#squawk overflow

[swampstew]

Thanks to everyone who's reached out! There's more in my ask box but I'll answer tomorrow. I'm eepy and my Kid mugi plush is calling me for cuddles.

[roxabellas]

Hard Bitter Candy, Legless Caress

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

word count : 6,159

warnings : it's just him (no reader), mentions of offensive language, he has anxiety, masturbation, anal fingering, experimenting, hes confused with his sexuality, he watches straight & gay porn, a little bit of internalised homophobia ......and hes a little bit sad.......

The humid air in the pub reeked of the sour tang of sweat, the bitter aroma of stale beer, and the suffocating essence of men who had drenched themselves in far too much cologne, hoping it'd mask their body odour, and Alex was stranded right in the midst of it. It was never normally this packed, this rammed full of tipsy people all surrounding him like a pack of wolves, woozily barking and howling their drink orders at him. Especially not on a random Wednesday. The amount of bodies that were stuffed into the pub like sardines rivalled how many there were on New Year's Eve.

He was working alone on the bar, as usual, every pint, shot and glass being poured and stirred by his own two clammy, trembling hands. His coworker hadn't shown up, again, as per usual. He just gave a half-assed excuse about sorting stock earlier in the evening before leaving, that the shift would be a “piece of piss” anyway, but never came back.

The tacky wooden floor beneath his feet clicked against the rubber soles of his shoes with each step he took, the quiet sound blurring into the background noise and chatter from the sheer amount of customers all crammed into the small building.

He felt the damp sweat patch on the back of his grey polo shirt growing larger with each passing moment like a tide coming in at dawn and swallowing the shore, his fringe curling in all different directions around his flushed face.

He pulled down on the Carling tap, the pipe hissing as the lager gushed and frothed into the branded pint glass he was holding beneath it, tilted, the loud chime of a group of people clinking shots together ringing through the air like a church bell through a cemetery.

He slid the glass across the bar to the customer, a tall, tattooed bald man with a scowl on his face, presumably from how long he'd had to wait for his drink, and Alex said in a timid voice, drowned out by the deafening banter and loud laughter echoing through the pub, “Three quid, please.”

After a few quiet repeats from Alex and some obnoxious “huh"s and “what?”s from the man, he finally passed over three pounds in coins before trudging off, pint in hand, and Alex quickly dropped the money into the till before moving onto the next customer. Two young ladies, one with thick rimmed glasses and grown-out dyed red hair, and the other with uneven red lipstick and a push-up bra.

They seemed tipsy already, either from pre-drinks, or maybe he'd served them earlier in the evening. He couldn't remember. They shouted their drink orders at him, voices strained and unable to stay in the same pitch as they squawked for a Bloody Mary and a Sex on the Beach.

He didn't like this.

The bleeding noise, the intense pressure, the watching eyes, the suffocating claustrophobia, the sour hostility. He despised all of it with a passion.

He liked quiet shifts, where he could get away with doodling on his hand or nipping outside for a quick cigarette, something he could never do at home out of fear of his mum finding out.

He liked when the building wasn't overflowing with customers, when there were just a handful of regulars who ambled in one at a time periodically, never causing too much fuss or anguish, calling him their “boy” or “lad” with a smile. He particularly liked it when they called him “love”.

It made him feel nice when the middle-aged male usuals smiled at him, or when they asked how his day was, even if it was just a fleeting conversation while they waited for him to pour their drink. It made him feel different than when a girl smiled at and talked to him. A lot different.

But tonight wasn't like that, obviously, though the funny feelings in his belly were still prevalent.

He tried not to tremble as he passed a tray of vodka cokes over the counter, moisture dripping down the glasses and onto the black plastic, but the sheer overwhelming feel of it all, of the people shouting, leaning over, barking like dogs at him, made his throat tighten and eyes tingle. It felt like he was drowning, like he was being strangled. His heart fluttered and clenched beneath his ribs while his stomach churned and lurched. His palms were slick with sweat, and there was a constant ringing in his ears.

He kept his eyes on the glasses, on his hands, anywhere but the wall of people in front of him, all pressed up against the bar like vultures at a carcass. Just don't look up, he told himself. Don't make eye contact.

“Oi!” a gruff voice shouted with a smack of a large hand on the bartop. “Two Jack n’ cokes, mate. Been waiting for ten fuckin’ minutes now!”

Alex looked up to see a man, red-faced, much like himself, with broad shoulders and a football shirt clinging to his sweaty body. He nodded with a quiet, “Yeah, sorry,” before reaching for two glasses tucked beneath the bar.

He tried to breathe steadily through his nose as he filled both of them with ice, the sharp clink stabbing his ears as his hands worked deftly, pouring equal amounts of Coca-Cola and Jack Daniels into each glass while his brain berated him.

Don't engage. Stay calm. Smile if you can.

But his damp hands were starting to tremble more and more, sweat pooling under his arms and around the back of his neck, and his mouth was as dry as chalk. He couldn't swallow properly, his throat too tight to even let oxygen in, let alone saliva.

Then it happened.

The glass slipped from his grip mid-pour, tumbling from his slimy fingers and plummeting down to the ground, shattering into a thousand glittering wet shards across the floor, like a constellation.

Coke splashed onto his shoes, the worn, stained leather glistening from the fizzy liquid, and he quickly bent down to grab a cloth as well as the dustpan and brush before kneeling, his heart hammering profusely in his throat. But dropping the glass wasn't the worst part, nor was the shatter, nor was the clean up. It was the cheer that followed.

A loud, mocking, whooping cheer.

All around, several of them, erupting into laughter, jeers and a round of “whey”s, mirroring the reaction of whenever a football player scored a goal on the TV.

His face burned, keeping his head down as the limp strands of his fringe fell into his eyes which were already stinging with the overwhelmingly embarrassing urge to just cry.

He cut the pad of his thumb on a rogue shard as he brushed them into the dustpan, biting back a whimper as the pressure piled on top of him like an avalanche while a trickle of crimson blood dribbled down his thin finger like wet ink on paper.

The blood seeped into the creases of his knuckle, and he stood back up, forcing himself to breathe normally as he sauntered over to the bin and tipped the broken glass inside before tapping the brush on the rim of the rubbish, trying to get out the tiny, crystal-like shards nestled deep between the rough bristles.

He spared half a second to glance up at the brass clock mounted on the wall as he bent back down to quickly wipe the floor with a cloth. 11:39PM. About an hour and twenty minutes left until he could leave, hopefully. If all went right and he managed to get all the people served and herded out by then.

He got back to pouring pints and shots for the feral customers, his shoes squelching as he moved. The floor was still a little bit wet from his futile attempt at wiping it under pressure, his footsteps smearing the remaining coke and Jack Daniels mix across the ground.

The crowd somehow hadn't thinned. If anything, more had squeezed in, the claggy air swirling around Alex's head as the patrons, each one drunker than the next, hurled insults at him along with their orders like they were going out of fashion.

Poof. Fairy. Ladylike. He'd heard them all before. He didn't think he presented himself that way, but maybe they'd caught on. Caught onto how his ears went pink whenever a group of lads around his age approached, or how he stammered when taking the order of a middle-aged bloke asking for his nightly Guinness.

He hated those feelings, hated himself for having them, but he didn't know how to make them stop. Didn't know how to get his lower stomach to stop burning whenever a man leaned in close, breath hot and reeking of tequila and tobacco. How to stop the flutter in his groin or the stutter in his heartbeat whenever a boy's fingertips brushed against his hand or wrist as they took their drink.

Midnight passed loudly, then one. His clock out time, in theory, on normal nights when it wasn't so rowdy and rammed.

He continued working, pouring, mixing, sliding drinks across the sticky wood of the bar and setting glasses on stained beer mats. He brushed damp notes and coins with strange substances stuck to them into the register with a quiet thanks, trying not to flinch whenever someone snapped their fingers in his face or waved their arms in front of him like he was nothing more than a zoo animal to be gawked at and bossed around.

Slowly but surely, the people began to drain, moving onto louder clubs with blaring neon lights or other bars with a cosier atmosphere in the area that typically stayed open later, or served a wider variety of cocktails.

The drunken conversations from those who stayed got sloppier, more obnoxious, each syllable slurring into the next to the point where you couldn't tell where one word ended and another started.

There was a woman in the corner hitting the buttons on the fruit machine too hard, bruisingly so, while a boy, who probably wasn't as old as his ID said he was, slipped on a spilled drink strewn across the floor while making an attempt to leave.

His voice grew raspy from repeating just a sec, mate over and over again, the weird little heat that he despised rising by a small amount each time a man doused in thick lined tattoos with thick, wide forearms leaned in a bit too close to him, made eye contact with him and called him “sweetheart”, even if it was only to ridicule, to mock.

The clock above ticked by achingly slow, each minute dragging by like a corpse, but by 2AM, the pub had finally began to deflate, the tsunami of people dwindling down and wringing out to just a manageable handful of people, all lingering with dry, croaky laughs and glossy, bloodshot eyes.

He wiped down the slick countertop stiffly, his eyes drowsy and stinging with the urge to sleep as he fought to keep them from closing. He swept the floors idly, biting his lips as he tried to pluck up the courage to get the last few people to leave. He knew they weren't nasty, knew they wouldn't shout at him or try to start a fight, but he was still afraid, still nervous, the confrontation looming and daunting like an approaching thunderstorm.

He set the broom aside behind the bar, propping it up in the corner alongside where the mop resided as the long wooden handles knocked against each other, and he fidgeted with his fingers before turning around again, his stomach growling and his lower back aching painfully, and he approached the final cluster of drinkers.

“Um…” he started, but his voice was too quiet to be heard. His pounding heartbeat in his chest was louder. He cleared his throat anxiously and tried again. “Sorry for interrupting, it's just, um… we're closing now, and I need to lock up.”

The men turned to look at him, and he felt each and every one of his nerve endings catch on fire. One snorted before saying, “Bit early, ain't it?”

His cheeks burned and he opened his mouth like a fish out of water, his lower lip quivering slightly and his eyes darting around, before he said, his voice cracking a little bit, “It's just that it's gone half two, and… it's been a long night and that. I need to lock up and stuff.”

Lock up and stuff. He cringed internally at himself, chewing on his lower lip, and he hadn't even realised it had gone silent until they shrugged and down what was left in their glasses before shuffling out of the cracked leather seats with a creak from the dark wood supporting them.

Alex stood by the door as the men filed out, murmuring something along the lines of thank you or have a nice night. He couldn't tell which one had come out, his brain still too blurred to process anything as it slowly came down from the frantic anxiety and pressure earlier in the night.

When the heavy wooden door finally clicked shut behind them, he stood there in the quiet as he let out a long sigh, letting the cool wave relief of being alone and being able to go home soon wash over him.

The clean up was half-hearted at best. He was far too tired to do as good of a job as he'd usually try to do. He wiped down the bar for a final time, collected and stacked rogue glasses left on tables, and counted the till in silence, other than the occasional plasticy swipe of notes sliding against each other or the jangle of coins.

It had just passed 3AM when he left the building and locked the door behind him, slinging his white fleece jacket over his shoulders and stepping out into the biting chill of the early hours, nipping at his cheeks and fingers.

The streets were mostly empty, except for the odd straggler on a corner smoking something earthy, and the quiet rustle of a stray crisp packet someone had lazily discarded bouncing across the pavement wherever the breeze took it. He stuffed his cold hands into his jacket pockets, the soft wool inside warming his palms up just enough to last him until he got home.

He passed the usual takeaway on the corner of the street, the one with grimy windows and buzzing, fluorescent yellow lights, and he paused across the road from it, his stomach letting out a growl. He was hungry, but the thought of greasy food made it turn.

The shop was empty, just one man behind the counter who looked preoccupied on his phone, so he crossed the road, his shoes scuffing against the tarmac, and he pushed open the creaky door before looking up at the worker over the counter.

The man turned off his phone as Alex stepped in, straightening up slightly before saying, “Alright?”

He nodded quickly, ripping his eyes off of the man and looking down at the stained tiled beneath his shoes, and he stuttered, “Yeah, can I, um… can I just have a Pepsi, please?”

He looked him up and down for a moment before moving without a word, fetching a can of Pepsi from the old, buzzing fridge behind him that probably violated at least three different health and safety guidelines, but he didn't seem to care.

The man passed the cold, blue can over the counter before saying, his voice rough and deep, “Just a quid, please, mate.”

Alex nodded once, a second too late to be casual as he took a moment to process what had been said to him, and he fished into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans for a few coins.

He handed them over and took his can in return, the condensation dripping down over the aluminium dampening the pads of his fingers and partially soothing his sore thumb before he gave the man behind the counter a small smile and left the takeaway shop with a whine of the door hinges as he swung it open.

He traced a dent on the side of the can absentmindedly, his eyes briefly scanning over the ingredients out of curiosity as he made his way down the road, and he smiled a little as he saw a little message where the barcode would normally be. Not to be sold separately.

He cracked the tab open with a hiss as he walked, the foam bubbling up over the top and he quickly brought it to his lips, slurping up the little puddle that had leaked onto the top of the can. He swallowed with a grimace as the fizzy liquid burned down his throat, stinging his taste buds, and he licked his lower lip.

The walk home was relatively short in the daytime, but painfully long at night. Around fifteen minutes, or twenty, depending on how slow he trudged.

He took small, thoughtful sips of his drink and he walked down the familiar route, his back slightly curved in an attempt to relieve the persistent ache that had festered in his spine all night. The caffeine stirred something inside of him, just a little bit, waking him up slightly, giving him an odd sense of alertness that was out of place for the late hour.

His breath was visible in the cool air with each huff he took, almost shimmery in the glow of the harsh street lights buzzing above.

He sipped another mouthful of Pepsi and swilled it around his mouth out of habit before swallowing, something his dad used to tell him off about, saying it'll make his teeth rot.

His fingers curled tighter around the thin metal of the can as he approached his house, the aluminium crinkling and denting slightly with a metallic pop and crack. He paused for a moment as he tilted his head back, pouring the last dregs of his drink into his mouth and swallowing down the sweet, syrupy liquid before carefully placing the empty can on top of someone's recycling bin and speeding up his steps.

He reached the end of the road, his house tucked between two others that looked almost identical, save for his dad's overgrown hedge that had began to consume the garden like a shroud.

He pushed open the rickety little metal gate with a rusty creak, walking up the uneven stone path slowly while holding his breath as if he were an intruder. He pulled his keys out slowly, being careful as to not make them jangle, and he cupped them in his palm as he sought out the one for the front door.

He slid it in slowly and twisted it with a click as they latch unlocked, and he pushed the door open before slipping inside. He slipped his thumb beneath the pull tab at the heel of his shoe, sliding out of them with a quiet shuffle and kicking them underneath the oak entryway table.

He shut the door behind him with a soft thud before peeling off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, spotting a small, dark stain near the top of the zip. Must've been from the Pepsi, he thought.

His parents were asleep upstairs, probably had been for many hours by now. He padded up the stairs one at a time, just his damp socks covering his feet, and he dodged the spots that he knew creaked when trodden on. The right side of the second step from the top. The middle of the fourth one from the bottom. He'd come to remember them as if it were morse code.

He quietly snuck past his parents' bedroom, the door closed, and he stepped into his own room. He shut the door behind him with a soft, tiny snick, and he finally let himself exhale. Properly.

He peeled off his work clothes one by one. His grey polo shirt that had been glued to his back from sweat and his dark blue jeans that were covered in stains and a little too tight at the hips.

He tossed them aside into a pile on the floor, the strong odour of sickly sweat and old beer emanating off of them like an illness. He stood there in nothing but his moist socks stuck to his feet, and his Batman boxers. His underwear were a bit embarrassing, black with a bright yellow waistband and a Batman logo planted on the front thigh. It wasn't like anybody else was going to see them anyway.

He crossed the room to his little desk, the wood scuffed at the edges and littered with little doodles. His chair squeaked as he sat down, and he rubbed at his eyes before he opened the lid of his old Dell laptop and powered it on with a click and a mechanical whir, like it was struggling to breathe.

He shifted his hips in his chair a little, his hips rolling subtly and his thighs tense as he waited. That simmering in his belly from earlier in the evening hadn't cooled down, not even a little bit. He licked his lips while his skin prickled as he remembered how the men stared at him while he was working. Even if it was mocking, even if it was with anger, impatience, restlessness, his brain filtered all of that out.

He looked over his shoulder at his window. Closed. The blinds were drawn too. He turned back to his laptop and typed in his password before his home screen slowly loaded and opened up.

His room was pitch black, except for the sickly blue glow his laptop casted over his tired face, making his skin look paler than it was. He dragged his cursor across the screen, and he hesitantly typed in PornHub.

The site loaded slowly before it invaded his screen with its signature black and orange, patchy thumbnails and dodgy advertisements filling his screen as they promised ejaculation in less than five minutes.

His eyes scanned over the videos, tanned bodies, heavy makeup, fabricated moans frozen mid-frame. He clicked on a random one, one with a slim girl with her legs spread wide on a leather couch, wrapped up in fishnet stockings and silk ribbons, while a strong man knelt between her legs, his thick cock positioned theatrically. It looked too polished, too professional, too much of a production to be even remotely immersive or enjoyable, but he plugged his flimsy little headphones in anyway.

The video began, and he stared at his grainy screen, his hand hovering just above the yellow waistband of his boxer shorts, just resting on his hip bone, and before he could even process what was happening, the woman was moaning.

The man hadn't even done anything yet. Just brushed his hand over her thigh, pressed a kiss to the base of her neck, ran his fingers through her hair. He thought it was stupid. He didn't like it.

He sat slouched in his seat, unmoving as the lady fluttered her eyes shut and groaned in an overreacting haze. It felt so empty. So synthetic, it was awful. His stomach didn't twist, and his dick didn't twitch.

He leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly. The video kept playing, loud, screeching moans from the woman in his ears, seeping through his cheap headphones, but what wasn't so unbearable for him, what didn't suck all of the joy out of it, was the little grunts the man in the video made every so often, each one sending a little shiver through his body.

His tongue poked out to wet his lips, sliding along his bottom one, and he dragged a hand down over his face. Maybe he should just go to sleep, worry about jerking off the next morning.

He closed the tab, the blueish light creeping back up his face, and he sighed. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his lips pursing, then, after a long, reluctant pause, he opened his files.

He scrolled down, past all the ‘normal’ ones. College, friends, Spain, music stuff. All safe, all ordinary. But his eyes slid past them, all the way down to the bottom, nestled among a cluster of random clutter.

‘Boys’.

He clicked on it with his mouse, and instantly, instantly, his cock fluttered beneath the thin black cotton of his boxer shorts, giving a throb, a pulse, a sign of life.

He swallowed hard, his chest tightening just like his underwear. The reaction was so immediate it made his face burn. Not from shame, not exactly, but something rawer, something more sensitive. He didn't feel confident enough to name it.

There were only a handful of videos, but they all followed the same sort of structure. They were all grainy with gentle, warm lights, all homemade, and they felt so much more intimate than those high-quality, high production videos plastered all across the mainstream websites.

He clicked on a random one, his hand tentatively brushing over his taut boxers, feeling his stiff length beneath them, and he bit his lip gently as the video slowly loaded.

The footage bloomed to life, and he let out a soft, quiet gasp. He darted his head around to his door, paranoid, but his eyes were drawn back to his laptop screen as he heard the faint rustle of bedsheets feeding through the tiny speakers on his headphones.

There was a boy not much older than him spread out on the bed, crisp white sheets crinkled beneath his body, while a slightly larger man with wide biceps and a toned back nestled between the boy's pale thighs, his pink cock deep in his mouth.

Alex inhaled, quick, sharp and shallow, and this time, it curled right through him. The familiar, forbidden heat sparking low in his belly like electricity, spreading all over his body like a plague.

His lips parted as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, rubbing his fingers along the velvety skin of his hardening length, trying to subtly match the pace of which the man's head was bobbing up and down on the video before he tugged his underwear down to his knees.

His fist worked in lazy strokes as he matched the rhythm of the two men on the video. They were taking their time, and so was he. His teeth grazed over the rough skin of his lower lip as he tightened his fingers around his shaft, squeezing lightly as a bead of precum formed at his tip.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just letting the soft noises of suction and quiet moans dripping into his ears like honey guide him through the pleasure as he stroked, his thumb brushing over the head, over his slit, smearing the dew over the sensitive ridges tucked beneath his foreskin.

His hips twitched in his chair as his hand gradually slowed down, his other hand circling his nipple with his fingers, feather-light, and it drifted down his body like a boat on gentle water.

He kept his fingers locked around his pulsing, twitching shaft, and he watched how the two men on his screen moved together. The man who was sucking the other curled his arms around the boy's thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin, possessive in a way that made Alex's heart ache with a longing he didn't want to voice aloud.

His other hand floated past his dick, brushed over his balls and ghosted over his perineum, until his fingers reached that spot. That tender spot he'd only started playing with and exploring in the last month or two, the feeling still new and exciting.

He ran his fingers over his hole before lifting one of his legs up onto his chair, bent at the knee, giving him easier access. He rubbed small, continuous circles over it, his breath catching in his throat each time his mouth moved to form a gasp.

The two men on his screen had changed positions, the smaller man on his hands and knees, lanky back arched and legs spread wide, while the larger man kneeled behind him, his hands firm on the other's hips as he lined himself up.

Alex's cock throbbed relentlessly in his palm, matching the speed of his pulse in his wrist, while the pleasure from being stimulated in both spots licked up his spine like a flame lighting up a trail of gasoline.

His mouth was dry, chapped lips parted around shallow breaths, but he brought his middle and index fingers up anyway, slipping them into his mouth and pressing them against his tongue. He closed his lips around them, his other hand still tight around his cock while he sucked gently on his fingers, slicking them up. He pushed them a little deeper, challenging himself, and a drip of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he squinted his glossy eyes, which were still fixed on his bright laptop screen. He gagged slightly, forcing a cough out of his throat, and he buried his mouth in his elbow for a moment to muffle the sound.

He pulled his fingers from his mouth, a string of saliva connecting them to his lips before it snapped, and he brought them back down between his legs, rubbing over his tight, tender hole nestled between his soft, plump cheeks.

He breathed in slowly, gently, trying to be less clumsy. He pressed his lips together and held his breath before sliding one finger in, his middle finger, the slight stretch deliberate, tense but bearable.

He let out a quiet moan, or at least, he hoped it was quiet. He couldn't hear himself over his headphones. His lower lip quivered as he curled his knuckle upwards against his sensitive walls, and he started to move his other hand again, wrapping it tighter around his cock and stroking steadily.

The two sensations clashed in his gut, sharp and sweet, twisting his belly with the intensity. A soft moan caught in the back of his dry throat as he hesitantly eased a second finger into his hole, his index finger, stretching him wider as precum dribbled from his slit.

He shifted his hips, angling them to take his fingers deeper, and his head lolled to the side as his fingertips brushed against the soft, rubbery spot secluded deep inside of him. His shaft twitched in his hand as he pressed against it, and he rolled his hips against his fingers, chasing after that feeling.

His head lolled to the side, his cheek squished against his shoulder as he continued to gawk at his laptop screen, his eyes glossed over with unshed tears of pleasure and his lips parted and slick with saliva. The two men moved on video, the larger man thrusted with a quick rhythm while the shorter man pushed back against him, and Alex tried to mimic their movements, his own hips twitching and thrusting against his hand wrapped around his length and his fingers curled inside of him.

His digits began to work inside with more confidence as he began to lose himself in it, insistently pressing and padding against his prostate, making his cock throb and pulse heavily.

He panted softly, his breaths shallow and uneven as he tried to stay quiet, hyper aware of everything around him and terrified of his parents hearing.

His hand on his dick continued its lazy strokes as he ground his hips into his fingers, faster now, his eyes glued to the boy on screen being pounded into the mattress, and it made his mouth water with longing, craving, any ounce of embarrassment lost in his haze of pleasure.

His lower belly burned and tightened, pushing him to the brink of an orgasm as his toes curled into the carpet, eyelids drooped and teeth clenched. His hips desperately lifted up off of his chair into his palm as his fingers worked relentlessly, the flush on his face spreading, contaminating his chest and shoulders with its red bloom.

He came with a silent cry, his hole clenching around his fingers as he tilted his head back towards the ceiling, exposing his throat, and his shaft twitched helplessly in his hand as his cum spilled and splattered across the flat plane of his stomach and his soft thighs in shuddering spurts.

His legs trembled and his torso clenched and spasmed beneath the force of his release, his vision whiting out for a moment as he let it consume him.

It should've felt good. Or it did, for a few seconds, at least.

But almost instantly, as the pleasure began to ebb and flow away, leaving just a few foamy remains in its wake, it was overtaken by something else. A hollow, empty feeling filling his body, leaking in like water to a submarine with a crack in the wall.

His fingers stilled inside of him, his walls still gripping them tightly, and his chest rose and fell as he came down, his eyes unfocused.

He peeled his hand off of his cock before pulling his flimsy headphones off of his sweaty head, tossing them aside on his desk with a clatter, bringing the soft groans from the men on screen with them.

He slowly retrieved his fingers, lifting his hips and pulling them out with a soft, wet squelch, his fingertips shrivelled up, before he hesitantly reached for his mouse, sliding it across the small felt pad and clicking out of his files, the two men being swallowed up by his innocent home screen wallpaper.

He reached forward, pressing the small button just below the screen with a click and a slow whir as his laptop slowly powered down, the screen going black, and he was met with his reflection.

His sweaty, tousled, tired reflection.

He stared at himself, his face red, lips shiny and eyes half-lidded. His collarbones glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, just barely visible on his dull, filthy screen, and he swallowed hard, his throat aching.

He felt dirty, just like he always did after this. He felt guilty, like he was keeping secrets, that awfully familiar, tainted, murky fog clouding in his chest, behind his ribs, and drowning his heart.

He closed the bulky lid of his laptop, unable to bear looking at himself anymore, the heat that had previously simmered in his lower belly twisting into something that resembled pain as his post-orgasm shame stabbed him hard.

He swivelled in his chair, looking over the walls of his room before settling on the football alarm clock on his bedside table. 3:47AM. He chewed on the inside of his cheek before he pushed himself up, the backs of his thighs peeling off of his cracked leather chair, and he grabbed an old, already used tissue from the floor beside his desk and made a half-assed attempt at wiping his cum off of his skin before pulling his boxers back up to his hips, a faint red mark left on his thighs from the waistband.

He didn't cry, he wasn't going to cry, but it felt like he might. His eyes stung with something bitter. Regret, maybe. But he didn't regret it, not really. He just wished he didn't feel so confused afterwards, every single time. Wish he didn't feel so disgusting, so gross, so wrong.

He crawled into his bed, the old springs of his mattress creaking beneath his weight as he settled, tucking himself in. He pulled his duvet up to his chin and slid his hand beneath his pillow.

His joints were still a little stiff, and he stretched his legs like a cat, his face scrunching up before he sighed heavily and closed his eyes.

He wished he could be normal. He wished so hard, it hurt him. Normal people don't have these feelings. Normal people don't make themselves ill with how hard they try to suppress their feelings.

A bitter tightness curled in his chest as he clutched his pillow tightly. He felt exposed, despite being alone. Exposed to himself. Or rather, exposing himself to the truth that he was too terrified to face, petrified to confirm.

He squeezed his eyes tighter and buried his face in his pillow. He wished he could sink into the mattress and disappear. Wished he didn't have a brain or a heart, wished he was just a robot programmed with all of the correct feelings and unable to think or explore any further, wished there was nothing wrong with him.

But instead, he lay still, very still, like a rock. He'd prefer to be a rock. He let sleep come and rescue him slowly, swaddling him up in its blissful embrace, taking him somewhere he wouldn't feel pain for merely existing.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

i dont CARE if pornhub didnt exist in 2006. i didnt want to search 'porn websites that existed in 2006' any more than i already did just to not find anything anyway

[awardenandacrow]

FANFIC SNIPPET 32

NOTE: chronologically this falls after The Choice and before Neve’s return. There is more to this between the main part and the letters that I need to fill in. This is directly before the snippet where Neve confronts Rook about her activities in Minrathos (Snippet 17).

[Lucanis wants a sparring partner, and takes the opportunity to help Rook work on her mageknife technique.]

CW/TW: Brief violence, blood.

——————————————————————————

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” Naimeryn groaned in frustration, then tossed her mageknife aside and turned away from him. “I feel like I’m just not *meant* to get this.”

Lucanis’s Crow training screamed through every fiber of his being. You don’t drop your weapon. You don’t turn your back on your opponent. Unthinking, he grabbed her arm and spun her back towards him, mouth open to offer criticism.

Assan had him pinned on his back in an instant with an angry shriek. The griffon snapped his beak at him in irritation.

“Assan!” Rook shouted, grabbing the griffon around the neck. Startled, Assan spun, knocking Rook over.

BLOOD! Spite hissed angrily.

“Assan! Come here!” Davrin’s voice. Lucanis, uninjured, leapt to his feet and closed the distance between himself and Rook in one stride.

“It was a warning,” he told her apologetically, grabbing her arm — much more gently this time. The wounds Assan’s claws had left were shallow, and would likely not even scar, but they bled freely. “What were you thinking?”

“I was *thinking,*” Rook’s voice was small. Hurt. Confused. “That I didn’t want him to hurt you.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Lucanis shook his head, intentionally softening his tone. Rook wasn’t a fledgling. She’d never undergone *any* Crow training. He couldn’t act like that’s what this was. “You can’t just throw your weapon away when you’re sparring. Don’t they teach you that at Weisshaupt?”

“Lucanis,” Davrin’s voice was a warning. Lucanis finally looked up from Naimeryn’s arm, and his heart skipped a beat. Dammit. Her face and ears were red, and she had her head turned away from him to hide her embarrassed tears. He released her.

“We should tend to these,” he said uncomfortably.

“I’ve got it,” she said sharply, standing up with her back to him and going to retrieve her mageknife. “Maybe ask Davrin to spar with you next time. He knows the rules better than I do.”

She walked quickly away, back towards the library, undoubtedly on her way to the infirmary.

“Smooth,” Davrin remarked. He still hadn’t moved from the base of his stairs, where Assan squawked anxiously. “She knows you didn’t mean it, boy. Maybe watch those claws next time, though.”

Lucanis sighed, sheathing his dagger and getting to his feet. He needed someone to release his frustration on, and Davrin was right there, looking so smug.

“I do not understand,” Lucanis snapped at him. “The fabled Grey Wardens, Heroes of Old, but —“

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Davrin scowled at him. “I never knew Rook at Weisshaupt. But I knew *of* her. I’ve been asking around other Wardens I know, and I’m getting the *same* remark. There were Wardens who hated her, because she was *hand recruited* by the Hero of Ferelden herself. Others used to try to cozy up to her to get closer to the Hero, only to find out there were no special circumstances, no special relationship between them, so then they didn’t care.”

Davrin closed the distance between them. “The mage that trained her, Lucienne? A cautious woman. Theory and control. The other mages were leagues ahead of Rook in both, so she trained *alone.* She’s never *had* a sparring partner, Lucanis.”

Davrin turned sharply enough that his shoulder clipped Lucanis, but he let it go. His mind was overflowing with images of Rook — alone.

The apostate daughter of an apostate in an alienage in a kingdom where apostates were more likely to be killed than shown mercy, kept away from the other children for everyone’s safely. The apostate slave in a magister’s household, hated and feared by the slaves who knew, because she could become the favorite if the magister knew. The others, she seemed to have kept at arm’s length, because that was easier than distance becoming hate. The Warden, forcibly isolated from her fellows by recruitment, by skill level, by history, by her superiors. Kept in the most isolated jobs — doing dishes, laundry duty, librarian’s assistant

— to keep her humble. Called a deluded girl for daring to step outside of the carefully drawn box she’d been placed in.

“You know,” Davrin called back from the top of the stairs, “you *love* to make it out like I’m not observant for giving her shit when she doesn’t see something on her left. But this?”

He indicated the courtyard at large.

“This was pretty dense of you.”

…

SPECIAL SNIPPETS

NOTE: there will be some “connective tissue” as it were before the above and these letters, but I haven’t written it yet

—————————————————————————

Hey Neve,

I know things are bad in Minrathos, but I hope you remember we’re here, and can be there to offer support if you only remember to ask. Everyone misses you.

I overheard Rook today. She was in the infirmary, talking to Varric. I think she’s having a harder time with everything than we thought. I want to help you both, but I just don’t know how.

Hoping things are going as well as they can be,

Lace

…

Lace,

If talking to him is what’s going to get her through this, leave it alone. She’ll confide in *us* when she’s ready.

As for Minrathos, it seems I don’t need to ask for help to receive it.

-Neve

…

Neve,

I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.

Lace Harding

[enoughtotemptme]

a year and a day

Everyone knows that if you want to make a deal, you go to Eddie Munson.

Desperate to be rid of Jason once and for all, Chrissy makes a deal with the local demon. The consequences are…not what she expected. A story of friendship, love, and paying one’s debts.

Chapters: 9/13 Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Relationship: Chrissy Cunningham/Eddie Munson Tags: Alternate Universe - No Upside Down, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Demon Deals, POV Chrissy Cunningham, Friendship, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Found Family, Roommates, Domestic Fluff, 1990s, Caretaking, Pining

Chapter Nine: February

The boys are rowdy, yelling over one another and gesturing wildly with bottles. Beer sloshes out of at least one of them, splattering onto the double-length folding table Jeff brought with him. Dustin squawks loudly and dives to protect his binder from rogue liquid; Grant says something truly foul about the dice he just rolled, and Eddie cackles from his spot at the head of the table.

Chrissy takes them in, nonplussed. “My first graders are better behaved,” she muses.

Eddie’s head jerks up at that—even with his demon senses, it’s incredible to her that he can hear her through all the ruckus—and grins wickedly at her.

She squirms internally. It’s really unfair of him to give her that look. It does all sorts of indecent things to her insides, making her go all melty and warm even while her heart flops around like one of Wayne's unfortunate fish.

“Come on,” he calls over the din, entirely unaware of her struggle. “It’s not supposed to be about behaving, Cunningham! It’s supposed to be about calculations, teamwork, strategy!”

She watches as Grant points an accusatory finger at the many-sided die that had, apparently, just betrayed him and calls it another foul name.  

“Uh huh,” Chrissy replies, dubious. 

He waves a hand dismissively in the air. “So it gets a little intense. That’s part of the fun!”

“If you would play,” Dustin interjects, hugging his binder to his chest and casting nasty looks at Gareth’s beer bottle, “you’d totally get it!”

“Nope,” Chrissy says cheerfully. Eddie has been working on this campaign for months, and while she’d been intensely curious about it, she’d declined to join them. But, after much wheedling, mostly from Dustin and Eddie, she’d agreed to sit on a few sessions to get a better sense of the gameplay and give Eddie a chance to convince her she should play the next oneshot with them.

Tonight is the first time they’ve gotten to start a major campaign together in years, and the excitement—and slight inebriation—overflows.  

She’s glad they’re having fun, and that Eddie appears to be in his element. He’d seemed a little…off, the last couple weeks, and she hadn’t been sure why. 

She’d thought maybe he’d been burning too many candles at too many ends: working full-time at the library, working on the mural on his weekdays off, Corroded Coffin gigs at least every other week, and now putting all the final touches onto the Dungeons and Dragons campaign. 

It’s not that he’d seemed tired, at least not in the human way she understands. But perhaps a little…quieter. Dimmer. Like whatever internal flame that sustains him was low on fuel. 

So Chrissy had fussed a little about it until he’d promised to go to bed early last night, the same time she did. 

Not together, of course. Now that the furnace is new and fully functional, they haven’t spent any more time in the same bed. But he’d brushed his teeth side by side with her, jostling her elbow, splashed water on his face while she wound her hair into a braid, and obediently shut himself in his bedroom without his notebooks at the same time she did.

Whether it was the additional sleep or not, something seems to have done the trick. In the midst of the D&D fervor, she can’t see any hint of the dimness in Eddie’s face or mannerisms—only glee and satisfaction at the response to his, according to Jeff, cruel and unusual campaign.

“We’ll make a convert out of you yet,” Eddie calls to her in utter conviction, then shoulders his way past his friends to where she sits on the couch. “Come on. Sit next to me so you get a better view of the action.”

“Won’t I see all your dungeon master secrets?” she asks even as she lets him pull her up from the couch and to the head of the table. He produces another folding chair and sets it hip to hip with his. 

“Nah.” He taps his forehead with a knowing look. “I’m good at keeping most of my secrets in here.”

It goes on for hours, but once the guys settle back into serious gameplay and stop screaming quite so much, she does have to admit it’s interesting. It’s almost like listening to Eddie read to her, the way his voice describes the story unfolding and the players advancing through the landscape and another minor skirmish. 

“It’s over?” she blurts out in surprise when everybody starts gathering up their binders and Eddie starts collecting the miniatures off the table. He chuckles and knocks his knuckles against her head. 

“For now. What, you wanna watch us misbehave for another hour?”

[click here to read the rest of chapter nine on ao3]

[rush-the-stars]

hello (•̀’◡’•̀)ﾉ !

very obsessed with the beginning and end (and what binds them together), i think about it and let my brain run around while i'm at work to get me thru the day hehe :3

i have a little concept w vash bouncing around in my head and wanted to share! i've been thinking about how during a situation in which his s/o (or future s/o, whichever) would be angry with him but not in a deeply troubling way- more like a tantrum from building frustration perhaps. frustration with him maybe. he stands there and let's them huff and squawk with this soft, understanding look that only seems to frustrate s/o more. he makes to coo at them and gather them up but they push at his chest because he's the one that brought this on. aw but he's sorry- won't you look at him? please? (he can't help but think they look especially pretty like this, emotions overflowing but in need of some gentleness. he may also be experiencing some cuteness aggression)

whether or not his s/o caves is up to the class but i think we all would (perhaps after some back and forth and a couple more pathetic pushes) and he would feel so vindicated but he will never ever admit it because he'd feel a little guilty. but only a little. i can't figure out how to sum up my thoughts on this behavior from him but it...good...

anyway, thank u, very excited for your future projects and general thoughts

~🧁

omgg hellooo 🧁 anon!!

first of all, thank you!!! i was just working on the next lil drabble in that series hehe and i'm excited to share it when it's done!! but i too just rotate it in my mind to get through my day LMAO

and i LOVEEE this vash. i've said this before at some point but sometimes vash's like....whole understanding and empathy is more frustrating than anything else JFKDLFL and esp for a bratty/moodier reader....or just one that IS having that sort of tantrum!! vash is like.....not a brat tamer by any means. maybe an enabler...bc of how understanding he is and how he. sorta loves when you fall apart and are a mess of emotions for him to coo over.

its the savior complex in him like he. lovessss the thought of you taking out your frustrations on him or being useful to you in this way. helping you...saving you............i think. it has the potential to turn him on a little JFKDLSF

ANYWAYS. thank you for these thoughts friend <33 they are SOOO good. i adore.

[yeesandhaws]

BAGGINSHIELD PIRATES

OKAY so some of you may recall my little rewrite of my 8th grade bagginshield shenanigans - it finally happened. And I realize that it's not actually that pirate-y and I haven't really thought through how to make it more so, but I finally wrote something. It's aggressively mediocre, it's not beta read, i freaking hate english pluperfect it's the shittiest tense to write in the history of ever, but it's here. I can only hope it's not too atrocious :')

------------

Frodo Baggins was not an adventurer. That was his older cousin Bilbo’s area of expertise. Enough stories of sea snakes and islands of treasure and tales of Bilbo’s adventurers with High-Captain Thorin Oakenshield had been hammered into the head of a young Frodo that it felt as if he had experienced his share of sailing the seas. He’d developed a distaste for adventures, at any rate, especially those that considered the aforementioned captain. It wasn’t that the adventures themselves were bad, for, despite himself, Frodo still found himself looking out at the docile estuary upon which his people had staked their claim, wondering what it would be like to explore the frighteningly high waves and new lands. It seemed wanderlust ran in Tookish blood, at any rate. 

The real problem with these adventures was their tendency to drag away Bilbo from Frodo, even though only two of these adventures had been made. The first one, Frodo had not even been born to witness, but he knew the tale. He’d heard of the island of gold, that which a terrible sea-serpent had taken from the Line of Durin. Bilbo had told him of the motley crew assembled by the Storm-Mage, Gandalf, under the small but determined banner of Thorin Oakenshield. He’d told a wide-eyed and smooth-footed Frodo of their misadventures on the way to the mountain, of the bitter fight with that horrid sea-serpent Smaug, the revenge that Thorin was robbed of, in some sense of the word. Bilbo always skimmed over the battle that followed, that of many ships and much bloodshed, for usually that part of the story came too close to Frodo’s bedtime. Only once, when Frodo had been stubborn as a mule and refused to sleep at all until he was sure the story had been finished completely, did Bilbo speak of the death of Thorin, of the first and last kiss Bilbo had pressed onto those bloodstained lips as ash and rain fell from the sky, the cries of the eagles mingling with the squawking of the gulls and the shouts of battle and victory and death that came from all around. Frodo had never asked about Bilbo’s journey home, and Bilbo had never spoken of it. But the one thing that Bilbo would always speak of was a promise, one that struck Frodo with dread and boyish anger: that one day, a great ship with Thorin at the bow would come and ferry Bilbo away onto a journey of eternity, exploring all of the lands that turned into unfulfilled promises. 

To little Frodo, all of this seemed so very far-off from the backwaters he called home, so far off that he could only assume this “great journey” that Bilbo would speak of so longingly was death. And he would clamber onto Bilbo’s lap and scold him with tears welling up like crystal-blue ponds overflowing with the summer rains, and make his cousin promise not to ever go on such a journey. Bilbo had always promised. But he was never all that good at keeping them. 

The second adventure, rather, the great ship that Bilbo waited for like it was is salvation, was the consequence of the first, souring the stories that Frodo had been raised on, for it was the reason Bilbo’s study remained empty and covered in dust, and it was the reason Frodo learned to tolerate the sound of utter silence. He never grew to like it, much less love it. For even a Hobbit as bookish as he woke up in the mornings feeling so very small and so very alone. 

The second adventure had come knocking on Frodo’s thirtieth birthday, and Bilbo’s tenty-eighth. It came with the first orange and yellow leaves of autumn and the anticipation of a birthday dinner to come. Frodo’s coming of age had been spoken of for the past few years at this point, comments being made on his still rather boyish look and how many hairs were on his feet. He could not wait to be an adult in all of three years; perhaps so many of the darker tales that Bilbo refused to tell him throughout his childhood would finally come to light. It seemed much closer now that he had reached the decade of adulthood. 

But as Frodo had made himself comfortable on a stool in the kitchen, watching Bilbo knead a rather sticky dough for their honey-bread (not helping at Bilbo’s insistence - the older Hobbit preferred working alone when he was in the kitchen). He had been talking with Bilbo about this and that, how he and Sam were to “go for a walk,” in the evening, and both Bilbo and himself had known that the walk would lead to The Green Eel, where Frodo would once again try and fail to muster enough courage to order an ale (which would never happen, for he was still three years too young for proper tavern-going, by Shire law), while Sam would wait patiently outside, for his face was still too baby-ish for him to pass as anything but a lad. Bilbo had never stopped Frodo, for he had once done the same as a young Hobbit. Bilbo had no plans for his birthday; Balin had stopped visiting some years ago, with no letters or explanations from anyone else. Frodo had missed the Dwarf’s visits, remembering fondly how those rare but special occasions he’d spent nights asking for stories and tugging at that long white beard. He had hoped Balin was well. 

Despite Frodo and Bilbo’s lack of plans for the morning, there was a knock on the door. Gandalf, they had both wondered silently, and Bilbo had nodded to Frodo for him to fetch whoever was there, though neither seemed all too pleased at the thought of a visitor. But when Frodo opened the door, he found that his neck was craned far too high, and he lowered it considerably to meet a captain’s hat, a robin-blue plume in it, stormy eyes unknown save in word. He later chose to identify the feeling that flooded into the pit of his stomach as dread, for in those eyes there lay far too much emotion for Frodo to understand, far too much guilt.

“Is Bilbo…” came the voice, deep and broken, like crunching on rocks against the banks of the river. 

Frodo had then tried to call out for his cousin, but the words stuck in his throat as if he’d swallowed a lump of the honey-bread dough. Luckily, the silence had been cause enough for Bilbo to come rushing, rather peevishly, from the kitchen, his apron and hair stained with flour and his hands still covered in dough. 

The silence that followed was deafening, and Frodo had found himself, all of a sudden, obsolete in this moment, as if the meeting of the eyes of Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield was shifting rivers and mountains, and Frodo was but a tree in the path of it all. He had stepped to the side, his hand still holding the door, knuckles white and body shaking with utter confusion, such wonder. 

He looked at Bilbo, and only shook more as he saw the look on his cousin’s face. At first, utter bewilderment, then the look he used to get on his face when Frodo had appeared at that very same door, messing up the freshly cleaned mat, covered in dirt and holding bugs as a present. And his eyes had gone wide and wrathful and he had taken two heavy steps forward, clenching his fist and opening his mouth as if to shout, only to cringe at the feeling of the dough squeezing between his knuckles and then choke on the heaviest of sobs, the type that seemed as if it had been weighing on his chest for those sixty long years, festing in his chest and stomach so awfully that when it finally came out he nearly crumpled to his knees. Thorin had then taken a step forward, his arms out as if intending to lift Bilbo back up, only to be met by Bilbo’s fist to his jaw, the sound and impact causing Frodo to scurry backwards. He’d never seen Bilbo raise a hand at someone before, and he himself had never received more than a little pinch to the ear. He did, however, recall thinking that such a heavy hit was perfectly deserved. He had even hoped, for a fleeting moment, that Bilbo would slam the door on Thorin’s face, cast him back into the legend from whence he came, and never speak of him again. 

But the door was not shut, and Thorin had lifted his head, stepping over the threshold and into the house. There had been flour on his face, and a bit of dough stuck in his beard. And he had been smiling through his tears as he knelt down in front of Bilbo, removing his gloves and holding them in one hand, as the other lifted to cradle Bilbo’s face. The older Hobbit had let out some sort of grunt, baring his teeth as if he was a dog meaning to bite. But he had not bitten, and Thorin had not flinched, as if he had been prepared for a knife to the chest and this was practically a reward. Frodo had tucked himself behind the wall, eyes peeping out from between his hands as if he was trying to fool himself into thinking this was all some dream. 

“Will you forgive me?” Thorin had asked softly, both his hands moving to cradle Bilbo’s face, far older and far more tired than it was last he’d seen. Bilbo had not yet asked why, had not yet asked how, for it didn’t matter. All that had mattered was that it was. 

“You’ve got flour on your face,” Bilbo whimpered through his tears, and he had leaned his head against Thorin’s chest and Thorin had wept, and Bilbo had wept, and Frodo too had wept from his little hiding spot, for despite being young, he was wise enough to know that this would be a goodbye of sorts. Not death, but it seemed just as cruel, if not worse. For this was a choice that Bilbo had made, something so selfish, so selfish, not how he’d raised little Frodo at all. But half the mess of books, clothes, and clutter about Bag-End was suddenly crammed into two cases, loaded onto a horse. A still all too little Frodo was all too angry to try and understand. Thorin had tried to speak to Frodo, tried to apologize, only to be met by an icy silence that could only be created by the most anguished of hearts. Frodo felt as if all of the stories he’d held so dearly had perished with the arrival of this accursed Dwarf. 

So he had holed himself up in his room and did not answer when Bilbo had knocked, his voice all of a sudden seeming far older than Frodo remembered it. Bilbo had always been something so constant, when all else remained confusing and odd, Bilbo embraced those oddities and turned them into a thing of wonder for the little Hobbit. He had ignored those pathetic excuses. If Bilbo could abandon him for a shaky promise of love, he owed his cousin nothing. He had heard that quiet sigh of defeat, heard the two extra creaks of steps away from his room, the gentle shut of the door. All of which he chose to ignore with as much bitterness as his heart could have mustered.  He’d closed his window and buried himself in bed when he heard the clopping of hooves. 

And when he had opened them again, all was quiet in Bag-End. No smells of breakfast, no mindless muttering, nothing at all. He’d stumbled out of his bed and into the sitting room, his eyes swollen and heavy for he had cried bitterly in his sleep. He then realized he was completely and utterly alone, save one small, new little thing: a parcel on the mantle, just above the fire. He refused to open it for many long years, for his ability to hold a grudge far outweighed his curiosity. He knew not that what was inside would change everything, forever.

(Y'ALL WHY IS THE ENDING SO CORNY I'M SORRY PLEASE DON'T KILL ME)

[independent-variables]

Happy Cody Day to those who celebrate!!! I have a fic in the works, but for now have this snippet:

Dirty Hands

There hadn’t been any dirt on Kamino. There had been grime, and muck, and dust, and sand— blood always, always blood— but no dirt.

Kote dug his hands down deep into the bag of potting soil. He breathed in, and held it. 

The door chimed. He let his breath out slow. 

“Come in,” he called, not moving from his spot at the table, not removing his hands from the dirt.

The door hissed open, and Kote looked up just in time to see Davijaan’s grin wiped away by utter dismay. 

“Are you making a bigger mess?” he demanded, coming to an abrupt halt in the entryway. “After we agreed to come over and help clean your existing mess?” 

Rex unceremoniously shoved Davi forward and finished entering, the door sliding shut behind him. Davi squawked as he stumbled. Kote allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch up before smoothing his expression back to neutral. “Mess?” 

Davijaan gestured emphatically to the potting soil, the designated plant watering cup, and lastly the pots— some empty, some overflowing with staked morning glories— neatly laid out on his kitchen table. “Mess!” 

“What are you doing?” Rex asked, without judgment, stepping up to the table. 

And that was why Rex was his favorite. 

“I'm repotting,” he said, slowly bringing his hands out of the dirt and shaking off the clinging clumps. 

“Repotting?”

“Here.” 

He handed Rex a full pot, and while Davi grumbled his way through washing Kote’s firstmeal dishes and plundering his conservator, Kote showed Rex what M’Vin had shown him about loosening soil and untangling roots. 

[iwaoiness]

Valentine's

When Oikawa shuffles to the bathroom after getting out of bed (once he stretching like a cat, rubbing his face and staring at the ceiling with his feet on his boyfriend's back for five minutes while rethinking his existence in the vast world), he expects to relieve himself and begin his sacred three-step skincare before the daily duel with his hair.

This time, however, he is only able to do the former.

As he lifts his gaze from the sink, hands freshly cleansed, to meet his reflection, Oikawa’s sleepy eyes widen like saucers and his lips part. Instead of his reflection, there are dozens and dozens of white post-it notes covering the entire mirror— each slip of paper has different strokes on it, forming a giant tulip whose petals are painted in sky blue.

What the actual fuck.

Oikawa blinks and then rubs his eyes, thinking he’s still dreaming. But the drawing is still there, and when he gets a little closer, eyes squinting to fight his myopia, he can read the same thick, crooked kanjis that all the slips of paper have in the bottom corner: turn me.

With a tentative hand, he plucks the first post-it note, flipping it over with curiosity.

you’re my calm

The smile immediately spreads across Tooru's face, genuine, tender and drunk with love. Warmth begins to blossom inside his chest, spreading with the fluffiness of a cloud throughout his body, as he reaches another post-it.

you’re beatiful

And another one.

you’re mine

And then another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another.

you’re my light

you’re my home

you’re serenety

im in love with your bed hair

dont forget to wash your teeth

"Asshole" Oikawa, leaning against the sink, sneers with a wet voice but an indelible smile on his face as he continues to take the post-its and read them, one by one.

you’re my strength

you’re the heart of my heart

my tall and pretty boy

our souls are mates

you’re intelligent as hell

you’re my valentines

i couldn’t be prouder to have u as a partner

te quiero tanto, tooru

loving you is being free

you’re my favourite constellation

And when he reaches the last note and turns around, Tooru wants to cry.

Or well, he's already crying.

you're all i need and want

Oikawa lets out a soft laugh through his tears, sniffling through his nose before wiping his face with one of his shirt sleeves.

He loves Hajime so much that all that love overflows from his heart. Their bond is so strong, so solid, so immense, so ethereal. There are no words to encompass it, nothing that comes close. Loving Iwa-chan is part of his being, something he's been doing since before he could even babble.

And it's the same for Hajime. He loves Tooru as Tooru loves him. And he doesn't need more. They don't need any more.

He carefully leaves the post-its on the high shelf in the bathroom and runs back to the room. Iwaizumi (who pretends to sleep until he hears his boyfriend's hurried footsteps and smiles) barely has time to roll onto his back before Oikawa leaps at him, taking his breath away with a big oof.

"How did you do that?" Oikawa murmurs against Iwaizumi's neck, his long arms stretched out on either side of his head and his legs entangled.

Hajime snorts with amusement, wraps Oikawa against his chest, gently kisses his temple and plunges his hand into his tousled tresses.

"It hasn't been difficult having a boyfriend with such a heavy sleeper”

Oikawa lets out a mock squawk of indignation, shaking his head in playful disbelief. Iwaizumi turns to face him, his grin widening as he locks eyes with Oikawa's narrowed gaze, his irises gleaming like honey in the sunlight against his flushed cheeks. They're close, close enough for their noses to almost touch, and Hajime can discern each freckle sprinkled across Tooru's nose.

“I hate you, Iwa-chan. You'd better have a real bouquet of tulips ready” Oikawa arches an eyebrow, but his lips curve treacherously into a genuine smile as his hand now moves to caress Iwaizumi's face.

"I knew I should have drawn a cactus" He rolls his eyes in amusement, giving Tooru's waist a gentle squeeze as he laughs.

"I love you so much," Oikawa whispers shortly after, gently stroking Iwa’s cheek with his thumb. "You are all I need and want, too. My everything."

Iwaizumi tilts his face and rubs his nostrils tenderly, his eyes watery and love coursing through his veins with the warmth of the summer sun.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Tooru."

...

hope u enjoyed valentine's day!! ♡ 

u can find more fics and find me on my ao3 🍉

[foxedthecards]

🍁 +

Mr Fox, why have you chosen Jonas’ body to inhabit (if you had a choice in the matter at all.) and why?

Oh now there's a VERY interesting question...

Mr Fox folds his arms and leans back, gazing at Master Grey. A smile crosses his face. It's about as neutral a smile as you can get.

"*Haven't the foggiest idea,*" he says in an even tone of voice. "*Strange thing that. First of all someone such as myself could have done better in that department. He is really quite the soppy little dishrag of a fellow, isn't he...*"

There's something uncanny about that smile when Mr Fox leans forward and when his black gloved hands touch the side of his face lightly it becomes apparent: it is a mask. His hands perform a flourish and now the mask is a grotesque caricature of pity, a single painted tear in the corner of the eye and lips pursed in exaggerated concern.

"*But poor dear little thing perhaps I felt sorry for him! Ah, but look at him, frightened, dejected and so very alone, a little rabbit paralyzed with terror!*" he croons, clasping his hands together. He pretends to wipe away a tear and in another flourish, the mask has changed yet again into the comically manly visage of a hero, golden locks curling around a stretched grimace calling itself a confident smile. "*My word...could I in fact be the hero to step in and save the day?*"

He made a gagging noise, flipping the mask and revealing a disdainful sneer, narrowed eyes, a curling mustache. "*Hardly. Perhaps he was merely a stepping stone, a patsy, a dimwitted chump in the wrong place at the wrong time. A weak-willed means, overpowered and dominated for my own nefarious ends! "

He ran his fingers across the mustache, giving the ends a dainty little twirl and then pulled, splitting the mask in two pieces as he stood up. Underneath that was revealed a Venetian style half mask in the manner of a black fox.

"*Or perhaps not even that. Perhaps I am in fact simply...an irredeemably wicked creature. A sly predator wishing to close my jaws around the neck of this squawking bantam rooster, steal him away, break his bones, open his chest, lick up that delicious red beating life oh but once again...why oh why oh why...*"

The eyes in the mask are open wide, gone completely gold and gold overflows and trickles down the sides of the mask. That smile is all salivating needles, the hands tremble, their nails pointed through the black leather gloves. There's shivering silver noises distorting his speech. Noises like glass breaking. The body starts to struggle, sags, knees buckling against one another, barely standing as that distorted voice rasps out.

"*Perrr...HAps to...bE...In...hU...manNNn...*"

The curtains abruptly sweep closed.

[hallwaydodge]

speaking of shikaneji fic

something i'd really like to write but have never been able to settle on is a sequel to my detective au. i have multiple ideas and i can't decide on a) the plot and b) which character gets the pov.

but the version that's gone the furthest (about 30pgs) is this one ... i just like a chance to write them domestic.

>>>>>

Nara Shikamaru had poor taste in real estate as far as comfort and style went, but excellent for location and convenience. 

His eleventh-floor apartment was an aging mismatch of 70s decor and 90s tech, as nicotine stained as his fingertips, and had not one but two shag rugs that deposited a mountain of dust when taken out on the balcony and beaten. The balcony itself was a narrow strip that barely had room for a ratty old armchair, an ashtray that was often more overflowing than not, and a now thriving hosta that had been yellowing to death when Neji first became a regular feature of Shikamaru’s abode/office. The most, or rather, only impressive thing about that balcony was the excellent view of the ocean it offered.

Neji liked that view, and he often appropriated the disgusting armchair in order to enjoy a cup of tea and watch the wide-winged gulls squawk and circle. Seven months, and somehow, he had become very fond of all this, tacky and grim as it was. It helped that he’d bought a cadre of organic cleaning supplies and a vacuum alongside his favourite blends. A proper milk tea next to a handsomely resurrected hosta worked wonders to make the still, oppressive summer heat seem distant.

The sliding doors scraped open. Not as loud as it had been, before Neji oiled it, but perhaps it needed reframing. He’d get on that. Shikamaru hung out the opening, voice smiling.

“You’re not thinking of making that thing bigger, are you?”

Naturally Shikamaru had noted Neji’s considering looks at the hosta. For a man who could barely keep his eyes open, he was incredibly observant.

“You do not ‘make’ plants bigger. You give them space to grow, and leave it to them.”

“Fine then. You’re not planning on repotting it, are you? Any bigger, and there won’t be room for two out here.”

“There was never room for two.”

“Yeah, yeah …” Shikamaru rested his weight on the top of the armchair, which creaked and settled again. “Why do you like that thing so much, anyway?”

Neji looked to the plant, then shut his eyes with a smile. “It reminds me of you.”

“Oh yeah?” Shikamaru was now grinning, Neji could tell. “Why? Because it’s so plain? Common? Too old to be tasty?”

“Patient,” Neji countered, and finished his tea with a content sigh. “Are we ready to go?”

“We are.” Shikamaru stepped back with a final rock to the chair back. “The old bastard finally settled on the golf club restaurant. Presumably it matches his sense of self-importance.”

“If you don’t like the rich, you don’t have to solve cases for them,” Neji pointed out. He carefully extricated himself from the broken-in armchair, stepped over the hosta, and slipped back inside. Shikamaru met him with a smile, grabbing Neji’s hip.

“Then I wouldn’t have met you,” Shikamaru said, leaning in for a kiss. Neji melted. He always did. Shikamaru had mastered the art of unpretentious affection, and Neji had never felt something so natural.

“Just let me wash this,” Neji murmured when they parted. Shikamaru nodded, and as he always did without immediate direction, found the nearest surface to slump into. Neji strode into the tiny kitchenette, rinsing off the mug and leaving it to dry. “We’ll take my car.”

“Ah, the bus is right there …”

“In this heat?” Neji checked that he had his keys. “Imagine the stench.”

“Fine.” Shikamaru reluctantly pulled himself out of his chair, stretching out his long limbs. He was taller than average, but he slouched so much you’d never be able to tell. It was a terrible habit. Neji was trying to break him of it. “Driving’s still a pain, though.”

“Lucky you aren’t the one driving, then.” 

“Funny man. When’s your spot at the comedy club?”

“As the headliner goes last, I’ll say ‘before yours’.” 

Shikamaru chuckled, and Neji allowed himself an indulgent smile. Shikamaru was breathtakingly brilliant, a kind of once-in-a-generation genius, with wit to spare. It was thus charming how easily humoured he was.

“After we meet this Sanada fellow, let’s go out,” Shikamaru decided once they were in the elevator, pressing their shoulders together affectionately. 

“Down by the pier?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

They rode the elevator down to the P1 and Neji led them to the Aston Martin. It stood out like a shining star amidst the sensible sedans and vans that littered the garage. Shikamaru got into the passenger seat with a shake of his head. 

“You really should lock up. Any day now, some teen is taking it for a joy ride.”

“If they’re willing to take the risk of being caught with a stolen, vintage, foreign sports car, then I have to admire their pluck.” Neji started the car, smoothly spinning the wheel to pull out of his spot. 

“‘Pluck.’” Shikamaru echoed, and laughed again. “How much did this ride cost?”

“Ten and a half million yen.” Neji responded immediately. “Only 551 were produced. There can’t be more than seven in the country. It’s quite distinctive.”

They pulled out into the daylight, and Neji merged into traffic a moment later. He kept a hand on the throttle; he knew traffic thinned three blocks on when it reached the industrial district, and then he could really open it up.

“And what if some punk gets his hands on it, and has his yakuza uncle hide it from the cops for him?”

“As if I would turn to the police over a stolen vehicle.” Neji sniffed. “And when he realized his punk nephew had stolen from a Hyuga, I am sure that uncle would return the car with apologies.”

“Your family has ties to the yakuza?” Shikamaru asked, and Neji threw him a disbelieving look before he passed an aggravatingly slow van.

“Of course not. Real noblemen aren’t gangsters.” 

“Uh-huh. So what, they just really respect your family name?”

“Hmph.” Neji didn’t appreciate the slight to his family, however deserving of it they may be. “Did you know that the head of a local yakuza family attempted to kidnap Hinata when she was three?”

“No, I didn’t. Poor Hinata -- what happened? You said ‘attempted’?”

“Yes, attempted. My uncle threw off the gunmen that were holding him and his wife back, got in his car, and chased the man who had his daughter. He cut them off, ripped open the door, and beat the man’s face against the steering wheel until every bone in his face was broken.”

“Well. Can’t say I blame him.” Shikamaru resettled himself. “And how did the yakuza respond?”

“They didn’t get a chance to. Hiashi-sama had his wife bring Hinata to our home, alongside a group of security. Then he took Chichue and they disappeared into the night. When they came back, I’ll always remember how Chichue’s cuffs were stained red. I asked him what happened. He kissed my head, and told me that the only honour greater than to die for a family such as ours was to kill for it.”

It was all green lights, and Neji finally broke free of the pack, opening up the engine and roaring into a satisfying speed.

“That’s not something you should tell a kid.”

“Perhaps.” Neji shrugged. He could accept a certain degree of criticism of his father, but it wasn’t a very wide degree. “The idea of such duty thrilled me. I barely slept that week, staying up to keep watch over Hinata. When she woke up from nightmares, I told her I would do my best to grow up big and strong as soon as possible, so if anyone tried that again, I would be the one to protect her with my life. I didn’t understand, then, why it made her cry more …”

“Huh.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shikamaru scratch the side of his head. “And have you? Killed for your family?”

Everything went black.

--

[multi-lefaiye]

HERE WE GO. SOME PAINFULLY SELF INDULGENT WRITING IN EDEN'S BG3 AU. in which gale sees eden's chest and experiences palpitations.

cw: suggestive, referenced mature content but nothing explicit, also a pre-op trans guy's chest being described by someone who finds his breasts very attractive if that might make any transmascs out there dysphoric.

not tagging the taglist bc i'm Embarrassed 💖 will however tentatively tag @paradoxspir1t @void-botanist @skitzo-kero @anexor and @seventhgod with no pressure from any of y'all to engage, and if you'd like me not to tag you in stuff like this in the future just lmk!

"I- Eden, what in the *hells* is on your chest?" Astarion squawks nearby, startling Gale out of his musings. All of his earlier concerns about decency and modesty go out the window as a flash of panic flares in his mind. Is something wrong with Eden? Is he hurt?

He turns around, eyes wide, just as the rest of the party does the same. All at once, all eyes are on the half-naked tiefling, who seems uncharacteristically mortified to be receiving this much attention. Gale pays no mind to Eden's clear embarrassment, instead tracing his eyes over the purple-skinned man's body to make sure he wasn't injured, or sick, or dying, or-

Gale's racing thoughts come screeching to a halt as he realizes two things in quick succession. The first: Eden's torso is, mercifully, free of any fresh injuries or lingering, festering wounds. He has a curious mark on his side that Gale can't quite identify at a glance, but it doesn't seem to be actively killing him, so Gale leaves it be for now.

The second: Eden has breasts.

If Gale were thinking logically in this moment, he would scoff at his own surprise. Of course Eden has breasts. Most humanoids do, even though not all of them are obvious. Sure, until now, he'd known Eden to be relatively flat-chested, but that doesn't mean anything when he's only ever seen his new friend in full armor. It's ridiculous to have such a strong reaction to seeing one of his companions partially nude, and Gale internally chastises himself. He should be above this.

But, he finds that he can't quite help himself. His eyes are drawn to the supple swell of Eden's chest, each breast round and heavy, with dusky purple nipples hardened from the chill of the river water. They look terribly soft, and in that moment all Gale wants is to take them into his hands and hold them. They must be warm, he imagines. Warm and soft and overflowing in his hands, a pleasant weight. His mouth waters at the thought, and he swallows.

Eden moves his arms to cover his breasts, squishing them against his body in the way Gale wants to himself. It's then, of course, that Gale remembers Eden's clear humiliation, and whatever spell those tantalizing tits had placed upon him abruptly vanishes. What kind of friend is he, ogling Eden instead of helping to diffuse the situation? Gale bites back the wave of self loathing that threatens to crash over him, and instead he averts his gaze as he opens his mouth to speak.

Eden beats him to it, because of course that beautiful, witty, shockingly and infuriatingly busty tiefling does. It seems he's recovered from the shock.

"They're tits, Astarion," he says drily. "Breasts. Boobs. Whatever you wish to call them. I assume you must at least be familiar with the term, yes?"

All at once, the electric tension in the air dissipates as various members of the party crack up and Astarion sputters in embarrassment. Gale lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, doing his utmost best to put his sudden rush of desire out of his mind. It's for the best, he's sure--his heart is beating a war drum in his chest, and he doesn't want to imagine what havoc might be unleashed if the orb were to destabilize now.

Of all things to almost make Gale lose control, it's a single glimpse of his gorgeous new companion's nude torso. Ridiculous.

[saint-nevermore]

adhd artist adventures i got bad news so this week is a wash. on the upside, i have a lot of birds on squawk overflow and im finally making shit to sell on secondlife

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Eavesdropper

Aditee was a wonderfully good listener. All of her dearest friends told her so, as did her vast extended family - and even her lovers, although they contrived to find in her a dozen other minor faults to compensate. But it was particularly the opinion of Doctor Jesuthasan at the new medicine house on Broad Street, which she had visited the Wednesday morning last - a diagnosis, in truth, which bestowed more weight upon that view, adorning it in authority and draping it in the finer robes of fact.

She had arrived seeking a cure to her chronic headaches, and found only the insufferable thrumming of his medical machinery: infernal devices which sought to preserve life, as far as Aditee understood, but only at the cost of all she recognised as peace. She had suffered tests and examinations, each only deepening her symptoms in severity - pinching the bridge of her nose and massaging her scalp against the pain, rendered reliant on her own treatments to counteract the doctor's search for one which he might call his own.

The problem was with her ears, he had finally proclaimed, speaking loudly to command his dominance over that background noise, as one might call a misbehaving dog to heel, to wrestle with the hum of the electrical lighting and knocking of the pipes, but needlessly so, as if she wouldn't hear even a whisper from across the hall. There was nothing wrong with them, he confirmed, with the joy of a man who has relieved himself of any further responsibility. They simply worked too well.

For most people, the ear was a malformed curl of cartilage, a conch shell which could barely hold the music of the tides, but on Aditee they were precision instruments; marvels of the modern age, devices of a specification not yet known by mankind's fledgling science, and perhaps familiar only those champions of the wild, the wax moth and the pipistrelle, the atlas of the bottlenose and homing pigeon's weather vane.

She could hear everything, regardless of intent, and in fact disregarding her most strenuous efforts to make things otherwise. Eaves were dropped like breadcrumbs everywhere she went, and Aditee was followed by the squawking of distant squirrels and the whistling of half-hearted gales, snatches of conversation which grasped at her mind as she raced on through the marketplace, an endless procession of footsteps and birdsong and laughter that seemed to mock her even as she fled.

It was the queerest thing, to march to the beat of one's own heartbeat, without the need of Dr Jesuthasan's stethoscope; to be keenly aware of the creaking of one's joints; to hear the rush of blood to each and every muscle group, an orchestra of organs all complaining in concert, even the glistening of her tears when it all became too much, which was true more often than not.

It was a stage of perpetual agony, she tried to explain, over the doctor's far-too effusive praise. The body was not built to survive such clarity, in the way that a diet of pure oxygen overwhelms the lungs, and children are warned against direct sight of the sun. A mind was not meant to hold three conversations at once! It overflowed, like a wine glass filled thrice over with pinot noir, champagne and chardonnay, like a paragraph confused with one too many metaphors.

But Dr Jesuthasan would not be deterred, his own hearing clearly lacking any comprehension of her quiet, pained protests, too deafened by the volume of his own bilious thoughts, an eruption of discovery to rival Archimedes. Such perfection, he announced, had henceforth been found only on the pages of textbooks, cross-section diagrams and theoretical script, but never in practice, where the grit of reality so consistently found its way into the oil of design.

Having surpassed science, he proclaimed her as a work of art - as if it had been the Mona Lisa's ears that tracked her patrons around the room, if she had been troubled with them at all, beneath her veil of auburn curls; as if Botticelli's Venus, whose ears were also not shown, despite the lack of modesty elsewhere, had emerged atop pinna and helix as opposed to scallop shell; as if Monet's muse had held an ear in place of parasol; as if Vermeer had shed the pearl and let the flesh take centre-stage, for even there, at the heart of his masterpiece, the curve was partially concealed.

Aditee tried to take her lead from those heroines of oil and canvas: to hide her own ears beneath hair and headscarf, to muffle them with muslin cloth and cotton wool; to pack them with strings and ceiling wax, a rich stuffing of soft French cheese and tapenade - and even to fill their whorls with paint, a forest-green gouache she'd acquired during her own youthful dalliance with the medium, though she had always much preferred the solitude of distant landscapes.

But ultimately, instead, she learnt far more from the artists, who enjoyed a visual world without sound. They painted her the way, the dead leading the deafened, as she read of Gauguin's use of morphine and laudanum to numb his pain, his death confirmed by chewing on his face; Picasso's distortion of faces and legacy of suicide; the gangrene of Manet's foot, requiring amputation; but most of all the example of Van Gogh, who had severed his own left ear.

Aditee followed his lead, only delaying to ensure that it was cut clean off, and coming back for the right one as well. After that, she had no further need for art, for the silent world had already become a hundred times more beautiful: she no longer had to hear the chitter of aphids in the rosebush, the bursting of woodlice in the hearth. She could simply enjoy their warmth, their perfume, in the same fashion as everybody else.

When she visited Doctor Jesuthasan after the act, needing his help to patch up the wounds, she didn't even have to endure his admonishments - let alone his initial shocked squeals. Broad Street had fallen quiet, with a new grace in the way that people softly walked on padded soles, their carriages now gliding noiselessly like swans upon a placid lake. He might fuss over the blood and mess, but there was really no more pain - the world had been the disease, pouring into an open wound, and, cursed with his inaction, she had been forced to cauterise it for herself.

She might have been a masterpiece, before - as he had said, and now mourned slashes in that canvas. But she was better now.

[melanieathene]

Suptober 2023 Bonus Day 31 - Trick or Treat

Halloween has meant different things to Dean Winchester over the years.

Dean's first Halloween was idyllic – everything he'd hoped it would be; absolutely perfect in his four year old mind. For weeks beforehand, he spoke of nothing else but what to wear and how much candy he'd get. That joy dimmed slightly once he learned his candy consumption was going to be strictly monitored (he had expected to eat it all right away). But, hey, free candy! Who could remain disappointed about that? Besides, staying up an hour past his usual bedtime was a treat in itself.

Dressed as a cowboy – in jeans, plaid shirt, a fringed leather vest and of course, authentic cowboy boots and wide-brimmed hat – Dean trotted from door to door, a grinning pumpkin basket held in one hand, a toy pistol in the other. “Trick or treat,” he cried whenever someone answered the door. Basking in the praise of how cute he was, and what a good boy he was for always remembering to say thank you, he strutted back to his waiting father, holstering the pistol and accepting a helping hand down any stairs. In the dark stretches between houses, John carried the pumpkin and Dean continued to hold tight to his father's hand. The dark was scarier than he had anticipated, and soon became crowded with rowdy older kids but, with John at his side, Dean felt protected and safe.

It didn't take long for the pumpkin to be filled to overflowing.

“Maybe next year Sammy can come with us,” Dean said as they turned to make their way home. “Mommy too. It's not fair they had to stay home.”

John laughed. “Sam's just turning 6 months old, Dean. It will be a few years before he's big enough to go trick or treating. Maybe next year your Mom can go out with you and I'll stay home to watch Sam and hand out candy.”

Dean was yawning by the time Mary welcomed them home with a hug for Dean and a kiss for John. “To bed with you, young man” she declared. “The candy count can wait until tomorrow. Into your PJs with you. Now!”

This met with no argument from Dean. He rushed through brushing his teeth and saying his prayers and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He had no idea that two days later his mother would be dead, their home and happy life destroyed in a burning inferno. In a way, he lost his father too that night. Azazel became John's obsession, pushing him into the life of a hunter.

Sam was almost seven when Dean finally convinced their father to take them trick or treating. The threat of venturing out alone with his brother if John refused to accompany them was the deciding factor. John knew all too well what dangers lurked in the shadows: ghosts and ghouls, witches and demons, the list went on and on. Halloween is an especially dangerous time. It draws monsters out of hiding and allows them to walk undetected amongst us. It amazed John how other parents – blissfully ignorant citizens – allowed their children to run free on such a night. There was no way his boys were doing that! So, knowing Dean's stubbornness when it came to doing what he thought was best for Sam, it was better to concede rather than chance them running into some monster.

There was no money for fancy costumes, but there seemed to be more than enough to provide John with a continuous supply of alcohol. Dean acknowledged this fact with no little bitterness, but he kept the observation to himself. Sam was going trick or treating; that was all that mattered. A sheet with eyeholes cut in it was good enough for Dean. He shoplifted a cheap plastic Batman costume for his brother. Pillowcases could hold any goodies they collected.

Sam was over the moon about the whole adventure. He traipsed from door to door, squawking “trick or treat,” almost dancing down the street as they headed for the next house. Dean trailed a step or two behind, one eye on his excited brother, the other on the hulking presence of his father. John was armed to the teeth, and Dean knew it. Heck, Dean's ghost costume concealed more than his identity. He carried a knife or two himself. In addition, the pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans was loaded with silver bullets – and he knew how to use it. He wasn't the fool his father thought he was. He knew the risks. He was a hunter too.

By the time their pillowcases bulged with treats, John was more than pleasantly buzzed, he was flat out drunk. He staggered along the sidewalk, giving the stink eye to the people he passed. Anger radiated off him in palpable waves, and more than one person ushered their child across the street rather than confront him.

“Time to call it quits, Sammy,” Dean said, giving his bother a nudge and inclining his head towards their father.

“Okay, Dean,” Sam quietly agreed.

And that was the end of Halloween. John spent the next two days in an alcoholic haze, sobbing inconsolably over Mary.

Dean stuck a candle in a Twinkie and sang Happy Birthday to his little brother.

Halloween as an adult is much like any other day in the life of a hunter, distinguished only by the plethora of spooky lawn decorations that spring up as the day approaches. The costume most employed by the Winchester brothers on this occasion would have to be FBI agent. Investigating suspicious deaths, chasing down vengeful ghosts, thwarting witches, digging up graves, exterminating zombies and ghouls, and (Sam's least favourite) dealing with a murderous clown are but a few of the cases they've tackled.

Honestly, Dean is far more enamoured with the day after Halloween when candy goes on sale: all the yummy goodness without the need to go begging door to door. Plus, he gets to pick and choose his favourite treats – no crummy molasses kisses or hard gumballs for him! Bring on the mini chocolate bars and cheese sticks! Bring on the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Twizzlers, Skittles and Sour Patch Kids! Sam of course, being the health nut that he is, disdains all sugary treats and refuses to share in Dean's seasonal glee. Dean leaves him behind in the Bunker, sipping his herbal tea and no doubt dreaming of kale salads.

Which is how he finds himself with an angel sitting in the passenger seat as the Impala turns into the mall parking lot. Castiel is an excellent shopping companion. No complaining as they wander from store to store. No frowny, judgement face over Dean's choices of snacks, only curiosity about some of the brightly packaged items.

“What is Candy Corn?” Castiel inquired, studying the tri-coloured, pyramid-shaped candies as if they held the answer to the mysteries of the universe.

“Sugar, corn syrup, vanilla and honey coated with wax.” Dean grabbed the package and tossed it back on the shelf. “You don't want that. Here,” he plopped a bag of Jolly Ranchers in the angel's hand. “These have more flavour.”

“What about these?”

“Hershey Kisses? Not really Halloween-themed, but toss them in the cart. I like Kisses, you probably will, too.”

“I have never had a kiss.”

“Gotta try one, then,” Dean said. “Ooh, look! M&Ms!”

It took a while, but finally satisfied with his selections, Dean turned the Impala for home. Of course, he couldn't wait until they got there, and pulled the car off to the side of the road so he could break into his stash.

“Trick or treat,” he said, popping a candy in his mouth before offering the bag to Castiel.

“Why do people say that?” Castiel chose a green Sour Patch Kid and warily bit its head off. His mouth puckered at the taste, and he scowled.

“Halloween tradition,” Dean managed, when his fit of laughter finally subsided. “It's pretty literal, Cas. You offer the person a choice: trick or treat. If they give you a treat, you don't play a trick on them.”

Castiel dug out the bag of Hersey Kisses and ripped it open. Is a kiss a trick or a treat?” he wondered, staring at the candy.

“Depends on the person.” Dean grinned. “Could be either – or both.”

Castiel carefully placed the candy on his palm and held it out to Dean. “What would you like it to be?” he said.

Dean swallowed, sobering, realizing the conversation had strayed off the Halloween path into something far more serious. Something scarier than things that go bump in the night. All his Halloweens, all his days, had led to this one day, this one moment in time.

He'd thought about it in the past – of course, he had. He had eyes, didn't he? Castiel was gorgeous – had definitely inspired a shameful fantasy or two – but Dean had never had the courage to act on his desire. He'd buried it deep, so deep he'd thought it hidden even from himself. But here, now, it all came bubbling to the surface. Now, with the promise of love, unconditional love, shining in Castiel's blue eyes, he realized the feeling ran both ways. Love was his for the taking... if he dared.

“Not a trick,” he whispered.

Castiel unwrapped the candy and raised it to Dean's lips. Dean opened his mouth, his eyes focused on Castiel's as he chewed the chocolate morsel: a prelude to the real treat.

“Not a trick,” Castiel agreed. And kissed him.

*************************

A/N And, so, the final prompt has been completed – better late than never as they say. :)

I'd like to express my thanks to @winchester-reload for providing us with such interesting (and sometimes challenging) prompts. I'd also like to thank everyone who has left a note or reblogged my posts.

You can find my complete Suptober23 collection on AO3, at

Feel free to browse to my other stories while you're there. I'd love the feedback.

[goddesstrolls]

>> You’re lying half-awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Wondering if you should harass Kinsra a bit tonight. He’ll be streaming, which means it’s an optimal time to bother him.

>> Then you feel something somewhat warm and gooey squish against your ankle.

>> Squawking and pulling back the blankets your recoil, finding something in your bed. Some viscous little black blob, leaving brown-black stains on your white sheets.

>> It scuttles towards you and you pounce on it like a cat on a mouse, and banish it- At the last moment, you feel like the void isn’t the best place for this thing, so you just send it halfway across the planet. You don’t care if it’s a problem as long as it’s not your problem.

>> It left a sticky, foul-smelling residue on your hands. And your sheets, but that’s a problem for later. Grimacing, you head to the kitchen to wash your hands, warily looking around for any more of those things.

>> You don’t see any more, but you’ll look around the hive to be sure. You head down to the ground floor, and stop dead at seeing your workbench.

>> Another one. It’s latched onto your latest project, a high-capacity magical capacitor you were using to try to help stabilize and mitigate your constant magical overflow.

>> With every apparent gulp, the thing grows in size, gorging itself on your own potent magic. It’s the size of a large cat already, covered in shifting mouths. As you stare at it, a large eye opens and stares back at you.

>> For a few moments you are too revolted to move. Then you lift a hand and blast it with sheer energy. You can feel the thing’s alignment to void and shadow, so you align the energy with light. Thankfully it doesn’t just absorb it, and instead it’s vaporized into nothing.

>> It left a foul residue all over your workbench- Well, mostly the blueprints you had scattered across it. You gather them, ball them up, and light them on fire. You can always re-draw them, you’re not very attached to that project anyway. You carefully clean off the capacitor and dump it into an antimagic bubble- Just in case. 

>> Then you continue searching the hive. You find another of those blobs- This time, just a little one- Trying to squeeze into a barrel full of dragon guts in the basement, but that’s it. 

>> The third one, you decide to capture, dumping it into a sealed jar. These things are freaky, but mostly seem harmless…That you’ve seen, anyway. You’re going to pick this thing apart and see if you can figure out where it came from…

[fixed-signs]

Marzana, Marzana

Marzana, Marzana - Chapter 1

Pairing: Josh x original female character (you read that right if you come back up here halfway through this chapter)

Warnings: NSFW MINORS DNI, drinking, weed, implied sex

Eventual pregnancy and angst, we got slow burn, we got fluff

Word count: 2.7k

Hadley took one look back at the brick apartment building, the last plastic milk crate of records in her hands and a guitar slung on her back. She exhaled, cheeks puffing out, and feeling slightly uncomfortable in the warm Tennessee October. 

She watched the leaves, still attached to the trees sway like the licking flames of a fire. She felt no desire to take anything else. She didn’t need any of it really. Everything in that apartment no longer served her or this strange— constantly parting stage of her life at the moment. 

*

“What an asshole.” She spoke into the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she drove into a parking spot. 

“Hadley….” Sara on the other end cooed. 

“He tried the ‘I was hurting too’ move, which like, yeah buddy because it was you who was gone all the time taking care of your dying mother.” 

“Pfft, did you tell him that? Like oh yeah, sticking your dick in someone else really screams empathy to me. Oh God! Was she there?!”

“No, no, she wasn’t there….and I let him do most of the talking or groveling or whatever you want to call it. I think she might have realized what a piece he was well before I ever did. But like good for her, ya know?”

“I enjoy your feminism in this situation. He didn’t make a huff about your stuff, did he?”

“He certainly didn’t help me load it up, but clearly I’m all about girl power… The only thing he got in my face about was me taking back the guitar. He was all ‘that’s a gift, you can’t take it back. ‘Mweh’ to me about it.”

“God fuck him.” 

Hadley, stared out the windshield of her car. The glare from the sun making every piece of dust on her dashboard apparent.

“Yeah…” There was a silence, then Hadley gently pulled the phone from her ear while Sara settled a barking dog in the background. “I gotta go.”

“Ok, I’ll see you later.” 

“Oh, no yeah, I just decided to get a hotel room.”

*

Hadley sipped her nearly overflowing double of bourbon and coke and looked at the banner framing the entry way of the patio “Gibson Anniversary Celebration”. Music was blasting, she saw plenty of selfies being taken— She didn’t recognize most of the celebrities smiling on demand next to her coworkers. Hadley subtly danced through the crowd to the some tables to find a seat. She didn’t feel quite up to dancing and figured coworkers were still too starstruck to find any of them on the dance floor quite yet. 

“Ok, but would you rather-“ Sam stood at the end of the table, and shouted, “Ahem, would you rather-“

It didn’t matter, Danny was taking a picture with someone, Jake was busy observing everyone and frankly, was over Sam and tonight, and Josh was trying to scoop a piece of ice on his straw. 

“You know, this is the best ice. The tube kind.” He declared when he managed to thread one on the end of his straw. 

“Josh, shut up!” Sam whined. 

“Yeah, its crushed, fuckhead.” Jake added. 

“Basic bitch-” Josh humored between crunches of ice. 

“Would you rather—“

“Have you heard that chewing ice says something about a man’s sexual prowess?” Josh continued. 

“What on Earth would that have to do with anything?” Jake slid his sunglasses down and proceeded to crunch loudly on piece he scooped out with his fingers from Sam’s drink.

Sam stomped and his eye were about to bulge out of his head. 

Danny sat back down at the end of the booth, knowing he had to intervene without any context, “Ok, what’s the would you rather?” 

“JESUS, I’m getting to it.” Sam squawked, “You know what, no, no, I’m getting another fuckin’ - stronger— drink.”  

The boys booed as Sam left the table. 

Sam was moving gracefully through the large crowd until he was shoved, seemingly out of no where. Before he could catch himself or even glance to see who had pushed him he was on Hadley and Hadley was covered in her drink. 

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. God- oh here,” He helped her stabilize her footing again. Her platform boots slipping a little in the puddle under her. 

“It’s good, what even happened, are you good?” 

“I’m fine!” Sam began shouting as another song started playing, seemingly louder than the last one. “What were you drinking. I can get you another. And some napkins!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Hadley shook her head.

“Don’t with that. Was it a rum and coke?” 

She crinkled her nose, “Bourbon.” 

“Alright.”

He smiled and Hadley held a hand to her cheek, trying to calm the red flush she felt all over. Luckily most of the drink spilled on her shoes and pants, leaving no truly uncomfortable stickiness on any exposed skin other than her hands. 

*

“Look who I ran in to! It’s Hadley!” Sam announced as he herded Hadley to the table with the rest of the band. 

“It’s you!” Danny played along with the joke. 

“It’s you!” Hadley pretend fawned over Danny. “It’s been so long!” 

“Hi, I’m Josh,” Josh held out his hand. 

“I know, we go way back.” She played along and shook his hand anyways. 

Jake quietly chuckled, observing as Sam pulled up another chair on his side of the table for her. 

“How did you get dragged over here?” Jake piped up. 

“I spilled her drink, and I’m being a gentleman.” Sam answered quickly ending on defensive. 

“Oh well, that’s good, I thought you had just wet your pants. Urination as the professionals call it.” Josh said. 

“Where the fuck are you from? What is that accent?” Hadley quipped back.

Danny shook his head, “English isn’t his first language—“

“We only let him learn his English by watching Jackass.” Jake popped another piece of ice in his mouth, Josh silently mocked his brother’s crunching face, it all was getting entertaining for Hadley. 

“We’re from Michigan.” Sam announced. 

“Oh well…did you- did you know that trade routes from New York brought that accent to Michigan- but no one else here sounds like that…so why do you sound like that?“ 

“Yeah really Joshua? Can you believe we are identical twins?” Jake plucked his sunglasses off and hooked them on his shirt collar.

“Yeah he sounds normal,” Hadley pointed a thumb at Jake, “That explains even less.” 

The table laughed. A new song started Sam and Danny locked eyes. They both began to stand and dance at each other. Danny mouthed the words between sips of his drink. 

“It’s a bop.” Sam and Danny said in unison, clearly an inside joke, and they left to the dance floor that was slowly filling up. 

“So who are you now?” Jake asked. 

“Marzana Hadley.” She held out her hand to Jake, a playful sarcasm in her voice now, “luthier extraordinaire.” 

“Oh? Jake Kiszka,” Jake saw her eyebrows knit together, he gave her hand a light squeeze. “Lead guitar. Of Greta Van Fleet.” 

She avoided eye contact with Jake, as if it’d hide the bashfulness suddenly overcoming her. She’d heard of them— this man’s face was in several pictures around the office and headquarters. Hadley glanced at Jake again, a red light coming from the dance floor haloed in his hair. Josh was already spurting as their equally calloused hands slid from each other.

“Josh Kiszka, yes, Greta Van Fleet’s lead sing-er.” He emphasized for humor, “What do you do for Gibson?” 

“Yeah Marzana, what do you do for Gibson?”

Hadley cleared her throat, her body still flushed from embarrassment, “It’s Hadley. The rockstars interviewing me? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Am I getting the rockstar treatment??”

They both chuckled, “Sorry, no no.” Jake apologized. 

“Did you know,” Josh mimicked her from earlier, “The throat is the 5th chakra. Yours sounds very blocked.”

“You must know all about throat health being a sing-er. AndI just- wow, thank you. The best most heartfelt compliment I’ve gotten in weeks.”

“That’s not nearly as interesting as her linguistics analysis of your annoying ass.” Jake said after a sip of beer. He shook it and listened to any liquid sloshing. Empty.

“Any other esoteric traits you’d like to criticize? I’m a sad Pisces, so go easy.” 

“Ah, well I think your Sanpaku eyes are wonderful. What has you so weary in this life?”

“Josh….” Jake huffed as he stood, “What the fuck man.” 

“Was that a pick up line? Because it’s a bad one.”

“It wasn’t, but I’ll work on it.” 

Hadley rolled her eyes, but was startled as someone abruptly grabbed her shoulders. It was a coworker, who was clearly tipsy and giggly. 

“Hey girl!” The girl hugged around Hadley’s shoulders, pinning her in an awkward sitting-side-back-hug. 

“You sound like you’re having a good time.” Hadley smile, but pleaded for help with her eyes at either of the boys.

“This is Mike from Iowa I’ve been telling y’all about.” her southern drawl was thick as she held out her hand for everyone to see, “Covid love.” 

She hummed and opened her eyes, focusing way too hard on Hadley. It was the alcohol, but it was still jarring compared to the vibe of the rest of the table. 

“Most romantic of pandemics. Spanish flu has nothing on you guys.” Hadley chattered, it cause Josh to choke mid sip of his drink. 

“What? Anywhose, I’m so sorry about your mama and her cancer and all. God, and your breakup? I’m sorry girly. What a year for you.”

“Uh…yeah…..thanks…..” Dread was all over Hadley’s voice— no her entire being. 

Jake and Josh looked at each other. Jake silently was screaming ‘I told you so’ behind his eyes as Josh, unneeded as Josh felt like a true asshole for calling this stranger sad. Hadley just wanted to sink into her chair and not have to pretend the niceties, albeit genuine, would stop. As if manifestation was real the friend realized who the twins were. 

Hadley slinked away with her drink to find obscurity with Sam and Danny- well really anyone who didn’t truly know her, on the dance floor. 

*

Jake and Josh slipped away after some photos and were in line at the bar. Josh bobbing along to the music in his spot, Jake swaying and shifting weight between his feet. He regretted wearing brand new boots.

“You should make a move.” Josh looked towards his friends and Hadley on the dance floor. 

They were having a dance off with cheesy dance moves mixed with square dancing moves. All laughing uncontrollably at each new move the other presented. Cheering and clapping. 

Jake looked at his feet, “I don’t know, man. She’s cool.”

“Yeah she’s fucking cool, dude. I know it’s been a while.” 

“Not since Jita.” 

“So a year?” 

“It’s only been 9 months and it’s not like you’re out there making moves either since-“

“I don’t do rebounds like you.” Josh smacked Jake in the chest.

Jake’s body flinched and he managed to stop his arm from coming up and delivering a swat back, “I don’t ‘do rebounds’ either. Jesus.” He made air quotes. 

Jake took another look at Hadley, now doing the Macarena very off beat to the music while Sam pretend lassoed Danny. 

“How the hell is Sam the only one with a partner out of all of us right now?” Jake muttered. 

“I dunno, but it’s fucked up.” Josh agreed. They clinked drinks.

*

“Shit,” Hadley groaned standing in front of the hotel as the uber pulled away behind her. 

“What’s up?” Jake was already sweating. 

“I- I was moving today and I didn’t have time to get all of my stuff out of my car to my room. Do you mind if I—?”

“Not at all, I can help.” 

Jake followed silently behind Hadley to her car. She popped the trunk and Jake’s eyes widened at the collection of records sitting there. 

“It’s like a lot, it’s just bad to let them sit in changing temperatures and it’s already like 20 degrees colder than when I left. It’s find if you don’t want—”

“I- I get it.” He smiled and began to stack two milk crates. 

*

“Thanks for the cab, by the way.” Hadley pushed the hotel luggage caddy, now full of records to her room; Jake holding on the back and watching for any runaway items when they took turns out the elevator and down hallways. 

It was actually much simpler and less mortifying to slip out of the party with Hadley. Sam had left to FaceTime his girlfriend after her show. Danny and Josh seemingly vanished, almost an Irish goodbye until Jake got a text saying ‘Joshua and I are meeting Alex and bar hopping’ from Danny. 

“No worries. The least I could do after you flamed Josh like that.” 

She let an airy “ha” spit from her lips while she waited for the light on the doorknob to turn green. Hadley pulled out her key card and held the door open for Jake to push the cart in.

“Speaking of flaming people, did you see Slash dancing?” 

They both erupted in laughter. Jake gently shut the heavy hotel door behind him.

He scanned the room: your average beige walls with an overly bright accent wall, a grey-blue bed spread, but the wall with the TV and mini fridge was stacked with even more vinyls and two guitars. One was in a case leaned against the wall upright while the other was laid across the arm chair at the very corner of the room. 

“Do you want to listen to anything?” Hadley offered as she balanced on one foot un-doing her boot. 

“Sure.” Jake grinned and parked the caddy.

“Cool, I’ll set up.” 

Jake flipped through the contents of the collection. Hadley had opened a box and was now on her hands and knees trying to reach an outlet near the bed. She had placed a record player on the night stand, cords trailing out the back to two speakers. Hadley stood back and admired the work before going to her purse and opening a cigarette case. It held several skinny and neatly wrapped joints. 

“I’m gonna- do you-“ She said voice creaking, mechanically, nervously. 

Jake shook his head yes, Hadley nodded and dug out a lighter from another pocket of her bag. She cracked a window, a joint now hanging lazily out of her mouth. Hadley walked over to Jake, she lit up and the familiar herbal smelled wafted to him.

“You decide on anything yet?” 

“This,” Jake held a record between them. In a smooth exchange Hadley took it from his hands and he took the joint from her lips. 

“I wasn’t expecting this.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with the Arctic Monkeys.” Jake wheezed after a drag, the record player hummed and scratched before a heavy, slow beat filled the room.

Hadley sat on the foot of the bed and flicked ashes into stout white coffee cup from the desk. Jake slung the guitar without a case over his shoulders, the joint was passed back to him as he placed himself next to her. The mattress sinking slightly with his weight. Jake strummed and fiddled on the instrument, tuning a string, then strumming a few notes, matching the song. 

“Did you make this?” Hadley nodded at Jake and watched his hands fiddle along the neck, “It’s beautiful.” He said, pausing and staring at Hadley. 

She was blushing. Taking the joint out of Jakes mouth delicately between her pointer and middle finger, “One of the first ones I ever made.” She said after exhaling smoke. 

The room fell quiet between songs, a deafening silence. Hadley flicked the ashes into the cup one more time, her head spinning as the high was starting to hit. She offered the joint back to Jake, holding it near his face. His eyes were heavier than before. He gazed at her faded lipstick mouth he grabbed her wrist out of the way and they both crashed into each other at the same time.