot out of whatever the hell lived at the bottom of the pond so you could escape Luke’s wrath. 

You shook your head, “You don’t wanna do this.”

He nodded mockingly, “I think I do.”

Then it was on. He lunged for you, and you dived to the left in a swift attempt to get around him. Water was splashing everywhere at this point but neither of you cared — especially when Luke’s hands were mere inches from your arms, waiting for your ankle to snag on some algae and pull you back so he could push you over. You were smarter than that though, so you did a swift one-eighty, dragging your hands under the water with you as you did — the wave that accumulated from the momentum doused Luke from head to toe, his curls sticking to his forehead. He wiped them away and blew hard from his mouth before forming a weak glare in your direction.   

Your jaw trembled as you held in what you knew would be some serious chortles — but it was silent. The only noise apparent was the settling of the waves now that you had both stopped moving and Luke’s heavy breathing in front of you. He shook his head, stepping forward slowly, and you braced yourself for what was about to come. 

“Hey!” 

You paused. You shared a look with Luke before looking confusedly at the form that had appeared suddenly between the two of you. It was a girl by the looks of it, only she was made entirely of the water the two of you were standing in. She glared between the pair of you, hands on her hips. 

“I don’t appreciate all this splashing.” You felt suddenly like you were being berated by a school teacher for talking too loud during class, “Are you trying to drain my pond? Are you?”

“N—No.” You responded, shaking your head, “We were just looking for — ”

The water nymph held up your ball with a stern expression, “This? Yeah, it looked like you were.” 

Her sarcasm was not lost on you, and you tried your best not to meet Luke’s eyes, knowing they would fail you the second you did. Instead you looked at the nymph before you and took the ball from her outstretched hand, “Thank you. And, um, sorry…about the splashing.”

She folded her arms, lifting her head and straightening her shoulders, “That’s okay. Now get out.”

You were both quick to exit the water, although not too quick that you made anymore of it splash onto the rocks. Once you were out, the nymph nodded in satisfaction and melted back into the pond, and you and Luke were finally able to breathe. Then, you both burst into laughter. 

“Oh my gods.” You huffed, shaking your head and looking down at yourself, “Did we just get into trouble?” 

“With a water nymph?” He finished, shrugging off his wet shirt and wringing it out, “Yeah. How embarrassing.”

Your mouth was suddenly very dry. You knew Luke was strong — he had to be to fight a dragon and come back alive. To be known as the Best Swordsman in Camp. To be trusted by so many campers despite his newfound, distanced demeanour. But damn. 

You blew out a long puff of air, hoping your reddened cheeks could be excused as some light sunburn. You weren’t as soaked as he was, but you still wafted your damp shirt from your body in hopes that it would dry — and also to give yourself something to do that wasn’t ogling at Luke’s lean figure. 

He spread his shirt out on a rock, ensuring the sun was hitting it right before lowering himself to the ground on the dry grass a few feet away. He leant back on his hands, face to the sky, and revelled in the warmth. You stayed standing, fiddling with the button on your shorts, staring at him. At the scar on his face, at the rest of them along his chest. 

He cracked one eye open, glancing at you, “What?”

“I, uh.” You licked your lips, “Nothing. Nothing.” You muttered, taking a seat beside him and crossing your legs. Your gaze stuck firmly to your lap and you waited for his to return to the sky. It didn’t. 

“You can ask me.” He said then, shrugging. 

“What happened on your quest?” You let slip, and when he stayed silent for a second too long, you realised that maybe that wasn't the question he was giving you permission to ask. “I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business, it’s nobody’s really. But Chris told me before that you’re in a funk and that seemed like a gross understatement but then again I’ve known you for, what, three days? He’s known you for years, so surely he’s right. But you just seem like it’s more than a funk, and I don’t know what to believe because I don’t know what happened but I also don’t want to ask because it’s none of my business and it’s also very clearly a sore subject because of what happened with Dean. Not that I think you’re gonna fly off the handle or anything, but it’s definitely a touchy subject and I can’t just go demanding all the details just because I wanna be your friend and— ”

A hand over your mouth stopped you from continuing what Luke was sure to be a very long tangent. He looked at you, half in shock, half in amusement, and huffed out a laugh, “Sunny, you need to calm down.”

You couldn’t respond, but you did nod. He removed his hand slowly and you swallowed your embarrassment. Luke sat up fully, straightening his back and clearing his throat, “Uh, okay. Have you heard of that Hercules story? With the golden apples?” 

You nodded, afraid to speak in case you went off on a rant again. He nodded with you, “Yeah, well, my father sent me on that. The exact same quest…except I failed.”

That explained the scar, and the dragon story he’d mentioned very briefly yesterday. He started to go into a little more detail about his quest — and suddenly you were overcome with this…angry sort of sadness. 

Hermes sent Luke on a quest that had already been done. After hearing Clarisse yap your ear off about Kleos, you understood why he’d been a little bummed. Honestly, if it were you, you wouldn’t have even gone. What’s the point in doing a quest that’s already been done? But you didn’t say that to Luke, who seemed a little deep into his story. You just simmered in your irritation while he continued to explain his battle with Ladon, and his ultimate failure. 

“I refused to leave the infirmary for a week.” He chuckled, but it was a little sad. “I mean, I’m supposed to be a leader here, and I fail my first quest? Some demigod I turned out to be.” 

Without even thinking, you shook your head, “You didn’t fail.” Luke looked at you, confused, “You battled a dragon with a hundred heads and lived. That doesn’t sound like failure to me.”

“But I didn’t get the apples.” He explained. “I disappointed my father.”

“Your father…” You said slowly, unsure of how your next words would land, “Who I’m going to assume had never spoken to you until the day he gave you your quest?” Luke nodded after a brief pause and you took that as permission to continue, “So who cares if he’s disappointed? He clearly doesn’t care if you’re mauled by a dragon.” 

“Exactly.” Luke replied, brows pulled together in the way they had been when you’d first met. Angry, irritated. Disappointed. “Everyone keeps telling me to get over it. That demigods have failed quests before and it just means I need to try harder next time but…why should there be a next time? Really, if you sit and think about it for a second, why are we even here? To train, so we don’t die whenever monsters come and attack us? And who’s fault is that? Maybe if our parents were good people, there wouldn’t be any monsters trying to murder their kids. If they cared, even a little bit, they’d do more than just claim us and leave us to die!” 

He scoffed, looking in the direction where you knew the rest of the campers resided — playing games, building weapons, dedicating every waking hour to becoming the best of the best. And for what? For glory? For a pat on the back from a parent who can’t even be bothered to raise them? 

“They don’t get it.” He said then, turning back to you, “They think this is all okay. They’re too invested to realise that they’re just being used. They’re so focused on getting a shred of recognition from the gods that they don’t understand that it’s never gonna come.”

“So…” You finally spoke, your first words in a minute, “What do we do?”

Luke shrugged then, “I don’t know yet.” 

It was silent for a long time after that. Luke stayed staring at the floor and you led back to stare at the sky. He was right, wasn’t he? Sure, you’d only been in this for a little while, but you weren’t stupid. You knew the gods didn’t care — you’d figured out that much when you got to camp. A dumping ground for demigods. Demigod daycare, except mommy isn’t coming to pick you up at three o’clock. Luke deserved to be angry, he deserved to mope — they all did. 

But they wouldn’t. You could sit there and curse the gods for hours on end, but that was still half of you. And that, you thought, was probably the worst part of it all.  

You were so caught up in your feelings that when the tree that had been shading you phased into a nymph and walked away, you jumped halfway out of your skin, “Jeezum crow.”

You looked at Luke, expecting him to either share the same dumbfounded look on his face or be laughing at you — something he seemed to be doing a lot of today — but instead he was staring at you, slack-jawed and wide eyed. You blinked, “What?”

“You’re from Vermont.” 

Your mouth snapped shut, and his expanded into the grin you’d been hassling him for since you’d set your sights on him. You sighed, “Fuck.” 

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “You’re from Vermont! Holy shit. I should’ve known it when you called me a flatlander.” He threw his head back, and you shook yours at his dramatics. But he didn’t care, he just pointed at you, “You’re a fuckin’ woodchuck!” 

“Oh my gods.” You groaned into your hands, pulling yourself to your feet in hopes of escaping his sudden glee. “Is that so bad?” 

“No.” He laughed, following you, “I’m just amazed that I figured it out. I’m a genius!”

“Okay.” You sent him a blank look, but it only lasted a few seconds before your tiny smile was fighting through, “It’s not like you’ve discovered the meaning of life. Calm down.” 

“Never.” He shook his head, “This is my greatest achievement.”

“You fought a dragon.” 

“Screw the dragon!” He gripped your biceps, grinning at you, “You’re from Vermont!”

“You’re not funny.”

“And yet you’re laughing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” 

“I’m not!” 

____________

“What’d you do to him?” 

You threw a piece of salmon into the fire, glancing at Chris, “I’m getting deja vu. Haven’t you asked me this already?” 

“Yeah, but…” The boy looked behind him, back at the Hermes table, where Luke was perched on the end and waiting patiently for you to come back from the hearth before digging into his food, “This time I mean it. I mean, he still isn’t talking to us, but he’s sitting on our side of the table again. You can be honest with me…” He sent you a grave look, “Did you give him a BJ?” 

“What? No!” You threw a pea at him. “I just listened to him.” You tried to be a little serious, but clearly Chris wasn’t getting the hint, so you relented, “And doused him in pond water.”

He laughed at that, nodding proudly. You turned back to the fire, asking Aphrodite to get rid of your split ends. You’d given up on praying to your father, deciding to go through every Olympian until one of them answered. So far, only Hera had responded — you assumed so, anyway, when a cuckoo woke you up from your afternoon nap. That wasn’t very helpful, but at least it was an answer. You didn’t suspect campers prayed to her often, so she probably appreciated the sentiment. 

“So…” Travis smirked, wiggling his eyebrows at you once you sat down. He sent this look around the group, but even Connor gave him a weirded out look in response. He huffed, “It’s team day tomorrow.”

A collective ohhh seemed to hum around the group, but you were still confused. You sent a questioning look to Luke who said, “For Capture the Flag. Tomorrow is when all the cabin counsellors gang up and decide on the two teams.”

“Then we have five days to strategise.” Travis continued on very dramatically, hands splayed on the table, “And on Friday…we battle.”

That seemed to lift the energy up a bit, the people around you sharing mischievous looks. They started to discuss amongst them who would be the best cabin to ally with, Lana turning to Chris, “Who are you gonna pick?” 

Chris went to speak, but paused. He seemed to think about something, looking slightly scared but still turning to the boy across from him anyway, “I thought maybe…Luke would like to reinstate himself as team captain this month.”

Right, you’d completely forgotten. During your spear lessons with Clarisse, you’d asked her why it was so important that you be amazing at fighting quickly if monsters couldn’t get into camp. She’d then explained the whole situation that was Capture the Flag — how it was a bigger deal than the super bowl around here — before briefly mentioning that Luke had always been Hermes team captain, but stepped down for the last game because his scar was still healing from his quest. Chris had taken over for him, and based off of the looks the people around you were sporting, you assumed they weren’t expecting him to give up his title so quickly. 

You couldn’t blame them. Luke hadn’t exactly expressed much desire to captain this time — he hasn’t expressed much desire for anything these days apparently. You were all waiting for him to let Chris down easy, but instead he looked up from his plate with an indifferent nod and said, “Yeah, sure.” 

Nobody said anything. Except Chris who, when Luke stood to rack up his empty plate, looked at you gravely and asked, “Was it a handjob?”

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[gremlinmodetweeker]

Dead Weight On A Saturday Morning

So this was inspired by a comment from @callof-beauties on this story I wrote here about König yelling at his soldiers. The thought essentially boiled down to 'but what if he yelled at us like that' and I realized that both due to König not wanting to be that loud without a good reason and the physical limitations to being able to indulge, König wouldn't really be able to yell at you quite like that.

Would he totally have the meanest and nastiest tone as he whispers all sorts of nasty degrading shit into your ear? Absolutely. 100%. There's no doubt about that. But yelling? He can't do that.

Of course, reader doesn't know this, so reader fucks around and finds out just how König'll punish them for trying to make him mad.

Wordcount: 2.1k

Warnings: Reader purposefully trying to anger König, König being a bit heavy, pretty much pure fluff

Art from This Post

Story Below the Cut

Dead Weight On A Saturday Morning

Ever since you’d seen König at work, you’d been insatiable. You needed König to yell at you like he yelled at his trainees. You were feral, frothing at the mouth and doing everything in your power to drive König up the wall. You needed him more than you needed oxygen at this point. Unfortunately for you, König hadn’t picked up the memo.

Rather, König had just turned into an awful grouch. A part of you knew that the single answer to your problem was the beautiful term ‘communication’ but you couldn’t help yourself. Part of the excitement was getting him to do it spontaneously. After all, that was the whole goal, right? Get him worked up and watch the fireworks fly.

Of course, König was König and whenever König was involved in a plan, things were bound to go awry. You had to wonder how he ever became a colonel when he was a magnet for disaster. That said, König was a disaster for other people, not for himself. He could walk through Hell unscathed yet leave a trail of mass destruction in his wake. It was almost supernatural. You heard the stories from Horangi, how König would be perfectly comfortable sipping his drink while a brawl was wrecking the room around him. König, if he noticed at all, showed no signs.

This of course meant that whenever you planned for a specific reaction with König involved, the Austrian would gleefully (obliviously) throw a wrench into whatever wild machinations you were constructing. It was bizarre how effortlessly he screwed up everything around him. You had to wonder if he was actually oblivious, or if he was perfectly aware yet happily upturning any and all plans he encountered. It was a maddening life of chaos around him, with him sitting all content in the eye of the hurricane as he sipped his morning coffee.

This morning, however, you determined things would be different. You were sure of that. You were perfectly sure in your actions because you’d finally be violating the one rule of the household: don’t disturb König’s coffee time.

It was a simple yet effective rule. König was a coffee snob like no other. You’d tried to make him coffee in the morning when you first lived together, but he’d pretty quickly shooed you away to fix your mistakes. Of course, your greatest offense was using that abhorrent sludge you referred to as ‘instant’ coffee. He’d sniffed and called it instant laxatives, and that was the last day you ever had instant coffee in your house.

Over time, you learned König’s routine and managed to replicate his preferred brew perfectly. It was a strange combination of brewing for a set amount of time using bottled spring water he specially ordered online and steaming milk to a set temperature before cooling it to pour into König’s mug. On special days, he might even go for a spoonful of coconut sugar. Not caster, not brown, heaven forbid refined, but coconut. It had to be coconut or else he’d throw a hissy fit.

Today, of course, you knew König was champing at the bit for that spoonful of sugar and you’d be happy to provide. You choice of sugar, of course, being the dreaded white sugar that he so despised.

Of course, his coffee wasn’t all. König was a beast of habit, and little traits of his stuck with him since childhood. He had to have his orange juice in a small glass (‘I could never have more than a single serving! That would ruin my calorie distribution for the day’) and a cup of milk. Once he drank his milk, he’d wash his glass and fill it with water to chase down the milk. You’d asked him why, and he had only shrugged and told you it was good to stay hydrated. He had then gone into detail about why your morning nutrition was key to a successful day, then proceeded to nitpick your breakfast and accompanying drink until you’d been so sick of his madness that you left back to the bedroom to sleep for another hour.

So, with König’s eccentric tendencies surrounding his morning routine in mind, that morning you placed König’s mug on his special coaster (knit by his Oma to celebrate his entrance into the army) before sitting across the table and waiting.

König was none the wiser, and who could blame him? You were his ever-faithful partner. You’d never dare to betray your beloved husband, would you? Never! Or at least, not until today.

König flipped through his book idly.

“Whatcha reading?” you asked as casually as you could while sipping your orange juice.

“‘A Brief Survey of Austrian History’,” he replied as he turned a page, “by Richard Rickett.”

“Is it any good?” you asked.

“It’s decent. There are some minor inaccuracies scattered throughout, but for the most part it’s a good read,” König said as he skimmed the page before turning the book to you, “here’s a nice drawing of Prince Eugene of Savoy.”

It was a beautiful black and white copy of what was obviously a commissioned portrait, the man in question with a full white wig and a high forehead, a pronounced nose and a subtle smile. He seemed so at ease, very unlike König in just a moment.

“Did he do anything cool?” you asked.

“I’m at the part where they’re discussing what he did on the eastern front,” König explained, skimming the page with a finger, “he apparently became quite the statesman after his success on the fields.”

“That’s interesting,” you sipped your drink a bit too loudly to be accidental.

König’s finger paused on the page as his eyes glanced up from the little book. He stared at you carefully before flicking back to the book, a quiet recognition of your rude behavior and a silent warning to stop. 

“So what’re you doing today? It’s the weekend, so you gotta have some plans, right?” you watched him carefully.

“I was hoping to catch up on some reading today after I cut the grass,” König drawled, “maybe paint a couple of those soldiers my brother gave me at Christmas. It’s been months and I haven’t even touched them! He’d be horrified.”

“You sure do like your armies,” you mused.

“They’re perfect for my dioramas,” König muttered, “but aside from that, I expect Horangi or one of my sisters to bother me about something soon enough. They usually keep me busy.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty busy,” you nodded slowly.

König, polite as ever, made no move to ask about your plans and instead focussed on his reading. Once, you’d have been offended. Now you were just exasperated more than anything else. You should really know better than to try and talk to him when he’s reading, but you still sometimes wished he’d put his book away and actually talk, but that was a lot to ask for the quiet man.

You watched carefully as König made his way through his orange juice. Every so often, he’d dip his soldiered toast into the runny yolk of his egg, take a bite, and then put it away until he turned the page. When dealing with König, patience was key to success.

Soon, König had finished his orange juice (along with his toast) and had pulled a tray of fruits in front of him. He resettled himself on his chair with a grunt and lifted his cup of coffee. He took a sniff, then scrunched his brows.

“Is everything alright?” you asked slyly.

“Should be,” König muttered before taking a slow sip. He pulled his lips into a line. He took another sip. His brows knit tightly together. He took a final sip and put his coffee down.

You were practically vibrating with excitement.

König leveled you with a steely stare and flatly said, “No.”

You raised an eyebrow, “No?”

“No,” he grunted and drew himself up before slumping back in his chair with a huff, “I’m not doing it.”

“Doing what?” your eyes widened, shock and horror making your heart skip a beat in your chest.

He looked at you with an exasperated face, “I’m not yelling at you.”

“What!” you scoffed, “what do you mean? What-what are you talking about!?”

König closed his eyes and took a long breath in before slowly drawing it out his nose, “I know you think it’s hot when I yell, but I can’t do that to you. And again, I don’t want the neighbors to know.”

You groaned. The jig was up, and unfortunately König had played his cards expertly.

“If I raise my voice even just a tiny bit,” König explained with patience that rivaled that of a parent or a saint, “if I yelled, our neighbors would know everything.”

“These walls are pretty well insulated,” you huffed petulantly.

“Maus,” he sighed, “when I yell I can easily fill an entire parade square. If I have an army marching behind me, the farthest man at the back can still hear me yelling at them. I am too loud to yell at you in bed. Anyways, how would that even work? I fuck you and scream in your face? Maus that make no sense.”

“I mean, maybe we could go to an abandoned forest or like…” you trailed off with a sigh, “you’re not gonna do it, are you.”

König shook his head slowly as he took another long sip of coffee. Loudly, you noted.

“Okay but can’t you do something like that?” you whined.

“I can maybe raise my voice a bit,” König relented, “I can try and shift my tone too. I think you’re more after the tone than the volume, I’ll be honest, but I’m not having our neighbors think I’m an abusive husband.”

You paused.

“Oh it would sound like that, wouldn’t it,” you mused.

“If I called you a dirty whore that needs a good slap?” König laughed, “ja! Ja I would! Maus please, I borrowed Austin’s weed whacker to cut our grass today. How could I look him in the eye if he thought I beat you?”

You nodded slowly. That certainly threw a wrench in your plans, but then again, such was König’s specialty. You were thoroughly beat. König was completely right. There was no way he could yell at you like he did his soldiers. Of course you’d accept a compromise, but it just wasn’t quite the same. Well, beggars can’t be choosers, you thought with a sigh.

“But,” König put down his now empty mug, “you can’t just do this,” he gestured to the mug, “and think I’ll just ignore it. You’ve been pestering me all week, and wouldn’t you know? My schedule for the weekend just opened up!”

A thrill raced down your spine.

“You, Maus,” König stated as he picked himself up from his seat, “are coming with me.”

And with that, he hauled over his shoulder. To your surprise, he didn’t make his way back up the stairs to bed, but rather to the plush sofa you’d put in the living room. Without any proper decorum or grace, he threw you down onto the ottoman with a laugh.

You turned to ask what he was doing when he promptly sat down on your gut and kicked his feet up onto the stool. He laughed at your pathetic wheeze as he turned on the television.

“Get the fuck off of me!” you managed to spit out under the 250 lb weight now sat neatly on top of you.

“Oh look!” he commented, “little Maus is squeaking!”

You grumbled and groaned.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," König drawled, "you wanted a big man to punish you, put you in your place, ja? And I did! You're right where you belong! Underneath me."

"I didn't mean it like this!" you whined.

He ignored your desperate please for mercy as he flicked through your subscriptions, finally deciding on a dreaded movie.

“No you’re not making me watch it!” you screeched and flailed under the heavy mass on top of you, but with a scooch he was firmly seated on top, happily ignoring you whinging as the Netflix logo flashed on screen.

“Stoppit!” you spat and hissed, but König was happy to ignore you.

Your deadweight of a husband looked down at you from the corner of his eye, “I’ve been wanting to watch some history documentaries on Netflix, see how good they are. You’re not opposed, are you?”

“Get the fuck off of me you fatass,” you snarled back.

“Oh good,” König turned back to look at the screen, “I’ve got a few lined up that I want to watch.”

König fell into a comfortable silence as the narrator began regaling the stories of Einstein’s involvement in the Heisenberg project, happily ignoring your writhing and squeaking with ease.

“I should’ve gotten some snacks,” König muttered as he ground himself into your bones.

“I hate you so much.”

Story Masterlist

[taintandviolent]

le petite mort; James March x Reader

summary: After checking into one of the Hotel Cortez, a conversation with the bartender plagues your mind with dirty thoughts. Some guy catches you pleasuring yourself in the hotel room - and that some guy happens to be the owner of the Hotel. w a r n i n g s: 2k words! shameless smut! female masturbation, accidental voyeurism, slight humiliation, choking / asphyxiation, mentions of death (kinda). a/n: this is one of the first JPM fics that I started writing, and I felt that it finally needed to be finished and out of my drafts. hopefully it's not ASS. this is s shorter one, which feels alien to me, but c'est comma ça. hope everyone enjoys it!

full fic & taglist under cut!↓ / ao3 link here!

“Most people who check into the Hotel Cortez are hipsters wanting a taste of the art deco, or junkies and prostitutes looking to have a quick night in a cheap room.” She set the glass down carefully on the ornate bar, sliding it towards you with one finger.

The bartender didn’t hesitate in striking up a conversation after you’d sat down, angling your two suitcases on one side of the stool. The thought immediately manifested itself between your legs, and you shifted. If only. It had been so long since you’d had a good fuck that at this point, you’d even take a quick night. Maybe not with a junkie, but….

“I guess I kind of fall into the first category. But, I am here for a friend’s wedding. I didn’t want to stay where everyone else was staying.” You tilted your head back, letting the remainder of the amber slide down your throat. “I wish I was in the second category… maybe minus the junkies and prostitutes bit. But…” You trailed off with a shrug.

“Oh believe me, sweetheart. I know exactly what you mean. Women have needs.”

As you gathered your bags, your peripheral caught someone with dark hair watching you. Naturally, when you turned to look at them, you were met with an empty bar. Of course, because this is an old hotel and probably haunted.

“Thanks, Liz. It’s been a treat.”

She said nothing, only bowed her head with her long arms resting widely on the bar. You made a mental note to come back to the bar for another drink. But for now, it was time to unwind in your hotel room.

After getting settled, and a much needed hot shower — washing that airplane sludge off you was mandatory — you were finally relaxed. The wedding wasn’t until Saturday, so you had plenty of time to do whatever made its way into your mind. Maybe order some room service. Maybe peruse the hotel for some history, spend hours reading the informative little plaques that decorated the wall — every old hotel had them. Maybe masturbate…. Oh. Yes. Definitely that. That was first on the list, actually.

Dropping your towel to your feet, you pulled an old tattered t-shirt over your head, and hurried to the bed. Silly that you had any sort of modesty in an empty hotel room, it was after all, your hotel room. Could’ve and should’ve just bolted across the floor naked.

Suddenly, the radio on the table across from you crackled to life, the speakers expelling a high-pitched voice singing jovially amongst violins and some sort of wind instrument. After a few moments, it switched off with a burst of static. Lids heavy with arousal, you stared sleepily at the radio, resolving to unplug it before you went to sleep that night. Old wiring could be tolerated, but things turning on in the middle of the night was nightmare fuel.

You pressed the pad of your middle finger between the folds, delving further down to your entrance, where you pulled up some of the slick to lubricate your clit. The sensation made your eyelids flutter. Jesus, that conversation with the bartender had really gone straight to the cunt — you were clearly longing for something. Someone who would bring something new, something exciting to the table. You already dreaded the polite flirting that was going to occur at the wedding.

Your fingers circled your clit, bringing the sensitivity as high as you could for as long as you could before you felt the hot clench of an orgasm rush over you. Expelling a high pitched moan, you slipped your middle and ring finger inside, pumping in and out to bring yourself over the edge. You let out a few hoarse breaths as your hips dug into the creaky mattress, riding out the pleasure.

“My, my…”

You stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling, trying to figure out if that had been some weird, orgasm-induced hallucination.

“La petite mort, as the French call it.”

You yelped, pulling your wet fingers from your cunt. Unless the bartender had slipped something in your drink, the man at the edge of your bed was definitely not a hallucination. Dark hair styled so that not a single strand was out of place, no facial hair save for a thin moustache that decorated his upper lip, and a suit so pristine, you wondered if he’d just come off a film set. It was LA after all.

“Jesus Christ,” you sputtered, panting unevenly. “What?!” The way he stood at the edge of the bed, hands layered atop a cane was so paternal and overbearing it made you feel like a child caught watching porn on a school night. There was nothing to be embarrassed of; you were a grown woman in a hotel room that you paid for.

“A little death,” he replied. “A temporary weakness, a loss of consciousness. It became a poetic euphemism for orgasm in the late eighteen-hundreds.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” you murmured, mouth curling downward in irritation. “Have you ever heard of knocking!?”

He pushed his bottom lip into his top, pulling his chin up in a challenging expression. One eyebrow quirked. “You wouldn’t have heard me if I had.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but promptly snapped it shut. He had you there. A soft, melodic rapping on a door would’ve been lost amongst your whimpers and groans. Laughably so.

“Who the fuck even are you!? I’m going to call front desk — this is weird.” Frustrated, you wipe your slick fingers on the sheet beneath you before reaching for the phone. Suddenly, he was beside you, and the energy that radiated off of him made your leg muscles spasm.

The woman on the other end sounded annoyed.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she repeated, sounding like she was trying to suss out if this was a prank call.

“I would um, like someone removed from my hotel room. Security, or something.”

“We don’t have security.”

“Okay, that’s outrageous, but — there’s just some fucking guy in my room.”

You’re met with silence. The old plastic of the receiver creaked in your grip, your eyes darting back to him. He was smiling. Proudly.

“Tell them my name.”

You jerked your head forward, contorting your face in defiance, and wordlessly asking for clarification.

“Repeat after me, ‘The man in my room is James Patrick March, and I’d like him removed at once.’”

You felt your eyes narrow into slits, confused. Somewhere deep inside your core, you felt a clench at his sternness. “Go on, my dear.” He urged.

You cleared your throat resentfully.

“The man in my room is… James Patrick March and I’d like him removed at once.”

The line crackled. Instead of the usual static one would expect, terrifying sounds blared through the receiver; hisses and condescending sniggering. Eventually, you make out the harsh sound of a full bellied laugh. The woman was laughing.

“The owner? The owner of the hotel?” The laughing continued.

The tip of his cane came clunking down into the switch-hook, where he held it for several seconds — for poignancy? Dramatic effect? The dial tone startled you.

“I paid for this hotel room, okay? I do—“ You started, stiffly returning the receiver to the cradle.

“You did, did you?” He asked, his voice raising gleefully. The change in tone unsettled you. Deeply. Keeping your eyes locked on his, you reached for the edge of the duvet, scratching your nails at it to bring it up around your bare legs.

He watched you intently, almost smiling. Was he waiting for you to say something? Jesus.

“Ye-yeah… I paid for it.”

“Ah!” He exclaimed.

You jumped.

“I own this hotel, you see.” He gestured enthusiastically to the room, your eyes following it as though you hadn’t already spent a night in it. “I own it all. Down to the sheets you were pleasuring yourself on moments ago.”

You glanced at them. “Finished on, actually.”

“Yes — I know. Shame. I would’ve taken great pride in doing that myself.”

Your jaw dropped, and you pressed your legs together until you felt the pressure against your cunt. Your stomach tied itself in knots.

“Is the thought odious to you?” He inquired, almost softly, like he was trying to appeal to your gentler nature.

You remained silent, rubbing at the veins in your wrist. Eventually, after mulling it over (or gaining the confidence to do so), you shook your head.

“I thought not.” He may have been a complete stranger, but the way melodic way he crooned and growled every word made you dizzy. With the back of his hand, he swept a strand of hair from your brow, his knuckles ghosting over your cheek.

“Show me,” he ordered, running a single finger along your collarbone.

His hands wrapped around your throat, and heat blossomed in your cheeks. At first, his fingers were pressing on either side of your throat and the arousal flowed freely again, delighted by the concept of a mysteriously sexual one night stand. Admittedly, he wasn’t going in easy, but you weren’t a saint. You’d had your fair share of dudes who thought they were a Dom. This guy though… he wasn’t that. He didn’t get his tendencies from sneaking peeks at his girlfriend’s Cosmopolitan. He certainly hadn’t killed your arousal with his decision.

He shifted his weight on top of you, pulling the breathiest moan from your lips. The way his pointer finger roughly traced your jawbone drove you wild. His hands were just cold enough to feel unusual, but they were soft and possessed an unanticipated strength.

All at once, the pressure shifted to the front, his palm compressing against your trachea. Your brows furrowed at the sudden discomfort. His gaze was locked on your face, raptly watching the changing expressions.

You grasped at his hand, flailing as the oxygen started dwindling. Your head felt heavy and the sensation of your vision darkening around the edges frightened you. Your muscles tensed instinctively. He didn’t let up, and the panic wound itself in between your ribs like a snake. With your heart pounding, you began fighting recklessly, desperately trying to reach for anything.

James saw the nearly final change, and with a delighted gaze, eased up. “Exhilarating!”

You gasped, your lungs moaning as they sucked in air. The sound was disturbing to you, and sounded inhuman. “You almost killed me…”

“Hardly, my dear! Brain death occurs in four to five minutes. You triumphantly endured a mere ten seconds!”

“A…little… death.” He whispered each word delicately over your lips, hovering mere centimetres above yours. He was intoxicating, whatever it was he was putting off. Unbeknownst to you, your legs dropped open, hungry for more.

He looked down, eyes scanning over your thighs, your knees, and to the lush, inviting garden between them. One hand returned to your throat, compressing it slightly. You whimpered at the now-familiar sensation, and scooted your body down further on the bed, through his legs.

“Good! Yes,” he praised. “Succumb to your urges.”

As though he’d reached into your brain and simply made you do it, your fingers were on your cunt, playing with your wet folds before you had a second to process that you'd even done it. It was already sensitive, your touches had you galloping towards a second, overstimulated orgasm. With his free hand, James enveloped your hand with his large one, cupping it easily. You writhed uncontrollably, whimpering. He growled in delight at the feeling of your vocal cords humming beneath his palm.

“St-stop,” you cried out weakly, the pressure on your throat making you sound altogether pathetic.

“Very well then, I will.” He said, abruptly releasing the pressure on your throat. “I will, but you won’t.”

You almost protested the action, though that would’ve been an embarrassing blow to your ego had you actually done it. Begging him to stop then begging him to continue? Shameful. How much more of a desperate whore could you be, honestly? “Go on - since you’re so fond of it. Show me.”

He took in a seat in the velvet chair directly parallel to the bed, one leg crossed casually over the other. His dark eyes were aflame with interested, erotic hunger. You slipped one finger in, making a slutty show of how wet you were. Two fingers, and you arched your back, moaning loud.

“Another,” he crooned. You obeyed, wincing at the fullness. You curled your fingers up, pressing into the spongy flesh that made you writhe like a worm on a hook. You began leaking onto the mattress below, a mess of cum and sweat. James watched you as you fingered yourself again and again, pleasuring yourself over and over in every way you knew how until your legs were quivering with the overstimulation.

“Die a little death, my darling, go on…”

You came. Hard. Screaming, shaking and spilling out onto the sheets beneath you. With your hand laying limp over your damp cunt, twitching every so often, your breathing gradually slowed. Of course, when you lifted your head, the man was gone, leaving nothing but the quiet echo of his satisfied ‘Mmmm…’

t a g l i s t : @kaismanwich / @redwoodghost / @elsamars / @silverzoomies / @thewolveswithin / @kaisbasementwhore / @80strashbag / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @stucktothetwo / @evansb1tch / @enchanting-evan / @yesdevineruler / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @violetharmonscupcake / @my-own-walker / @kai-slut / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @dewberryobssesed / @the-goblin1 / @dirtyfairy97 / @jellyluvr / @strangerthings420 / @kai-anderson-whore / @piecesofcain / @lilthbunny /

Ask to be added to the taglist for future fics!!

[justalittlebeekeeper]

All Tumblr Days Of The Week I Have Seen

A while ago I started making a compilation (without links unfortunately, because I am lazy) of all the Tumblr Days of the Week I have seen cross my dash, because I think it's silly and interesting and I wanted to catalog it. I didn't have any intention of sharing it, but I realized it had gotten pretty long, and who knows, maybe someone else would be interested. So, without further ado, in the order of the week:

Stupid fucking slut Sunday

Fingers in his ass Sunday

Six sentence Sunday

Suck her silly Sunday

Jungle Sunday

Shawty like a melody Sunday

Swipe him Sunday

Break stuff Sunday

Girlbulge Sunday

Polar bear Sunday

Sluggish Sunday

Somebody Else Is Gonna Have To Do It Sunday

Send me on my way Sunday

Smooch Shark Sunday

Smooth Shark Sunday

Yes Snakes Sunday

Al Pacino girl look at that rat Sunday

Kiss your mutual Monday

Sad ant with a bindle Monday

Exploding money Monday

Let's get it on cunts Monday

Maim him Monday

Sparkle on it's Wednesday Monday

We're just normal men Wednesday Monday

The missile knows where it is Monday

ps5 brain Monday

Mimir Monday

Bare Minimum Monday

Simply don't Monday

Me if I was lobsta🦞 Monday

Mole interest Monday

Safe to leave the bog Tuesday

Twelve bricks Tuesday

I thought it was Wednesday Tuesday

Tuesday light me up

End of my rope Tuesday

Wednesday is tomorrow innit Tuesday

Funky fellow Tuesday

Trash him Tuesday

Meeting on the turret stairs Tuesday

Turn off Tumblr Live Tuesday

Tired Tuesday

Trying Not To Feel Doomed Tuesday

Too Tired to Care Tuesday

tdick Tuesday

Unethical science Tuesday

Toss him Tuesday (one piece)

No Snakes Tuesday

Tuesday again? No Problem

Toasting him Tuesday

Tumblr Tuesday: National Nothing Day (by staff)

You rockin with time theft tuesday?!

This thing Tuesday

Tuck him in Tuesday

Wedical Wystery Wednesday

White Boy Wednesday

WIP Wednesday

Wet Beast Wednesday

Wob Wednesday (mp100)

End of my rope tuesday Wednesday

Wednesday Wednesday (Addams family)

It's Wednesday or as I like to call it Thursday

WAAAAAAAAAAA Wednesday (mp100)

Whoop him Wednesday

The massive "It is Wednesday" post

El woowoo Wednesday

It's Wednesday, or as I like to call it, the Ides of March

Weary Wednesday

Whatever I can get away with Wednesday

Wet rat Wednesday

We're just normal men Wednesday

Woodcock Wednesday

White Girl Wednesday

Remembering the passage of time Wednesday

Do it weird Wednesday

Dry beast Wednesday

Bigweld Wednesday

Weevil Wednesday

Its Comes Fucks Me Wednesday

Out of Touch Thursday

Thottie Thursday, or as I like to call it, Sunday

Lord Foog the 2st Thursday

Present Mic's concave ass Thursday (bnha)

We put the they in them Thursday

Thumping him Thursday

Out of touch Touya Thursday (bnha)

Unlimited brutality 5 for $5 on Thursdays

Onto better things Thursday

Tuckered out Thursday

This job sucks Thursday

Fire Gator Thursday

Very specific archive Thursday

Flat fuck Friday

Thank Gnome it's Friday

Frankie Friday (one piece fandom)

Bean Hole Bfriday

Flatworm Friday

Fuck him on the forest floor Friday

Fuck your mutual from behind Friday

Frilled shark Friday

Fuck him up Friday

Bully your mutuals Friday

Big Dumb Idiot Baby Apple Fight Friday

Electric phallus Friday

Faint Friday

Fat fuck Friday

Fuck it Friday

Lesbian Friday

Frigate friggin' Friday

Street fighter fuck her from behind Friday

Stroganoff Saturday

Slapping him Saturday

Sad slav Saturday

Snoozy Saturday

Say on my ass Saturday

Dragon Saturday

Sludge Saturday Baby

Small joys Saturday

Beat the shit out of him Saturday

Saturday shorts

Bonuses:

Penisula thurtueswednesday

happy woke up thinking it was wednesday sunday but it was actually fucking friday tuesday

[omegaremix]

Omega WUSB Summer 2021 Broadcasting Season.

Seventeen shows.

It’s the most Omega WUSB had ever done in a three-month span at that point. We usually do that in six months time. How was this all possible? One of our resident hip-hop programs Battlezone Radio had moved out of its’ weekly Wednesday midnight-3AM slot. We always love the extra time outside of our deluxe bi-weekly Saturday 10PM-midnight block, so we asked to take it and surprisingly, our reclusive deadbeat program-director at the time simply let us. And we had ideas. Lots of them.

Since that April, we had both bi-weekly slots. The new Wednesday slots are our ‘bonus’ broadcasts - music we play which didn’t fit our usual new, current, and relevant ‘deluxe’ Saturday shows. We used those Wednesday slots to fully exemplify independent radio. Vinyl / crate-digging finds, golden-era hip-hop / rap, thrash punk, noise, classic punk, classic industrial, and (for the first time ever) African musics made the cut. Our deluxe shows? Indie, electronic, noise rock, hardcore, post-punk / d.i.y., metalcore, shoegaze, and a double deluxe (!) showcase of everything hip-hop when we filled-in for -Tash’s Sound Vines. Too bad we couldn’t fill in for her a second time as we didn’t have enough music for another double deluxe show. (Wait ‘til next year.) And the most amazing thing? My friend Rob Villain came to visit New York City on a day we did our show, so he co-hosted. I hadn’t seen him in nine years, so we made the best of whatever little time he had before the flight to Las Vegas.

Still not content with doing two bi-weekly shows, our forever friend Kim of Purple Starlight also asked us to fill-in for her twice from midnight-3AM. That meant two label tributes in Awesome Tapes From Africa and Mexican Summer. As you see, Summer was always our time to burn bright to play the best finds of almost every genre imaginable and also go off-the-board to play other music we also like.

Why did we play all of this on our show? I am a diverse dee-jay behind the controls, so what you hear is also what I’m genuinely into. I have no threshold of sound whatsoever. Music is more accessible than ever before and even before the advent of the internet I always got my hands on everything I possibly could. Also, WUSB is an independent student-run station. Our dee-jays play what we want. We’re not fed money from suits to run an automated playlist or play the same songs you heard on other rock stations hundreds of thousands of times before. We prefer to play artists, songs, and genres other corporate stations wouldn’t dare look at. Simply put: we want to reach everyone, and we want to see who’s out there.

Now here it is: the final results of Omega WUSB’s entire 2021 Summer broadcasting season. Something for almost everyone. Chances are our future summers won’t be as intense as this from this point on, but we could be proven wrong.

June 2, 2021; #266 (vinyl, crate-digging, sampling)

June 5, 2021; #267 (electronics)

June 16, 2021; #268 (golden-era hip-hop, rap)

June 19, 2021; #269 (indie)

June 30, 2021; #270 (thrash, speed, crust punk)

July 3, 2021; #271 (double deluxe hip-hop)

July 10, 2021; #272 (shoegaze, alternative, dreampop)

July 14, 2021; #273 (classic punk)

July 17, 2021; #274 (metalcore, sludge, stoner, doom)

July 28, 2021; #275 (noise, obscura)

July 31, 2021; #276 (hardcore)

August 2, 2021; #277 (Mexican Summer tribute)

August 11, 2021; #278 (old-school, boombox hip-hop)  

August 14, 2021; #279 (noise rock, garage)  

August 25, 2021; #280 (African cassette expo-)  

August 28, 2021; #281 (post-punk, d.i.y., city)  

August 30, 2021; #282 (Awesome Tapes From Africa tribute)

[anna-neko]

gonna absolutely be that "old lady shaking her walker, and screaming how olden days were better" for a minute here.....

There is a very specific thing I very much miss, and its the... well... lack of streaming. Scheduled programming! (be it both visual or radio. .... the radio one is whole 'nother rant, fuck ClearChannel/Viacom etc etc)

now don't get me wrong - i freakin luv the ability to watch some ancient b/w telly, carefully pumped pixel by pixel into my phone from the library server at 2:45am....

but its the fact Boring Dystopia today doesn't let you escape algorithms & their endless grey sludge

so like... TV! My set cannot pick up regular airwaves signal w/out additional "digital bunny-ears" or something similar. Most stations have switched to digital signals years ago, this is fact.

Back in the day you could flip on the telly, and have the choice of a few local channels. You got your usual local affiliates: FOX, WB, ABC, UPN, NBC, CBS and of course PBS. plus that one endless shopping network

Even as background noise you'd still end up getting all sorts of good stuff with different ads, local news flashes, whatever sitcom was running would have "on the next..." and you'd be like "heeeey, Friends is still making new episodes? and this channel still shows it?" Might hear about some movie didn't know existed because it was mentioned as scheduled for Saturday 8pm eastern, 7 central in that last ad-break, but the visuals in this tiny clip looked neat so might try to see it.....

what can i do today tho... Lets see, there's the option of a bunch of streaming shit. It requires a quick app d/l (again, don't get me wrong, TUBI and PlutoTV are a+ "thank fuck u exist" kinda things) buuuuut ... you can't just leave it be. Even the ads are somehow ... grey formless sludge. The same 3-5 shitty things that are determined by algorithm, never any variation. No news-teases, no trailers for movies coming to theater/streaming soon.... who'da thought would miss the damn Wendys new breakfast deals or local (local) car dealership promos

but no, with a streaming 'oooh wait, 'app' you gotta either scroll thru the shitty UI menu to pick what you wanna watch specifically... or in case of Pluto chose a channel.... Which will be just One Thing on a loop too (like a channel of nothing but Addams Family. nothing but The Walking Dead franchise. nothing but SailorMoon episodes) If you chose an episode of a show, and put away the remote it will just keep jumpin to next episode of same until it runs out...

.... i miss times of day influencing what was on. The kinda shit running during "primetime", early morning cartoons, early-noon little kids targeted shows, mid-afternoon soaps and bullshit talk shows, vs "middle of the night" The silly station eye-catches (TNT...dun dun dun, we know drama), ads for gushers mixed in with quick weather updates as the channel hopes you'll tune in at 10pm for the News. I miss discovering new (new to me!) shows or movies but flipping a channel. Disney Channel used to air ANCIENT b/w Alice Comedies or those utterly ridiculous 70s bebi Jodie Foster movies at 1am. AMC was full of old movies (pre-70s stuff mostly), TLC stood for "the learning channel", MTV and VH1 were 2 distinct separate entities showing actual ~ try to contain your shock ~ music videos. and if u were hella lucky, you'd glitch into (or it was free preview month) MTV2 which was for the alt rock vids!

_________________ No i don't miss the ancient shit like TV set that had round knobs and the numbers only went to 13. The horrid static noises. I don't miss VCRs (needing to rewind, hoping the tape hasn't demagnetized, or deteriorated frm too much use etc) . Fuck, don't even miss Blockbuster w/ their exceptionally ruined DVDs that wouldn't play past a certain point and them just goin "oh well, sorry...." and doin fuck-all

whoda thought would be missing an actual structure of some sort, running all sorts of diverse shit in pre-programmed blocks on set schedules. There was a human touch, the human element to it

[serpentsirenn]

is a single thing i’ve ever written good enough?

like truly deeply, in the grand scheme of it all

do i cosmically matter

does it even matter that i wonder this?

i’m having one of those moments

where i feel stuck in the amber

i sludge through time like molasses

i am no more noble than the mosquito

and i cry for i believe i have no purpose

the very notion of a purpose is a concept of human conception

so does it even matter?

i say i’ll do whatever i want

but sit my ass at home on saturdays

when i could be making love to the mic in a dimly lit dive

my bass guitar in her coffin of red velvet

lays desperate for my fingers

and i deny her

why can’t i let go of the selfish sadism of wanting to be enough

i crave it so bad but i don’t let myself even begin

[fuckupguitarist1039]

You're Better than Cocaine

Battered and bruised is the only way I can describe my mental and physical state the day you found me. I say ‘found’ as if I was some plush toy discarded by a child on the side of the road. ‘Found’ as in the way you stumbled into the forefront of my life as if you had tripped over the trail of melancholy sludge I exuded behind me everywhere I went. Despite my deepest intentions to let this wound infect and leave me a mystery for the CDC and the WHO, you dragged my full body weight behind you out of the shallow grave I had dug. “I love you.” You had said. Words I hadn’t heard with such sincerity since childhood. The fog creating wispy clouds around my brain cleared with three simple words like a strong gust of wind against a defenseless newspaper. 

You told me stories; Stories no one else had heard, no one else had known. About how you were dragged upwards, narrowly escaping death’s bony hand reaching out as an offering, while the boy no older than 17 in the bed next to you grasped on firmly, accepting his fate. You cleaned blood from under my nose and wiped my eyes as I sobbed into your chest. While the world looked down at me with pity in their judging eyes, you met mine with empathy and looked deep into my soul to find the piece still salvageable. Find it you did, and you grasped on tight. I’d make it out, I would, you insisted. Through hell or high water I’d march through and if I could march no longer you swore to carry me on your back as if I were weightless, as I was no burden to you, you promised, holding your little finger out to link mine. You’d be my rock, and I would be yours, should you need to be carried at any point in our personal walks of life. A purpose, a goal: To support you as you have me. 

As I gazed into your endless blue eyes, counting the stars and street lights reflecting off them, I understood. You could not bear another loss. Another funeral to attend. Letting the world down was already done. You were my new home, my new world, and I could not, under any circumstances, hurt you the way I had hurt myself. I could not let you down. 

I’d lost everything until I gained you, my own north star visible only to me. I’d chase you to the end of the Earth, as conquistadors tracked the Polaris. A homing beacon to my new, better, life. A life I’d been unwilling to consider. AA meetings and locked doors with white walls were not an option. Expensive tabs and white lines were much better suited to me. I’d traded my friends, my job, my home, for a past time, (then full time) chasing elevation unknown to 88 percent of the population. However, for you, who examined my tear-stained face with pleading eyes, I would have quit even breathing for in that moment. 

Headaches and nausea were worth all the trouble every Saturday I’d see you, and that precious look on your face when you knew I’d kept my promise to quit the, “bullshit [I] was doing to [myself]” (as you put it). After a month of weekly dinner-dates and long talks in parking lots, you got in contact with some most-loved characters from my past life. As a favor to you, the man I owed my survival to, they accepted me back into their lives in a smaller role with reluctance. I got a job at the grocery store next to your restaurant. I rented an apartment in the brownstone across from the parking lot you met me in. I was almost whole again. 

I called you every night, you threatened to stand outside my window with a radio held high over your head, like in my favorite movie. Over time, staring into your blue eyes became my favorite activity, and talking to you was a fix I couldn’t wait to get. You gave me your coat on the cold days and covered my head with it on the rainy ones. The fog that had once lingered in my head, seemingly seeped in through my ears, was a distant memory I couldn’t have recreated to save my life, the life you had so graciously given me another chance at. To me, you were an angel sent from whatever reigns above us, a soul sent with only the understanding of mine to whisper to it, “it’s not your time yet.” I was in love. Head over heels. I played the memory of the moment you told me, “I love you” the first night I knew you over and over, relentlessly in my mind every free second it wasn’t occupied with the requirements of my new, functional, life. Good God, did I love you. But I couldn’t have you. You’d seen the worst, most horrible, atrocious parts of me. Who would want to love someone with the capability of becoming such a monster? The potential to fall back into the darkness I once resided in? So while I can’t have you, I will turn you into art. You, your love, your kindness, became my muse. And until my cardiac system fails me, as all of ours will at some point or another, and your soul returns to the heavens it came from, I will write, and write, and write a little more if I have the time, of how you created an artist out of an addict.��

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary67

11/17-18/2023

friday - saturday

found out my cat is probably not going to die, actually!!

he is actually eating, today, and stuff. it's not a full recovery but it is good news, for him, and my mom and i.

supposedly the f1 cars were supposed to be so loud we would hear them from our apartment, but we aren't. i don't know what to make of that (nothing, basically).

anyway today was insane because it started normal except, as my gf was on her way back from doing laundry with her mom this morning, she told me to get ready because her mom wanted to take us out, so i did. i was able to basically do nothing this morning really other than work out and stuff, but it was okay. i've been consumed w/ sloth lately i guess anyways. i just end up feeling so tired every day. i think that's basically good but gosh it's been getting in my way, sorta. maybe i should care less about that though, just try and do stuff when i can. not when 'the mood strikes' but just like, when i actually can. i've been so fucked up l8ly it puts significant roadblocks in the way of actually living. i won't describe what i ended up doing tonight that was totally and literally insane i guess (has to do with trying to know 'what i look like' (carried out using front facing phone cam, because i guess i default to the most incorrect mean / what will make me most dysphoric because maybe the misery is addictive in its own way)). anyway we go out, and eat, prior my gf goes into h&m and i go into a guitar center and fuck around with this roland gaia synth thing. it's cool, i got this insane and ugly sound out of it, kind of sad i don't have that naturally but whatever, i bet i could figure it out, or something similar. it's a kind of sound i like normally (chipsynth but eeevilllll (lol)). when i went to go meet my gf's mom out in front of the restaurant (not telling which because it's just like.., whatever), her brother gets there, she's still in h&m, and i had to go and get her and watch her buy an oversized white blazer.

the lunch/dinner situation was basically her mom and her brother, mostly her brother, ceaselessly speaking, and then sometimes looking at me and saying that i've said nothing, or asking for some kind of input. i guess this explains why i'm so exhausted. that continuous, neurotic stream, of mental sludge that eventually turns to baffling and reactionary thinking, and then asking if i'm offended, sincerely, at least, and then just continuing. i don't really ever say anything because i'm not offended, and also, it is actually too much trouble. it would go beyond 'correcting' anyone, it would be more or less about explaining contexts, approaches, and why on a root level the approaches they are taking w/ seeing the world are actually not helpful and mostly founded in fear/ keeping everything the same, and are received practices rather than ones they have discovered (everyone is a little like that w/ being a ball of received things, and it does one well to know that and keep it in mind (it also makes defusing that seem much harder because no one wants to be told they aren't an individual like they think (no one is an individual, personhood as broadly imagined, identity too, is a fantasy when we are caught in the system of spectacle, as we are (am i annoying, or what??)))). anyway, knowing that it would be 1) longwinded, and 2) annoying, who wants to hear all that bullshit when it's mother and son complaining about the politically correct world they feel they are forced to live in. dinner had an aura of discomfort the whole time, i did not want to share food with anyone, as her brother had given their mother herpes because he shared a drink with her. i kept looking at the sore. it was like the dinner scene in texas chainsaw massacre, or resident evil. i can't decide.

her brother is also an insane rfk jr. guy. which is kind of entertaining for me. he's a year younger than me and keeps talking about "as you get older," and shit like that. now he doesn't make music, because he's gotten older, and he doesn't want to confront that dark part of himself, because he feels like he'd go back there, and whatever and stuff. being 25 and still writing + making music, just being creatively active, i dunno, there's a lot of stupid stuff people swallow regarding 'making art' i guess. one is that it's this super authentic soul baring thing you're doing, and that it's got to come from something serious every time. or even that it has to be so emotional, that it can't have any element beyond that, where you are just thinking things out.

the waiter we had was also insane, he came over, said things about how he's just a vessel for god, that he's lost family recently, he's got a baby. very nice man though, at least.

the night basically ended, with my gf's mom and her brother, going into guitar center with us again, while i messed with guitar pedals, and the brother wandered off to go play a song for them.

the day otherwise has been good. listening to the blood brothers now.

anyway i washed my face, i need to do my night workouts and then probably just sleep soon so:

byebye!!!!!!!

[omegaplus]

# 4,414

For the past two summers, WUSB’s Omega Radio broadcast an unprecedented amount of shows. Student dee-jays leave campus for the summer and other on-air talent take vacations. Current program directors allow us to take whatever time we want to fill the grid and keep WUSB playing. The result, seventeen shows in Summer 2021 and twenty-one in the next. That was the most amount of shows we’ve ever done in a three month span. That included our usual alternating Saturday night shows, a weekly one-hour Monday afternoon slot, and a couple of bonus fill-ins for Purple Starlight. Anything you could think of us playing on-air, we did it.  

We had double Saturday slots where shoegaze morphed into indie, electronics turned into 8K clarity ultra-pop, and noise rock became unstoppable hardcore. We didn’t forget to give metalcore, sludge, post-punk / d.i.y., and golden-era hip-hop veterans their due as always. Two three-hour label tributes in Captured Tracks and La Vida Es Un Mus, and we still gave pop standards, old-school boombox rap, ‘77-’82 post-punk, industrial champions, punk / d-beat, and noise their time. We re-upped on our African sounds showcase and introduced our first-ever all-Japan and riot-grrrl block. We even had two instances of doing two broadcasts in one day, and though our program-director did make some unexpected last-minute changes to the station’s grid, we were able to make it up twice before August was over. Yes, Omega WUSB had its most eventual Summer ever. More fitting that it happened in Year 10 of operation. You can’t defeat that.

So, will we try to top last Summer’s broadcasting season? Nope. What will we do for these next thirteen months? Not much.

Being ambitious and putting out all these wonderful artists and sounds we discover for all to hear takes a lot of work. We felt so overwhelmed that we questioned what projects we wanted to stop in order to take the load off. But, instead of doing that, we decided to cut back a little and keep doing what we do. We’re not giving up on Ω+ or our radio show. Recently, a personal cassette tape archive was finally completed. That freed up lots of time to go back and finally listen to our past purchases, and also to pursue some real–life changes and improvements (coding, learning Italian).

Second, Omega WUSB had been running thin of music reserves. We always make the effort of having a show no matter what, but we’ve been having more abbreviated (read: one-hour) broadcasts. For some reason some sounds are not flowing like it should. We haven’t showcased much indie, golden-era veterans, or electronics much this broadcasting year. That’d be up to us to find it ourselves in order to stay diverse and give our listening audience the variety of unheard-of sounds and artists WUSB aims to deliver. Plus, one of our mutuals, who’s as ADHD and obsessive with finding music as we are, has plenty of playlists and videos she posts for us to find. She’s helped us go back and discover artists that we should’ve dived into already. Now’s the time to make it up heavily. 

Omega WUSB plans on pulling back for a while as we continue to recuperate and replenish our music finds so that we’re better off next year. No doubt we’ll still have our show for the Summer and most likely it’ll be deluxe broadcasts only. For those curious as to what we find and are seriously into, look no further than these last two Summer results. See why we’re a radio program like no other; one you won’t find anywhere else in the nation.

Omega WUSB Summer 2021 Broadcasting Season.

Omega WUSB Summer 2022 Broadcasting Season.

[mainswatch]

3 minutes to midnight game

#3 minutes to midnight game how to#

#3 minutes to midnight game code#

#3 minutes to midnight game series#

#3 minutes to midnight game code#

Boxed items are listed as "code/code" where the first code represents the box, and the second code describes the contents.On the other hand, I am an idiot, and this isn’t how puzzles are supposed to be solved, and there’s nothing more excruciating than the developers of a puzzle game asking if you need help! 3 Minutes to Midnight is out some time in 2019, so luckily I have time to figure out how good my tolerance for feeling stupid is. On the one hand, I like that this feels almost more like real life puzzle solving, and that the game both gives you logical solutions to find, but also treats you like you’re not an idiot. Instead of “Boy, I’ll need a lever to open this valve!” you get something more “I can’t get a grip on this with my hands.” There were a couple of instances like this in the demo, where I was encouraged because I was on the right track, but not given an overt clue as to where to go next - because 3 Minutes to Midnight also eschews the character saying something out loud to help you, like “Hm, the citronella is sort of working… If only I had a way to do with it!”. I kept thinking that I was basically doing the right thing, and couldn’t figure out what was missing. Partially because I am an idiot, but also because I have this learned behaviour that I can’t do a thing in a game unless it’s the right thing to do, I got stuck in a loop. I picked some up and tried to use it on the mosquitoes, and Betty rubbed it over her arms and noted that the mosquitoes didn’t bite her that time - but she still couldn’t walk past. So then I had a big pool of citronella-y sludge. I’d found some lemongrass, and there was a mangle right by said insects, and I know what citronella is. In 3 Minutes to Midnight, y’have to get past a big cloud of mosquitoes. 3 Minutes to Midnight is one of a very few games that lets you try stuff that sort of works, but isn’t quite right. If it’s neither of those, you’ll get an “I don’t want to do that,” or some other verbal clue telling you that tieing a harpoon to a bottle or whatever won’t work. Most puzzle games won’t let you do a meaningful interaction unless it’s a) funny or b) part of a puzzle solution. 3 Minutes to Midnight does this too, but takes it a little further. Recent point and click games, from your Thimbleweed Parks to your Unavoweds, have figured out that puzzles actually following some kind of logical thread make for ultimately more satisfying solves for the player. In one of the Legend of Kyrandia games you have to USE Teddy Bear WITH T-Rex to escape a lava cave.

#3 minutes to midnight game how to#

See, while DotT and the like taught me how to solve puzzles in games, that lesson boiled down to “trial and error”, because often the solution to a puzzle would be so obscure that it wouldn’t even make sense if you squinted. The game has a cool Saturday morning cartoon vibe to it that I was really into.īut the crux of a puzzle game are the puzzles of course, and Scarecrow have taken a slightly different approach. I was also a fan of what developers Scarecrow Studio describe as “high-def cartoon art”. She had a strong Laverne from Day of the Tentacle vibe. The cast of characters was suitably wacky: a raccoon, a man in a diving suit hunting a lake monster, and a girl playing host to three different personalities. I got to play as her in a short segment of B plot, so as not to spoil any of the puzzles in the main story. That’s, like, two retros for the price of one.īetty Anderson, a plucky amnesiac teen, is one of two playable protagonists. In this case the game is set in the ‘40s, and the character I played is wearing a poodle skirt and a letterman jacket. Point and click puzzle adventures have had a bit of a resurgence over the last few years, and it seems like every one of them kind of markets itself like it’s the first one to bring back the genre (3 Minutes to Midnight’s Steam page says “Yeah, puzzles - remember those?”, as if there hasn’t been a single puzzle in a game since 1989).

#3 minutes to midnight game series#

Those old Lucasfilm/LucasArts ones like Day of the Tentacle and the Monkey Island series were some of the first games I ever played, and they taught me how puzzles in games are supposed to be solved. I played it at EGX last weekend, because I really like PnCs, as we purists definitely call them (do not check that). 3 Minutes to Midnight is not, as my brain keeps suggesting, a sequel to a classic Maiden track, but a point and click adventure game.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Play Pretend

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: ~4170

Warnings: I don’t think there are any? Some language. Egregious amounts of fluff. A blanket fort and a Star Trek onesie. Gratuitous descriptions of Spencer Reid’s bone structure, because apparently I can’t help myself. 

A/N: For the “treat yo’ self” square on my @cmbingo​ card, and also for @railmereid​‘s 2k challenge! Prompt for the latter is bolded.

It’s been a godawful case, and in the BAU, that’s saying something. At least nobody ended up in the hospital this time? But as you all troop onto the jet in a straggly line of wrinkled clothes and puffy eyes, that’s about the brightest spot you can find in this whole fucking week. 

As you get settled, though, Hotch clears his throat. “Your attention, please. We’re taking a long weekend, Strauss’s orders.”

“Oh thank god,” you mutter under your breath.  

“Once we get back and grab our things, you are not to return to the office for a full seventy-two hours.” Hotch looks sternly (well, even more sternly) at Spencer, who’s on the couch next to you, curling up for a nap. “Understood? And you are not allowed to take case files home, Reid. I mean it this time.” 

“Understood,” he says grouchily. You can’t help but laugh at the pout on his face. 

“Seriously?” you ask. 

He shrugs, lips quirking up like he does actually realize what a ridiculous human being he is. “I have many talents, but ‘taking it easy’ is not one of them.” He does the air quotes, even.

“All those PhDs and you never got a degree in relaxation?” 

“That’s not—” He realizes you’re teasing and grins. “No. No I did not. I just… never really know what to do with myself, I guess?” 

“Shocking.” 

“What are you going to do, then?” 

“I am going to have a treat yo’ self day,” you declare proudly. 

“A what?” 

“You know, like in Parks and Rec?” He gives you a blank look. “No, you totally don’t know. Of course you don’t. But there’s this one episode where two of the characters have a ‘treat yo’ self’ day, and they go shopping and get, like, really self-indulgent things that they wouldn’t ordinarily buy themselves.”

He frowns. “You’re going shopping all weekend? You’ve never struck me as a particularly materialistic person.”

“Fuck, no. It’s more about indulging in experiences. Self-care. Things that make me feel relaxed. Just… whatever makes me happy.”

“Like what?” He still has this totally puzzled look on his face, with his nose wrinkled up. It’s so much more endearing than it has any right to be. 

“I like painting. I’m not good at it, but I like it, so I’m gonna get some new paints and a big canvas and make a mess, because it makes me happy.” 

“Huh.” 

“What about you, then? What do you do to relax?”  

“That’s… a good question, honestly.” 

“Well, what’s your idea of a perfect day?” 

Maybe it shouldn’t surprise you that self-care is a foreign concept to him. You wait patiently as he overthinks it.

“Perfect seems unrealistic,” he concludes wryly. 

“So, like, remember when you were a kid and you walked into a really awesome toy store?” you prompt. “Just feeling that sort of carefree, giddy kind of happy?” 

“Not really.” He shrugs. 

“What did make you feel like that, though?” you ask. “When you were younger? There had to be something.” 

“I think I just — I didn’t do much normal kid stuff.” He lets out a huff of a laugh and runs his hands through his messy curls, suddenly self-conscious. “Didn’t get to play pretend, or… I don’t know. Didn’t have time.” 

“Right,” you say softly. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about.” 

You nod, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah. Get some sleep, Spencer. Sweet dreams.” 

He gives you a tired half-smile and tugs his blanket up to his chin, tucking his hands under his cheek, and the dark hollows under his eyes are hidden by his long lashes as he falls asleep almost immediately. You need to rest too, but it takes you a while; you sneak a glance at him every so often, feeling that twist under your breastbone that happens all too often when you’re around Spencer. 

By the time the jet lands, though, you have a plan. 

* * * * *

You second-guess your plan approximately a thousand times on your way over to Spencer’s the next morning. When you get to his door, you almost convince yourself to walk away before you manage to knock; is this totally presumptuous? Is Spencer going to think you’re ridiculous? Is the whole thing just plain stupid? 

Then again, you were stupid enough to fall for Spencer in the first place, so. What’s another stupid decision on top of that whole mess? 

When he opens the door, he’s wearing pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a phenomenally hideous bathrobe, and he’s all messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, and for a moment you’re panicking because oh shit I woke him up. It’s almost noon, to be fair, but he did have some serious sleep to catch up on. Then you notice the coffee mug in his hand, and after a moment of relief, that morphs into more of a oh shit he’s so fucking beautiful type of panic. 

You’re used to that, though. 

Then you realize he’s staring at you, smiling but puzzled, and you haven’t explained yourself. Oops. 

“Um. Trick or treat yourself day?” you blurt out, hoisting your shopping bags and giggling at your own lame joke. “I… brought you something. Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you — I should’ve texted, I just—”

“You’re always a good surprise,” Spencer says shyly, and then seems to shake himself. “Come in. Sorry. Coffee?” 

“Please.” 

You set down your shopping bags and follow him to the kitchen, where he fixes you a mug of your own — exactly how you like it, because of course he remembers. Then he takes a couple deep gulps of his own sugar-sludge and tops it up, and by the time you go back out to the living room, he’s starting to look vaguely awake. 

“What’s all this about?” he finally asks, head cocked to look curiously at the bags. 

“Well,” you start slowly. Now that you have to say it out loud, it sounds even more stupid. “I was thinking a treat yourself day would be a lot more fun with company, and it seems like… maybe you’re overdue for some of that? For… self-indulgence, and just, like, enjoying yourself without worrying. And you deserve it. So. You wanna?” 

His eyes are soft and bright, oddly vulnerable, and a smile spreads slowly across his face, twitchy at the edges like he’s not sure he’s allowed to smile yet. 

“Really? I don’t know what to do, though.” 

“Well, I have some ideas about that. But first, you gotta make a deal with me.” The way he’s beaming makes you feel a whole lot more confident as you tell him, very seriously, “This is the sacred covenant of treat yourself day. You have to solemnly swear to do whatever you want. Anything you can dream up. Indulge every whim. Take an oath to give in to every one of your silly, random, frivolous desires, without any form of self-denial or doubt. Can you do that, Spencer?” 

“I can try,” he says, and his voice cracks. It’s like he can’t shape the words, with the way his smile has taken over his entire face. 

“Okay, good enough. And… I have a few ideas.” 

“Like what?” 

You shrug. “Like… some things I thought maybe you didn’t get to do as a kid? Here, let me—”

You rummage until you find what you were looking for, and then you turn around, holding it out like an offering. Spencer’s mouth drops open. 

“Is that a Captain Kirk costume?” he asks squeakily. 

“It’s a Captain Kirk onesie,” you correct. “And it’s for you.” 

“Holy—” 

He shucks the bathrobe and sets down his coffee hastily, and he’s zipping the onesie up before you can say “Beam me up,” looking down at himself with this joy on his face, totally giddy in a way you’ve never seen him before, and holy hell, even if he hates the rest of your ideas, this will be one hundred fifty percent worth it for the memory of that smile on Spencer’s face. 

“I have one too,” you admit, and pull your Chewbacca onesie out of your backpack. Once you’re both appropriately attired, you tell him, “Next order of business is cartoons.” 

“I don’t actually have TV?” he says apologetically. “I mean, I have a TV, but it’s only for —” 

You grin. “I came prepared, though!” 

Spencer’s the only person you know who still has a VHS player, but you’ve been holding onto some things you rescued from your parents’ attic a while back; you find your VHS of Tom & Jerry cartoons and wave it at him triumphantly. 

“I’ve never watched that before.” He examines the cover, bemused. 

“It’s essential viewing.” 

“Okay,” he says slowly.

While he performs whatever arcane ritual makes his ancient TV work (there’s like a rain dance and an animal sacrifice involved, you’re pretty sure) you settle on the couch, nesting in all the blankets and sipping your coffee contentedly. Spencer presses play and sits down next to you, but you can feel his uncertainty; he’s holding himself stiffly, and he keeps sneaking glances at you. 

“Spit it out,” you tell him, a few minutes in. “If you hate it, you can just say so, Spence. I won’t take it personally.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that! I just — is this really how you want to spend your Saturday?” 

“What do you mean?” You have a Chewbacca onesie, a perfect cup of coffee, and great company; you’re not entirely sure how this could get any better. 

“Doing nothing,” he mumbles. “This is… there are so many things you could be doing. Don’t you have a whole list of things you wanted to do? But instead… I don’t know. You’re here. With me.” 

Sometimes you want to scream until he realizes how awesome he is, but the screaming is probably not the best way to convey that particular message. 

Instead, you keep your voice very quiet as you tell him, “There is absolutely nowhere else I’d rather be right now.” 

It’s a little too true. Your cheeks burn as you turn back to the TV, trying not to dwell on the way you can see him watching you in your peripheral vision. 

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. He settles himself more comfortably into the blanket nest, and before long, he’s giggling along with you. 

You watch in peaceful silence for a little while, but at some point, Spencer’s stomach growls, and you pause the tape to make food — chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, as per his verdict on “ultimate treat food.” As it turns out, he knows a lot about the science of cooking, but not a whole lot about the actual practice, so he sits cross-legged in a chair and directs you to various cabinets as you measure and mix and whisk. When you get the batter poured out on the griddle, he’s pattering on about the chemical differences between baking soda and baking powder. 

He looks utterly dismayed when the first chocolate chip hits his forehead. Turns out his lack of hand-eye coordination applies to mouth-eye coordination too, and the floor is littered with semi-sweet projectiles before he actually catches one, but he’s laughing, so you really can’t bring yourself to care. 

The pancakes are a total success. When you’re both stuffed and sugar-high, you grab the syrupy plates and bring them to the sink for a quick rinse. 

“You don’t have to,” Spencer protests. You ignore him. His next words are much softer, scratchy and hoarse: “Thank you. I don’t — just — thank you.” 

“Nothing to thank me for,” you say briskly. Then you turn around, and you freeze, because he’s a whole lot closer than you thought he was; he’s right there, close enough that you could reach out and run your fingers through his hair, or trace the sharp line of his jaw. 

He has a tiny streak of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth, right where his lips curl up as he smiles, and for a second you can barely breathe with how much you want to stand up on your tiptoes and see if he tastes as sweet as he looks. 

For a second he looks like he wants you to. He’s frozen too, for a moment, and you can hear his breath catch, but then he scoops you up in a hug, squeezing tight. And yeah, it’s just friendly, but it’s a hug from Spencer, and that happens rarely enough that it feels like a treat of its own, so you go with it, forehead pressed to his shoulder, heart racing.

When he releases you, you tell yourself you’re not disappointed. 

“Right,” you say, bossy to cover how flustered you feel. “Back to business.” 

“I think I need more practice sitting still,” Spencer confesses, following you back out to the couch. “It feels weird just… not doing anything.” 

You pause, deliberating. “Well, we could keep our hands busy?” 

With a quick rummage, you produce paint and an extra large pad of paper, holding them up for Spencer’s inspection. He frowns. 

“I don’t have any paintbrushes.” 

“They’re finger paints,” you say, grinning, and he laughs. 

“Of course they are.” 

You set everything up on the coffee table while Spencer presses play, and the two of you sit down on the floor, side by side. Spencer looks down at his onesie, then at the paint, frowning. 

“It’s all washable, Spencer.” 

“Still,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to take it off, but —” 

He unzips the onesie halfway, peeling the arms off and letting the fabric bunch up around his waist. 

“There we go, putting that genius brain to work,” you tease, but you’re touched that he cares enough about your present to worry about stains. 

It’s hard to ignore how close you’re sitting. You do your best, keeping your eyes on either the TV or your masterpiece of Abstract Expressionism, but Spencer’s knee is pressed to yours, a constant warm pressure, and your hands keep brushing as you both reach for containers of paint, and you can smell him, like vanilla and maybe old books. The whole thing has you feeling flushed. 

Other than that, though, it’s comfortable. It’s always been easy to talk to Spencer, which makes sense considering how much he knows about every subject imaginable, but it surprises you sometimes how easy it is not to talk to him, too. Silence isn’t awkward, with him. Neither of you say anything for the next hour or so. You just giggle at the TV and paint, wordless and companionable, and it’s the happiest you’ve felt in… longer than you care to admit. 

Life is rarely perfect, especially not in your line of work, but this? This is pretty close. 

As the credits start to play, you stretch, and then you look at his paper. It takes you a second to recognize yourself, but the likeness is unmistakable. Spencer’s got the exact angle of your eyebrow when you’re looking at him skeptically — apparently you do that often enough that he’s memorized the expression. He somehow managed to capture your smile, the curve of your lips, all in tiny delicate pinky-strokes of purple and turquoise… trust Dr. Spencer Reid to bring that level of precision to finger-painting, and oh god you are not going to think about his fingers any more. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Yeah,” you manage. You clear your throat. “Yeah, I really do.” 

Then he makes it worse by rubbing the side of his neck, bashful and self-conscious, smearing blue-green paint from his collarbone to the sharp line of his jaw, and he’s so busy smiling at you that he doesn’t seem to notice. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple dips, shifting a streak of color, making it flicker. It’s such a silly thing, but it draws your attention to his skin — makes you want to touch. Worst of all, it reminds you that he’s already art, that the shape of him, the delicate precise way he’s put together, is more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in a museum. 

It reminds you that you want some things you can never, ever have. 

“You’ve got — um,” you say, gesturing helplessly. He blinks at you, slow like he’s coming out of a trance, and tucks his hair behind his ear, smearing more paint there before he remembers. You giggle, sharp and nervous, and it breaks the tension all at once. Spencer laughs too, rolling his eyes at himself. You get up clumsily to go grab a wet paper towel from the kitchen. 

The moment is gone, but your heart is still racing. 

“What’s next?” Spencer asks softly, once you’re both cleaned up. 

He missed a tiny spot; there’s a blue smudge right at the corner of his jaw, and you want to touch it, feel it under your fingertips, see if the skin is as soft as it looks, right there where the bone stretches it thin. 

“Blanket fort,” you blurt out, before you can do anything embarrassing. 

His eyes light up. 

It really shouldn’t surprise you that Spencer and his engineering PhD make quick work of a pile of sheets and clothespins. You’re pretty sure that he could revolutionize the entire field of blanket fort construction, if left to his own devices, but you keep poking him when he gets lost in his head or starts muttering calculations to himself. The point is having fun. 

The end result is a lot more Frank Lloyd Wright than any of your childhood creations, but Spencer looks absolutely gleeful, so. It’s the spirit of the thing. 

“One more thing,” you say. “Do you have any Christmas lights?” 

Spencer frowns. “I don’t — oh! Wait!” 

He runs to the closet, and he ends up halfway inside the closet, digging around on his hands and knees. You’re about to make a crack about Narnia when he comes out, holding up a box with a triumphant smile. 

You read the label: “Halloween decorations 3 of 4.” 

Because of course Spencer Reid has Halloween lights. He pulls out several long ropes of them; a couple are shaped like tiny skulls, one is strung with Jack-o-Lanterns, and two could pass as Christmas lights if they weren’t orange and purple. You help him detangle the knot of them and drape them over and through your fort, and when you turn out the normal lights and draw his heavy curtains, the whole thing glows in patches of orange and purple and white. 

“After you,” you tell Spencer, and he crawls in without any more prompting. 

There’s more than enough room to sit up, but Spencer is lying down on his back in the nest of blankets and pillows that you’d relocated from the couch. He’s staring up at the “ceiling” in silence, eyes glittering with some unreadable expression where they catch the twinkling shards of light. You make yourself comfortable next to him, looking up and wondering what he’s seeing. 

“I always wondered what the appeal was,” he whispers. “Of blanket forts. And… childhood in general, I guess.” 

“You grew up pretty fast, huh?” you say quietly. 

“Yeah. And I never — I feel like most of the team doesn’t take me seriously sometimes. Like I’m still a kid to them. I always feel like I have to prove myself.” 

Your instinct is to deny it automatically, but you know what he means. They laugh him off for his quirks, for the way he gets excited about things and for the things he gets excited about. That’s what’s so incredible about him, though: that dichotomy of knowledge and curiosity, the breathless excitement when he makes a discovery.

“I liked pretending I had my own little world,” you tell him. “Blanket forts. Felt like I could actually shut all the bad things out.” 

“Still feels like that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Nothing wrong with acting like a child, sometimes. We need that. Even if it’s just pretend.” 

“I think I get it now.” 

“Hmm?”

He’s silent for a long moment before he says, “In here, everything’s perfect.” 

“Or we can pretend it is.” 

You turn your head to find Spencer looking at you, and he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. You barely want to blink for fear of breaking whatever spell you’re under. 

There’s something raw and earnest and almost scared shining all over his face, like you’re catching a glimpse of the child he used to be, before the world taught him to put on a brave face and keep his most intense feelings to himself. It makes you feel shaky in ways you were really not prepared for. 

There’s a heavy moment of silence. You’re painfully aware of how loud your breathing sounds. 

It’s a hell of a thing, to have his focus like this. You fell in love with him watching him work; you know how intensely he can devote himself to a task, to a puzzle, to a map… and every so often, when the two of you talk, he focuses all that brilliance on you, and he listens so completely that you feel his attention like a spotlight. 

That’s when he usually looks away, dropping his gaze like it’s something to be embarrassed about, because too many people have told him to stop staring. 

He’s not looking away now. He turns onto his side to completely face you, curling up in that sweetly childish way with his hands between his cheek and the pillow, and you mirror him.

“Feels like we’re alone.” 

He’s right; there are no distractions, no excuses to be made, no interruptions. It’s just the two of you, and it’s terrifying. 

“Feels safe,” you whisper, because that’s true too. Your heart is racing, and it’s like you can hear your pulse in your ears, but it’s the quietest sort of panic you’ve ever felt. “I think that was exactly what I wanted, after the last couple weeks. To get away. To feel safe.” 

There’s an orange light throwing most of his face into shadow, but you can see the corner of his mouth a little too clearly. You’re maybe a foot apart. It would be so easy — 

“We don’t get that often.” His voice is barely more than a breath. 

“Safety?” 

“That too, but —” His breath hitches, and he clears his throat. “What we want. I don’t usually get what I want, but this was — this was very close to perfect.” 

“Yeah, well, when is life ever perfect?” You manage a smile. “What would make it perfect? If you could have anything.”

“It’s not something I can have, though.” 

“So pretend. It’s just us, and there are no rules today. What would it be?”  

He bites his lip. “I don’t think —” 

“For once in your life, Spencer, stop overthinking it,” you half-laugh, and then he’s propping himself up on one elbow, shifting forward, leaning closer, close close close until he’s all you can see, and —

He kisses you. 

It’s the most gentle, feather-light brush of a kiss you’ve ever felt, barely more than a graze of his parted lips over yours. It’s there, and then it’s gone again before you can even begin to process the sensation. 

As your eyes flutter open you can already see the fear setting in, dark intense gaze fixed on you as he inhales sharply. 

You’re still trying to remember how to breathe; you’re too stunned to react beyond blinking at him. 

“I’m sorry. Can we just —” He shakes his head, hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hold onto the kiss. “Do you think we could pretend — can we pretend I didn’t do that? I’m so sorry.” 

“I don’t want to pretend,” you say shakily.  

He stares. 

This doesn’t seem real. It’s such a strange moment that you might as well be trapped in a Dali canvas. There’s fingerpaint on his face, and he’s wearing a Captain Kirk command uniform onesie, and there’s a tiny Jack-o-Lantern glowing over his head. If you’d imagined the “perfect” moment, this would not be it. 

But you reach out, running your fingertips over the dark smudge of paint on his jaw, and the skin is hot and smooth. He shivers at the touch. It’s real. 

“Spencer?” Your throat is tight, but you manage a choked, “I want you to kiss me again.” 

He does, with a careful hand cupped to your cheek and a smile curling his lips when they meet yours. You run your fingers through his hair, and you both laugh when they catch on dried paint. 

“Perfect,” he whispers. 

It really is. 

.

.

.

[illwynd]

review of metal subgenres by me

20. christian metal

i can’t help but feel like someone is just. very confused here. it might be me idk. but someone is definitely confused.

19. traditional heavy metal

Classic. Timeless. But in the way that a top hat is timeless i.e. it’s gonna get a lot of weird looks in the grocery store

18. metalcore

please keep your arms inside the vehicle at all times. 

17. nu metal

honestly i like a lot of nu metal, it is totally enjoyable as music, but lbr it is never going to not be the redheaded stepchild of the metal family. it should probably move to another town, change its name, and just live its best life or sth.

16. glam metal

the ‘80s called. it didn’t ask for its sound back. it just needs help getting out of these skintight leopard-print leather pants.

15. melodic metal

this is a fuckin weird one, honestly. i feel like this is only an adjective to other genres, and it’s an element that changes the properties of whatever it alloys with in unexpected ways. on its own, it is undefinable and defies assessment.

14. sludge

this is the most aptly named genre in existence. i could not hope to describe it better than saying yeah it sounds like sludge. not that there’s anything wrong with that.

13. black metal

some great tunes but i’m exhausted just thinking about researching every fucking band to find out whether they’re sketchy. or like. how sketchy exactly. like. “apolitical” only half the band is friends with nazis sketchy? or...?

12. groove metal

great, let’s talk shit about phil anselmo. (it does have a decent groove tho.)

11. doom metal

you’re 19, lying on your bed on a stormy saturday afternoon, super depressed and listlessly pondering the pointlessness of existence. this is your soundtrack.

10. death metal

[incomprehensible growling directly into the mike]

9. thrash metal

when it’s good, it’s really fuckin good. when it’s mediocre... it... all sounds the fucking same i’m sorry but it does

8. progressive metal

aka musicians showing off. Mozart would play prog.

7. goth metal

you’re 19, lying on your bed on a stormy saturday afternoon, super depressed... and it’s kinda sexy, actually

6. industrial metal

we’re going to be here all night arguing about what bands are part of this genre, aren’t we.

5. symphonic metal

do you need some operatic soprano shit in your life, with full orchestration? heck yeah you do. here you go.

4. power metal

I AM RIDING A DRAGON YOUR ARGUMENT IS INVALID

3. pirate metal

rum rum rum rum rum rum rum 

2. viking metal

the best moshpits, for some reason. everyone in this scene owns at least one mjolnir pendant and probably also leather bracers and a ticket to valhalla. warning: may cause beard growth. points for lots of songs about thor and loki

1. folk metal

we have fiddle. we have bagpipes. we have flutes. we have joiking and throatsinging. we have copious drinking songs. we have pagan imagery, long hair, some fur and horns and antlers with our leather, and pleasant fuckin dispositions. we will collectively sit down on a sticky, beer-covered venue floor and row our longship together before getting up and bodyslamming each other happily for another hour. half the time the lyrics are not in a language you speak but it doesn’t matter. and it has the range, babey: cheerful drinking songs, high-energy battle music, metal songs to hammer metal to, melancholy old folk songs done metal style, gorgeously haunting odes to nature and invoking the supernatural making you feel like you ought to be listening to it alone on a misty mountaintop in the moonlight, everything. the fact that metal seems to fuse perfectly with literally every culture’s traditional folk music to become something unique and interesting and revelatory about both the folk tradition itself and about metal... that’s. like. fuckin superb, you funky little humans. this is the best metal genre and you cannot change my mind. 

Bonus: symphonic post-apocalyptic reindeer-grinding Christ-abusing extreme war pagan fennoscandian metal

heck yeah

[blouisparadise]

Here are some amazing bottom Louis fics posted or completed during the month of August. We really hope you enjoy this list and that you give these fics a lot of love.

Happy reading!

1) Move Out | Explicit | 1525 words

Harry and Louis are moving in together, so they might as well make the most of Harry's apartment.

2) Take Off Your Business Suit | Explicit | 3082 words

“Yes, let me get another chair.” Louis said, leaning up off of the desk. He stood up but before he could leave the office to get another chair, Harry was grabbing his hand.

The words that came out of Harry’s mouth made Louis’ knees weak and heart beat quicken. “Just sit on my lap.” Harry said. Whatever he said afterwards didn’t make it into Louis’ ears as he was moving quickly over to Harry and placing himself on Harry’s lap.Louis would take anything Harry wanted to give him; hand touching, lap sitting, all of it.

Louis hadn't realized he was holding his breath until it came out in a quiet sigh. “Okay so th-this one will be slightly different right?” He asked as he pointed at the sheet of paper in front of him.

3) So Good, It's Making Me Drool | Explicit | 3364 words

He kept his back turned to Harry, whispering the few words he knew that would make Harry go absolutely wild. “If I’m only yours, maybe you should take me to bed and teach me who I belong to.”

4) What I Like | Explicit | 4245 words

Note: This fic has mentions of BH.

Harry gets tired of the "older women" jokes and the incessant teasing from Louis.

5) ll Belong To Your Creation | General Audiences | 4349words

Louis had always thought it was impossible to do so. Thankfully, upon doing research he learned that he still can as long as there are no complications throughout the whole pregnancy. He also stumble upon a birth vlog where a mum was able to give birth naturally even after going through c-section with her first and second pregnancy.

6) An Axolotl and the Fake Date | Explicit | 5976 words

Harry runs a stall at a farmers market every weekend and Louis comes by one day with an odd request.

7) Feels So Right | Explicit | 8804 words

The one where Louis is Troy, Harry is Gabriella, and we find out what really happened after karaoke at that ski resort...

8) Giallo! | Mature | 9776 words

Louis was a mess. A stuttery mess of weak knees and grass stains on his fresh linen clothes, his cheeks blooming a natural pink that matched his sunburnt nose. Upon his return from University, his family abandon the bustling city of London to bask in the comfort of their summer villa. With such a property came maintenance, Louis' father hired a strapping young fellow with tanned skin littered with ink and a charming smile aided by dimples in both his cheeks. Between reading, baking and painting, Louis stares at Harry, he couldn't help it. They grow close under the sun of Greece in 1989.

9) Interlude: One Night in March | Explicit | 10671 words

Note: This is a sequel to this fic.

“Said I would, didn’t I?” Harry let his hands roam over Louis’s bare back, his muscles rippling with that same frenetic energy he always had, swirling just beneath the skin, just beneath Harry’s fingers. “May come a time I’ll have to carry you again.”

Cupping the back of his head and burying his fingers in Louis’s hair, he pulled Louis back into another deep kiss, moaned a bit when Louis squeezed his chest again, harder this time, like he wanted the shirt off. But instead he drew his hand down Harry’s side and tugged at the hem, as though to say best keep this on, before he licked into Harry’s mouth, drew Harry’s tongue out to play only to pull back enough to speak.

“May come a time I’ll actually fucking let you.”

10) Hate To Smoke (Without Me) | Mature | 12164 words

Sleep. Harry just wants one good night of sleep. However, his neighbour has a thing for headboard-banging-against-the-wall-sex every night. After a secret set-up and a bet, Harry may finally get the sleep he so much desires.

11) Call You Mine | Explicit | 12755 words

“I have a request.”

That’s what Louis Tomlinson says to Harry when he opens the front door a bit too aggressively. The latter feels justified after a round of annoyingly incessant knocking that was much too loud in the drowsy sludge of early Saturday morning.

“Zayn’s asleep,” is Harry’s tired, hoarse reply, irritation prickling at his skin. Less than a minute ago he was in bed, feeling perfectly content sprawled out on the mattress with the chilled air from the fan cool against his bare skin. And now he’s leaning up against the wooden door frame in nothing but his briefs because Zayn’s best mate decided that showing up unannounced at seven in the fucking morning was a brilliant idea.

“I’m not here for him,” says Louis curtly.

12) A Vivid And Wistful Melody | Explicit | 13128 words

"Slowly, he takes his violin out of its case, listens for a few more minutes to Louis’ flute, before joining him as best as he could. The flute stops for a few seconds, and Harry imagines Louis blinking cutely, taken aback, before huffing with a smile, and starting to play again, on a suddenly far happier tune. Harry closes his eyes as he twirls around the living room, violin in hand and music filling the air. He pictures Louis doing the same in his own flat while being careful as to not step on his cat.

Somehow, even with heavy eyes and tired limbs, this is the happiest Harry has ever felt in years."

In which they are neighbours stuck at home and they happen to start talking through a wall with a piano, a violin, and a flute. They end up writing the soundtrack of their own love story.

13) Until This Blood Runs Cold | Explicit | 13685 words

In a town as small as Louis’, everybody knows everybody and gossip spreads faster than the wildfires that rage on just outside their backdoors in the sweltering heat of summer. When something happens here everyone knows about it within seconds. Neighbors call neighbors and notes are left on doorsteps, old telephone lines ringing until there isn’t a single person who is left in the unknown.

So it’s definitely hot gossip when a vampire moves in across the street from him, the very same one who’s just become Louis’ boss.

14) A Road To Hope | Explicit | 18280 words

Note: There is no explicit smut but its implied BL.

“We’re far from the people and their issues, don’t hold back. Please.”

It’s true. They are far away from anything that could stop them, the middle of nowhere being the safest place on Earth for them to fall in love. The sacred land where sacred love is created. However, Louis is certain that even if they weren’t safe, he wouldn’t resist the sight of Harry, his pleading eyes, his warm skin beneath his touch.

15) Your Eyes Of Blue, Your Kisses Too | Explicit | 21785 words

When they get out onto the streets away from the crowds Niall turns to walk backwards, “So did you get any leads?”

“Well- uh.”

Niall shakes his head, “Too busy kissing that pretty boy onstage, I see. Gonna blow the whole case for a piece of ass?”

16) Thinking About Peaches | Explicit | 23724 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic, which is #18 on this list.

Eight smutty drabbles following the events of bruise you like a peach.

17) Quiet People Have the Loudest Minds | Mature | 38065 words

Broadway shows were one of the few things that could keep Louis’ attention for a full two hours without needing to move about. But not tonight.

The alpha next to him was both infuriating him and practically turning him on at the same time. He needed to leave. The alpha, that is. Louis was staying.

18) Bruise You Like A Peach | Explicit | 40694 words

Note: The sequel to this fic is #16 on this list. 

There’s two reasons Harry despises Econ.

The first is that it’s boring as fuck. The second reason is a bit more personal, a bit more focused in a way. As in it’s focused on one specific thing, or in his case, person.

His name is Louis Tomlinson.

19) Falling Out Of Fashion | Explicit | 42123 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Harry Styles has been the established face of the Grimshaw House of Design for two years. It’s a prestigious and coveted modeling contract Harry took away from once-famed supermodel Zayn Malik. With the model transition Grimshaw’s designs went from a more urban, Zayn-forward aesthetic, to a Harry-favoring flowery, flowing femininity in the Grimshaw designs for men.

So when Harry sees a dress Grimshaw made for a famous Marvel actress, “only a tease”, Nick says, of the evolving look, Harry knows Grimshaw is shifting his aesthetic.

Harry wonders if he can pull off the look.

Or could Grimshaw be looking for a new face?

20) Secretly Dating | Mature | 43615 words

Lottie groaned, looming over Louis with a glare. “If we’re late, Mum and Dad will never let Harry see me – ie. see you.”

It was the first time they openly addressed the fact that Harry saw more of Louis than Lottie on their supposed ‘dates.’ He supposed he knew as much, but it still startled him. “You’ve been setting us up!”

Lottie snorted, cocking out her hip and brushing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Honestly, Harry. You’re so dense. To be fair, it was at Louis’ request.”

Louis’ mouth gaped like a fish as he jumped to standing position, wobbling only slightly. “Don’t sell me out!”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “Come on lovebirds.”

21) You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes) | Mature | 95417 words

Harry was in the biggest boy band in the world. He was also one half of the best (or worst, depends on who you ask) kept secret relationship in the music industry.

Now, almost five years on, after One Direction has broken up, and Harry and Louis' relationship has as well, a video threatens to put everything at risk.

One determined Irishman, a massive publicity stunt and two begrudging exes are all it takes to bring One Direction back to life and maybe, just maybe, Harry and Louis' mangled love life too.

22) The Healing Song | Mature | 111851 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Louis was carrying the large stuffed elephant like it was a baby, it’s trunk hanging over his shoulder and down his back and it’s front legs were resting around his neck, like it was hugging him. Said elephant was a present from Louis’ close friend Steve, who had thought Louis needed something to hug on bad days and had gifted him with a stuffed elephant the size of a one year old.

Steve had been right. Some days Louis did need something to hug, and this elephant was as good as anything.

Louis was having one of the rougher days. The harmonious state of the anxiety free life of a fearless Louis had ended the week after he met with Harry. It ended as abruptly as it had started. It was like pushing a button. Lights out. Almost as if the universe said “You’ve had your fun, crazy one, now go be sick” and slammed the door in his face.

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[whump-town]

Without A Word

Hotch sits with Emily right after her death.

She spends every Saturday night on his couch, tangled in his unusually long limbs and the blanket he keeps draped across the back just for these nights. Drinking whatever cheap beer she finds at the corner store a few blocks from his apartment until he’s had enough and gets out the wine. Between them, there is no need for long-winded conversations or many words at all.  The night turns in and she finds that since stepping into the room neither of them has said a word. Not when he ordered their dinner. Not when she finished his discarded beer.

Not a word.

Those Saturdays are her favorite.

Were.

They were her favorite and they were something she used to do.

She’s no longer allowed these things.

She watches him from the stiff, unforgiving mattress beneath her sore body. Her arm aches where the IV has sat for so long in the crook of her elbow and she knows all she needs to do is say something and they’ll likely move it but she’s afraid of how she’ll sound. To her own ears, all she will hear is the pathetic rasps and whines of such a silly complaint. To the staff, it’s the way they’ll soften and she’ll be forced to see the pity they have for a dead woman.

And, more than anything else, she’s afraid of what Aaron will hear.

To see the quirks of his face as he reasons through what it is that he, himself, thinks. Will he disapprovingly narrow his eyes, tightening his lips as he thinks about his own nightmare. George Foyet and the many nights he spent in the hospital recovering from not just one impalement but nine brutally drawn-out stab wounds. Will he look at her with soft eyes and force her to watch him avoid her eye so she won’t see the pity. Will there be guilt? The hardening of his jaw as he clenches his teeth and cast his eyes anywhere but at her.

It makes her wish she’d never known him.

Not to surpass the worry she feels about his perception of her (deep down she can acknowledge that he must love her to be here now) but to prevent all of this. To pull him from the stiff-backed chair he has restlessly has fallen asleep in and send him home to his son. Go back to a time when she didn’t know what it was like to be hurt -- physically, emotionally, and sexually. To be seventeen again gulping down coffee with no cream or sugar because she thought the bitterness would make her stronger, more of an adult. But life requires one to be greedy about the things in life that feel good.

Reid taught her that, watching him pour mountains of sugar in his coffee. Bitterness is not the measure of adulthood or success. It’s one ability to take one more longing glance at the mug in their hands and decide whatever body part might shut down in a few years is not worth the disgusting sludge in their mug. Indulge while you can before you find there is nothing but bitterness and no sugar to sweeten the mess.

Indulge before it’s too late.

She never indulged herself enough.

“You’re awake.”

She watches the micro-expressions (pain from sitting in that chair, happiness that eats up a dimple, guilt that pulls down his eyebrows like a bar with too much weight on its ends) slip across his face before it settles on passive worry. There’s an intensity to his eyes that makes her aware that she’s being watched, not by Aaron and his soft edges but by Hotch who will fight with nurses and get himself kicked out of the hospital. She wishes she could feel something past the numb itchiness of her nose and the distance of her hands, then she might be able to worm her way into his brain. So she might live alongside his thoughts.

She thinks she’d probably enjoy herself there.

“Emily?”

She looks down where his hand touches her own. Emily. She can’t feel the warmth of his fingers sitting over the top of her own but then he’s always been cold. Blankest always tucked around his broad shoulders. Hands tucked into his pockets. Her favorite part is that he hates summer, despite what could be assumed about its escape from the dreaded winter. But people have a tendency to overcompensate with air conditioners. He fucking hates the summer.

She won’t see that this year.

She’s dead.

“I’m sorry.”

She wonders how it is that he steals the words right out of her mouth. Because it should be her apologizing. For not trusting him despite how many times he’s leaned into her. For running away when she’d called him a coward for wanting to do the same thing. For getting herself killed and hurting him, for making his worst nightmares come true once again.

She opens her mouth and he rises with deep groans from his lower back and his knees old hinges from door frames older than them combined to stretch and get her water. She didn’t even realize how much her throat hurt until she’s greedily pulling from the straw he’s bent to allow her access to the content of the little cup. “Not too much,” he warns softly, pulling away. “Water doesn’t mix well with the meds.” A lesson he learned the hard way when she’d done the same for him when it was him in the bed and her sleeping in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair.

She couldn’t save him from the nausea of her good intentions but he can spare her the pain of too fresh stitches being tugged by a heaving stomach.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Between them, there is no miscommunication. She knows him as she might know her own hand or her favorite book -- as an extension of something past herself. More than Emily Prentiss. He knows her the same. So, there is no need to clarify and even less of a need for her to have to say the words at all.

She’s right, of course. His being here disrupts the flow, it’s a wedge in the crack of the team’s trust, and each time he finds himself here that wedge sinks a little further.

He repeats back to her the words she’d whispered to him only a year ago. “You shouldn’t be alone.” She’s surprised he can remember that at all. There had been only a small debate about who it was that could stay with him that night, but she was glad it was her answering his questions when he woke drowsily with the drugs and when he’d tried to send her home. But insubordinate is a word that perfectly explains their friendship and she’s never been afraid to toe at his “firm” line of what he’s willing to deal with.

She narrows her eyes at him and he does it right back, both baiting the other. He’s right and so is she. She hates it when he’s right.

“Sit.” She croaks pulling her arms up to put weight on them and inch her body to the left so that he can sit.

He grabs her wrist, stopping her. “Don’t,” he commands softly. “You’ll pull your stitches.” Another hard lesson to learn, one he can spare her. He’d done the same for her in the hospital but powered on despite the feeling of the stitches pulling at his skin. The nurses had not liked him very much, he wasn’t very good at sitting still.

Without a word he carefully leans onto the bed, sitting right where her hip is. Close like she wants without actually needing her to move. His eyes wander and he finds himself glued to the heavy gauze wrapped around her abdomen. His mixed feelings are met with a smile from her, “we’ll match.”

He grimaces, “you don’t want that.”

He won’t be there to talk her through healing. The way things burn and itch and ache and that she’ll get so light-headed she’ll nearly pass out. That she might need iron supplements like him and that they taste like death and he’s seen and smelt enough of that to know that it’s a very correct description. How the nightmares ignite the pain and if she thinks the anxiety and the panic are too much she’ll be floored the first time she feels the attack again.

He can still feel Foyet’s hands all over his body. He’d take any punishment, as many tactile nightmares as his body could handle, to save her these things. The betrays of mind and body.

Her body is heavy and she can feel the pain returning. “Aaron?” She needs to say it now because when she wakes up after this she’s going to be in too much pain to think about what she’s left unsaid.

“I know,” he whispers. He knows that she loves him. That she thinks he’s the biggest dickhead she’s ever met in her entire life and no one is as insufferably annoying as he is to her. That someone, preferably Garcia, needs to take care of Sergio and to take care of her plants. That she’s going to miss him so fucking much and she’s not sure how to function when he’s not there anymore.

He knows. God, he knows.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I have other places to be,” he states, uncharacteristically trying at something playful. She narrows her eyes at him and he caves. “I’ll be here.”

Eyes closed she hums, “it’s not like you have other friends.” The comment is meant to be light but it... hurts. He’s burring his friend. He can’t tell Dave how he really feels. Can’t accept Garcia’s attempts at comfort. He’s sending her away and the false hope that she’ll ever return is more damning than if she’d died.

“No,” he replies thickly. “I suppose not.” Next time, he vows, he will die with her because he won’t survive this again.