#wash's writing

[wanderingaldecaldo]

Antonio "El Palo" Varga

If you've spent any time around Heywood you've likely heard the legend of El Palo. Tony lost his eye early in his years with the Valentinos after a vicious fight with 6th Street. Soon after he received his new cyberware, another gang member Carlos laughed at him and said he looked like he was wearing a golf club—el palo de golf. The name stuck and it caused Tony a lot of grief.

As a young man unsure of how to handle a dispute with a fellow gang member, Tony went to Padre for advice. Padre dispensed his usual wisdom.

"Antonio, the Good Lord in all his wisdom did say, 'A person’s wisdom yields patience; it is to one’s glory to overlook an offense.' And I say unto you, take the gift of your new name, and show Carlos your true strength."

Uncertain about Padre's true meaning, he recounted the conversation to Jackie who argued that Padre gave his blessing to teach Carlos a lesson. A few days later Tony's mother found a gold-plated golf club on their front porch, and Tony knew that Jackie was right.

Later that night, Tony and Jackie took to the streets, golf club resting on his shoulder, flashing as it catches every streetlight. Drunk on Centazón and high on youth and violence, Tony nearly beat Carlos to death, and would have if Jackie hadn't stepped in.

Tony himself denies the event happening. He says they simply had a chat, and Carlos refused to discuss it with anyone. He died a few years later, leaving Tony as the only witness to the event. But sometimes legends become more useful than facts, as the saying goes, and Tony doesn't mind when he hears whispered warnings of El Palo when he walks into a room. In fact, they usually make his life a little easier.

cc @vox-monstera bc you asked about him ages ago and I finally delivered on some good stuff

[captainjonnitkessler]

My favorite piece of tumblr linguistics to ever come out of this site is “the horrors”. It’s delightfully evocative and also gives absolutely no information about what I’m talking about. “Sorry I can’t go out today I’m facing the horrors” am I talking about the encroaching dread and existential despair of our dystopian world? am I talking about the fact that I have to wash dishes? No one knows. It’s all horrors.

[lgbtlunaverse]

the wangxian + a-yuan "dads with an adopted son" thing is fine and enjoyable in fanfics honestly but I think we as a fandom are really not utilizing the idea of all of them in unconventional familial structures enough. Like, canonically it wasn't so much that wwx was a-yuan's guardian as that a-yuan was being raised collectively by the wens and wwx was adopted INTO the larger wen family. And lwj got attached to him through that. A-yuan just has these very attached weird uncles/older cousin figures that aren't related to him by blood at all but keep sticking around.

Just think of a modern AU with a lot less death where lwj does as he does in canon and keeps showering a-yuan in gifts as much as he can and when wwx is like "aiyah lan zhan you're gonna spoil him. Not everyone is as rich as you! What's his family supposed to say if they can't buy him all the stuff you do?" lwj just goes "Hm". And from then on out every year once a-yuan's birthday is near the extended Wen family members (well. the ones that are invited that is. No one wants wen chao at a birthday party) wakes up to a wechat payment from lwj.

Random wen cousin number 6 texts granny like

cousin 6: i just got 400 yuan????

granny: oh that's just wangji

cousin 6: i've never met this guy in my life???

granny: he wants you to buy a-yuan a nice birthday present!

cousin 6: how does he know my bank account???

[stsgsk]

"You've saved me as what?" Satoru repeats for what must have been the fifth time.

You sigh, speaking again, slowly. "Cotton Swab. I saved you as Cotton Swab"

Satoru gapes at you, mouth opening and closing without a single word coming out. In the end, he pouts and look away.

You frown. "Hey, come on. Don't be like that," You walk around him so you're directly in his line of view, his pink lips sticking out as he crosses his arms. You show him your phone, where his contact really is saved as 'Cotton Swab'. "It's a term of endearment. An affectionate nickname. I mean, would you rather just be saved as Satoru? How boring is that?"

Satoru glances at your screen once, then looks away, clearly unimpressed. "You didn't even give me an emoji."

"Alright, alright" you say, going ahead to edit his contact name. "I'll add some emojis. Which ones do you want?"

Before you could blink, satoru had taken your phone. He gives it back to you a few seconds later, leaving you chuckling at the long list of emojis he had put after his name. His name, you just realised, he changed to 'bf'.

You look up at him with a grin. "You gonna explain that?"

"Nope" he says back with a matching grin.

He didn't explain that you two were now matching, because he had long since had you saved as 'gf' with a whole bunch of emojis after too.

[becca-e-barnes]

thinking about mating press with beefy!bucky. all that weight on top of you, knowing for certain he’s about to breed you?? ughhh

Oh God yes, the thought of this makes me fucking purr 🤤

Just the thought of his thick, slightly curved cock sliding as deep inside as you can take. The feeling of his tip rubbing against your cervix before he withdraws, pulling almost entirely out of you before he glides back in again.

"Good girl, 'm so proud of you. Cum nice and hard for me, I've got you. You're safe." He holds you so close, letting you sob your pleasure against his neck while he works you through another orgasm. It's tender and romantic and loving and you're beyond aware that this man makes you insanely wet.

Your thighs are still trembling as you come down from your high. Each thrust now feels like it's almost too much but with the way Bucky's groaning, he might not be able to keep it up for much longer.

"Fuck, you feel like Heaven. This pretty little pussy was made for me. Made to be mine." His thrusts are punishing but it's an addictive feeling. "I'm going to fill you. I'm not going to pull out. Going to give you a baby."

You're almost surprised how badly you want that but it's very hard to find the words to tell him; not when his thrusts are beginning to stutter and his high seems to get closer and closer.

"I'm going to fuck a baby into you." His hand holds your chin, making sure he can see your eyes. The evidence of pleasure written all over his face might've been enough to convince you that you could handle another orgasm but you'll still not quite sure that's a good idea.

Within a few more seconds, his cock is throbbing inside you, shooting stripes of hot, thick cum right against your cervix. He looks entirely content with his decision, pressing as deep as he can so you can feel him pulse and twitch.

There's not much you need to say to each other for a few seconds. Instead, it's nice to just listen to you both trying to catch your breath while your partner floods your waiting, fluttering sex with his cum.

[pyjamacryptid]

I’m not sure how I got here but I’ve been thinking about the intimacy and devotion of washing another’s hair, the hair of someone you care for (how unconditional a gesture it is) and I then thought of Merlin doing it for Arthur.

It’s not in the job description (a lot of what Merlin does for Arthur is not in the job description) and it’s unlikely something that started his first day as Arthur’s servant. Nor the second or the 20th or by the 6th month. Arthur may be a prince, a prattish one at that, but when it comes to his baths he only expects of Merlin what he expects of any manservant - call for the tub, draw the water, lay out a towel, place fresh clothes close by and so on. But, naturally, he’s also a prince that commands the knights and with training comes injuries. Perhaps an arm was dislocated and he’s on strict orders from Gaius not to utilise it, and definitely not to reach above his head. Later that same day Arthur sits in the bath and realises too late he can’t tend to his own hair. But he doesn’t call Merlin over from where he’s making the bed. He tries to do it himself. He’s still got one working arm, after all.

Arthur only knows how to command things be done. He doesn’t know how to ask for things. He doesn’t yet know that asking isn’t weakness.

But he can’t hide his struggling from Merlin, who’s more mother hen than manservant.

“Here, let me,” he says, suddenly behind Arthur, “before you lose all the bathwater and your arm, both.”

“I don’t need your help, Merlin.”

“Of course not, sire. Now, pass me the hair oil.”

“Excuse me, who is it that gives the orders here?”

“You, sire. The hair oil.”

“…”

“Thank you. Right, hold still. I said hold still—“

After, Arthur will wonder why he ever thought Merlin would be anything but gentle. After, Arthur will wonder when his eyes closed and why they feel a little wet, especially as Merlin took great care to catch anything before it fell in Arthur’s face.

Over time, a stool begins to sit beside the bath, whenever it’s drawn. Over time, Arthur will notice Merlin’s fingers never grow any less gentle (even when he knows his manservant is angry with him). Over time, Arthur will want to ask why Merlin added washing his hair to his list of jobs indefinitely, long after his arm healed, but is afraid he’ll only prompt Merlin to stop because it’s not a job at all. Over time, Arthur will wonder what oils Merlin uses on his own hair, if he has access to hair oil at all, and how his cropped hair might feel to touch.

[stigmalarity]

college roommate!Miguel x reader

| gn! reader, masturbation, dildos, voyeurism

College Roommate!Miguel who gets back to your shared apartment after class and is puzzled by the noise complaint tacked to the door. 

The fine print describes loud noises during the hours that he’s not at home, meaning it would have to be you. But that’s still odd.

In the handful of months that the two of you have been roommates, he’s never known you to be loud. In actuality, most people would probably consider you the perfect roommate. You’re quiet, clean up after yourself, cook extra food for him, stay on top of chores, and mostly stick to your room. When the two of you do spend time together, it’s never awkward, just… comfortable. Neither of you feel the need to over-exert yourselves with social interaction while in the comforts of your own home.

Miguel likes being around you. He thinks you’re pretty.

He brings up the complaint that night as you cook dinner side-by-side.

“By the way, I came home to a noise complaint today,” he says, chopping up veggies to throw into the noodle dish you’re making. “It said something about loud noises, but it’s only during the hours when I’m not around. Have you heard anything?”

He doesn’t look at your face, but he notices the way you pause.

“Oh, um,” you start, stirring up the noodles in the wok. “I dunno, I must have been playing my music a little too loud while you were at school. My bad,” you reply. “I’ll try to keep it down.”

Miguel shrugs. “Got it. No worries,” he replies. Since he’s never experienced you being loud, he doesn’t really know what else it could be. He lifts the cutting board, and sweeps the veggies into the wok.

It’s not until a week later when his final lecture of the day gets canceled that he figures out what the noise complaint could have been about.

He doesn’t see you when he walks in, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s only when he takes out his headphones that he hears it.

His first guess is that you’re crying, and it’s technically none of his business to figure out why. As he gets closer, though, he hears it; slick, wet sounds accompanied by your voice, a bit muffled, letting out the most debauched, lecherous wails he’s ever heard.

By some sheer, dumb stroke of fate, your door is open just a crack. His palms are sweating and his pants are tightening as he approaches. He considers turning away when suddenly he hears you, clear as day. You must have pulled away from whatever you had been pressing your face into.

“F-fuh- oh, god- Fuck, Miguel!”

All the blood in his body rushes to his cock, and he’s stepping closer faster than he can think, his eyes trained on that crack in the door. When he sees you, his mind goes blank.

You’re on your knees on the bed, your chest pressed to the sheets and your cheek turned away from him. Your arm is tucked under your torso and between your legs, fucking yourself silly with a flesh tan dildo that for a moment, reminds him of his own cock. Your pretty hole is absolutely soaked, and there's a frothy, white ring gathered at the base of the dildo that he wants to see you lick off.

He stays there, his hand squeezing at his now ridiculously hard cock over his pants as you push yourself up to face the headboard, adjust the dildo underneath you, and start bouncing.

You moan his name again. Then, as if remembering something, you press your hand over your mouth, swallowed by the sleeve of the hoodie that your other hand is tugging up your waist. The bed creaks beneath you, but you keep going.

Arousal lurches hot in his stomach when he realizes the hoodie is one he’s been missing for weeks.

Miguel only lets himself watch for a few more moments, hungrily taking in every inch of you, every noise that escapes your pretty lips and committing it to memory before he turns around and walks back to the door. He opens it wide, then slams it shut, loud enough for you to hear. Your moaning ceases. 

His eyes are trained on your bedroom door as you rush over and shut it completely.

[niuniente]

I'm reading Wikihow on how to go to sauna and I'm LIVID. Who the hell wrote this article, this is all bullshit???

"First, wash yourself with a mild soap before going to sauna" = NO, you rinse yourself with water from head to toe first. If you wear a make up, you can wash that off. If you are extremely dirty like covered with oil, shit and blood, then do wash yourself with a soap first.

"Use a swimsuit or a towel in public saunas" = NO, you fucking sit there naked. Period. In swimming halls it is actually dangerous to sit in sauna in a wet bathing suit because of the pools' chlorine, which WILL evaporate.

"Sit on your towel in the sauna" = NO, you don't fucking bring your frigging towel in the sauna. Public saunas provide seat covers which you will take with you from the locker room (like hotels) and dispose afterwards OR you bring your own seat cover with you. You DO NOT sit on the same towel you dry yourself with you fucking ass.

"After you have sat in sauna, come out, cool down and dress yourself" = PUT CLOTHES ON ON YOUR FUCKING SWEATY SKIN??? WITH NO WASHING YOURSELF? BITCH AFTER SAUNA YOU TAKE A PROPER SHOWER AND WASH YOURSELF FROM HEAD TO TOE.

[comraderoscoes]

pov you want to have puppies (so you have his stuff frozen)

[mahoushojo-chan]

Astarion x Tav || bathing

when you wash your hair

synopsis: She soaks her hands in water and finds herself surprised to learn that it’s warm, with a sweet, heady scent. Astarion’s prepared dozens of bathing supplies on the side, freshly-washed towels and lotions and other  She cups the water in her hands and pours it onto the back side of his head, letting her hands through his hair, and he closes his book before leaning back into her touch with a sigh. Both of his arms fall over the edge, and he lets the book fall to the ground in favour of relaxing.

A quiet moment where Tav gets to wash Astarion's curls.

an excerpt of ‘cause my love (is mine, all mine)

word count: 2224

pairing: astarion/tav

other tags: f!reader, hurt/comfort, bathing, slight angst, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, washing astarion's pretty hair, not being used to love or loving, help these idiots please

now listening: when you wash your hair - matt maltese 

ao3: here

concept: washing hair... and reviewing books, a little

Tav stabilizes herself by quietly singing a soft melody as she undresses herself, wrapping a towel over her chest and carrying her wicket basket to the tub.

“You tried to be someone you are not,” she sings, her voice echoing off the lavatory walls, “Now the morning sweeps you up, you take your evening outfit off, you run—”

She freezes, her voice raising sharply on the last note upon seeing the occupied tub—or rather, seeing a very handsome elf leaning against the edge, one pale arm draped around the edge and the other carefully holding up a book above the steaming waters.

“Don’t stop on my account. If I can close my eyes, I can almost pretend I have the luxury of a personal serenade.” She hears him say.

Normally, she would meet his banter by asking if she’s a pet songbird, or perhaps tease that he can receive a personal serenade from her anytime, but she’s still a little embarrassed, so she turns away. “Sorry, I can—” 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before. No point in playing the blushing virgin now,” he adds, voice dropping into temptation.

“You don’t mind?” She asks, turning her head but not quite looking yet. It was his call.

“I don’t.” Astarion replies, and finds himself mildly surprised by his response, then, with a tilt of his head, he asks, “Do you?”

“Are you joking? You’re beautiful.” She tells him, and she hears his flattered sigh. “You probably won’t want to share with the sick, though.”

He’s silent for a moment, pensive. But then he tells her, “I’ll be out soon enough. Just a little longer.”

It’s not an insult for him to reject her. In some ways, it makes her rather happy to know that he knows he is free when it comes to her. So, with a grin, she offers, “Then can I help?”

“What?” Astarion asks, surprised. He lowers his book slightly.

“You’ve taken care of me this whole week. It’s the least I can do.” She says, looking for an accommodation. She folds her hands behind her back, waiting for his response.

“You don’t have to,” he reassures.

“I want to.” She replies simply, but doesn’t approach him yet. Then, she modestly asks to remind him his choice, “Will you let me?”

“Who am I to deny such a gracious offer?” Astarion answers as nonchalant as he can. “That is… you’re welcome to… I mean to say that… I’d like it if you’d stayed, as well.”

He hates admitting it, more to himself than to her. Sometimes it feels that whenever he’s starting to pull away, she’s always there to bring him back.

He can hear her little jump of excitement as she finally stops holding back and bounds towards him, moving a stool away closer to the tub before taking a seat on it.

She soaks her hands in water and finds herself surprised to learn that it’s warm, with a sweet, heady scent. Astarion’s prepared dozens of bathing supplies on the side, freshly-washed towels and lotions and other  She cups the water in her hands and pours it onto the back side of his head, letting her hands through his hair, and he closes his book before leaning back into her touch with a sigh. Both of his arms fall over the edge, and he lets the book fall to the ground in favour of relaxing.

Astarion had been soaking for a long time, his bath long due, and this was his first time to relax in days, to little avail. Mostly because he hasn’t been able to get Tav off his mind. Actually, he had begun reading his current novel to distract him from her.

Finally, she takes a bar of soap and lathers her hands with it before working the suds into Astarion’s hair. His thoughts dissipate as she runs her hands through his curls. Her nails scratch against his scalp lightly, and he’s pretty sure if he were capable of melting, he would have from her touch. Icarus he was not, but her touch is warm and comforting and the water laps at his chest gently and the balance between the two feels so precariously pleasant that when she finally pulls away, he can’t help but pout at her.

All she’s doing is getting a comb for him.

 While she lets her hands absentmindedly card through his hair, smoothing out the tangles. His hair curls, wild and free, even when sopping wet. He ends up looking a little shaggier, and although he detests looking anything less than perfect, he doesn’t seem to mind when it comes to Tav.

Her skin is flushed after a few minutes, hovering between a pink and scarlet colour, though he can’t tell if it’s from him or the heat of the tub or her fever.

But then she asks, “What were you reading?” and he feels like he’s about to lose it because of how engrossed he is in the book.

“It’s the most ridiculous drivel I’ve ever read!” He exclaims.

“You seem rather fond of it. You were reading it while I was sick, weren’t you?” Tav asks, giggling slightly. “What’s it about? What do you hate so much about it?”  

He scoffs. “Where can I start, darling. It’s told from the point of view of a sidekick, at best. They frame it as his ‘best friend’, but they’re leagues apart from each other. I mean, the main love interest, and the supporting main character, is such a beautiful, incredible and invigorating immortal hero. He’s an absolute god of a being, and he falls in love with the main character—this slave boy, a vague nobody, barely characterized by his devotion towards his saviour.”

“Hmm. It sounds tragic,” she says, empathetically.

“Don’t give me that! I take you for someone with better taste than this.” He says. “It’s hardly romantic.”

“You seem personally offended,” Tav notes.

“Well, I have rights to speak on this matter, as an immortal myself.” He explains. “I mean, what reason would this hero have to fall in love with a slave?”

“Do you need a reason to love?” Tav asks him quietly, fingers carding through his hair.

It sounds like she has her own thoughts on the matter, but wants to hear Astarion’s opinion, which takes him aback for a moment. But because she’s listening to him intently, he explains, “Even so, surely the immortal would get bored of a slave after a while, no? The hero finds it endearing just because the ordinary is so new to him, but how could an attraction founded on a novelty, at best, last?”

He cuts himself off, because he doesn’t want to explain how he relates to the piece any further, because in his eyes, he sees himself in that little slave boy, though he resents to admit it. That comparison alone makes him think too much of his relationship with Tav, because he can’t help but think if they hadn’t been abducted together, someone like Tav would have never been interested in him.

Then Tav stops massaging his scalp. At first, Astarion worries he’s been caught brooding and self-deprecating again, and he knows Tav always feels some personal duty to relieve him of it, so he quickly asks, “What’s on your mind?”

She shakes her head, and looks down at him with a reassuring smile. “Just… the heat is getting to me, a little.”

“Don’t give me that. Did I—did I say something wrong?” He asks, shifting a little in the bath.

“No, no. I’m just thinking about the book,” she assures him, but he knows that’s only half the truth. “I just found myself empathizing, that’s all.”

“Do you see yourself as the immortal, all-loving hero, then?” Astarion asks, a little worried. The last thing he wants to do is encourage her to leave him, but then—

“No. If I am any character in your book, I would likely be the slave.”

Her admission surprises him, and he turns back towards her. “You? There’s nothing ordinary or plain about you, and you’re hardly someone that needs to be rescued.”

She doesn’t explain any further, but she knows she is the slave in his story.

It is always like this: when she stops being useful or interesting to him, he will discard her. The second she becomes a burden onto him, the moment that the effort it takes to keep her surpasses her usefulness, she will be nothing at all to him. She feels like this is true, even if he won’t admit it. This is how most relationships were, even if people didn’t realize it.

She’s happy that it’s so straightforward with Astarion, though. He doesn’t do a very good job to conceal his goals or selfishness. She likes his honesty. She would resent it if he ever came to lose his boundaries, fall back into servitude or people-pleasing habits.

“There have been times that I have, but no one did end up saving me. Sometimes I think it would be nice to be saved.”

Astarion can’t say anything, because he understands her well, but at the same time, he actually did end up being saved, by her.

After a moment of silence, save for the occasional dripping of water as Tav finishes washing the suds out of his hair, Astarion finally parts from her touch to stretch. “Well, that’s enough for me. Best leave before the water turns my hands into prunes.” He says, then turns around to Tav, raising his eyebrow scandalously. “Shall I wash your hair, then?”

He doesn’t really expect her to decline, but she gives him a small, strained smile and says, “I really would like to be alone right now. I’ve been waited on hand and foot for the past week. You’re not my butler.”

But Astarion looks at her with such sympathetic red eyes, more honest and affectionate than anyone would expect from him, and it almost seems like he might reach out and hold her. If he shows her any more love tonight, she might fall apart entirely, and she doesn’t want to admit how much ability he has to unmake her.

“Very well.” He agrees, and she gives him a towel before turning around, and he finds it pitifully hilarious how she attempts to preserve his modesty, even when she’s seen everything about him, purely because he wished it. He gets out of the tub and wraps the towel around his waist, collecting his clothes. “If you need me, I’ll be here.” He tells her.

Still, she tells him, “Thank you,” before he hears her disrobe and settle into the tub with a satisfied sigh.

He thinks about her earlier confession: that she doesn’t know how to be loved. He thinks about the way she cried when she received his gift, even though—shouldn’t she have expected it? She had given him so many gifts, did she really believe he would never reciprocate?

“Astarion,” she calls out, and he turns around, looking at her back as she sits thoughtfully in the tub.

“Yes, love?” He asks.

“I need to be someone terrible, soon.” She tells him, and he isn’t sure what she means. “I don’t want you around for it, I think.”

It’s because she sounds hesitant that Astarion assures her, “I’ll always be here. Through thick and thin.”

She lets out a small hum of assent, and sinks into the tub. It doesn’t seem like she’ll say more, so he leaves. He doesn’t stray far—he takes a seat on the cobblestone outside of the bathing area, and opens his book, because although she said she wanted to be alone, he doesn’t really think that’s the case.

With a bit of reluctance, he wonders what it is, exactly, that she’s planning to do.

[cuubism]

physical therapy, part 6.

--

Hob's been wavering on things like timeline with Dream because, well, he doesn't want to push, but he does obviously want more. There's a lot that he wants, and he thinks Dream wants it too. But Hob can be patient. Definitely. For sure. He's the epitome of patience.

In any case, after a few more dates which are oh so very patient, and in which Dream seems to be gradually coming more and more out of his shell, Hob finally takes the plunge and texts him:

If you want, come over to my place this weekend and I'll cook for you, and adds his address.

He paces nervously while waiting for a response. Dream coming over... he doesn't know how that would end. Well, it would hopefully at least end in Dream eating a proper meal, but other than that...

It's really not so long before he gets a response, though it feels like an eternity.

Okay, writes Dream, with a smile. 🙂 Should I bring anything?

Just yourself, writes Hob.

A shame, for I was planning to arrive incorporeally.

Hob smiles to himself at the comment. Dream is so much brighter once he decides he’s allowed to be.

On the agreed-upon date, Hob spends a truly excessive amount of time getting ready. He’s not even cooking anything elaborate, as he felt convinced he’d wind up fucking it up out of nerves if he did. But really, the quality of his food isn’t the wild card. What he’s nervous about is Dream’s response to being in his home. To being alone. Whether he’ll be okay with it. He doesn’t want to make Dream nervous.

But Dream arrives on time, and he’s smiling when Hob opens the door. He’s also carrying a huge canvas.

Oh!” Hob says, distracted from even kissing him hello. “What have you got there?”

“It is for you,” Dream says, and turns the canvas around so Hob can see it.

It’s a large painting of a rather clever-looking cat, bright colors and bold swathes of paint. It reminds Hob of Dream’s finger paintings, actually, but far more precise in technique. It’s lovely. It’s so cute. And much more playful than Dream’s older art, the pieces he had shown Hob from before his injury.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,”  he says, and Dream smiles shyly. “I take it your grip’s been feeling steadier, then?”

“Somewhat,” Dream says, following Hob deeper into the flat, as Hob takes the painting and sets it on top of a low bookshelf, propped against the wall. Later he’ll have to hang it up properly. “I am. Enjoying painting again. I think.”

It’s so good to hear. Each time Hob sees Dream he seems incrementally better. Less frozen. More outgoing. And it always makes Hob realize that he’s only gotten to see a fraction of the life that truly exists inside of him.

“I’m so glad to hear that, darling,” he says.

It hurts to think of the version of Dream that might have been there before being hurt. But Hob likes the Dream that he gets to know now.

He leads Dream into the kitchen and bids him to sit down at the table while Hob serves their food, which is staying warm on the stove. Normally, when he invites someone over, he’d offer them wine, but he doesn’t want Dream to get the wrong idea. God, he’s probably massively overthinking things. He’s being totally paranoid, he knows it. But it feels so important that it be right. He’d never forgive himself if he made Dream feel unsafe around him, even if it was by accident.

“I am curious what you’ve prepared to attempt to persuade me to change my habits,” Dream says, after taking a sip of the water Hob’s handed him.

“Something with a lot of butter,” Hob says, and Dream laughs softly. Dream needs it, though. He needs something that’ll stick to his bones.

What he has is tarragon chicken—fried in, truly, an excessive amount of butter—served over rice with string beans. If this can’t encourage Dream to eat real meals, nothing can.

And, gratifyingly, he’s right. Dream devours it, and has seconds. As he eats his own serving more sedately Hob wonders when the last time was that somebody actually cooked for him.

They barely even talk, but Hob doesn’t mind. He just wants Dream to eat.

“You can cook,” Dream says, and Hob laughs.

“Was that in question?”

A light blush graces Dream’s cheeks. “When you first mentioned cooking for me, I had the thought that you were a catch. For that reason among others.”

Hob can’t help himself from smiling—and perhaps blushing a bit, too. “I’ll have to keep it up, and maybe you’ll keep me.”

Dream looks down at his food, but murmurs, “I would like to.”

So Hob takes his hand on the table and squeezes it.

Later in the evening, when they’ve been ensconced on the couch for a while watching mindless telly, Dream’s head on his shoulder, Hob says, “You can stay over if you want. No expectations. Just don’t want you walking home in the dark.”

He’ll walk Dream home if that’s what he really wants, but it’s already midnight and it really might be easier to just stay put.

“Am I allowed to stay over in your bed?” Dream asks, and Hob’s pulse jumps.

“That’s what you want?”

Dream nods.

So, heart still beating hard, Hob says, “Alright. Come on, then.”

And Dream takes his hand as Hob draws him up.

He gets Dream situated with some of his pajamas, which are far too large on him, and with a spare toothbrush and so on, and when they’re finally ready he tries not to be too awkward or nervous as he climbs into bed and gestures Dream to follow, saying, “Come on, love.”

He expects Dream might hesitate, but he doesn’t, just crawls into bed after him and presses himself all up against Hob’s body, laying his head on Hob’s chest. And— God. He’s really decided that he trusts Hob. It puts a lump in Hob’s throat.

He feels like a fucking teenager again, stomach all fluttery just at the feeling of Dream lying against him. In past relationships, Hob had mostly jumped in sex-first, questions-later. But maybe there are more benefits to taking things slow than he thought. It makes every tiny thing feel monumental.

“Comfortable?” he asks, and Dream nods, hair brushing Hob’s chin.

“Yes, thank you.”

Hob pulls the blankets up over them, pets his hair. Dream lets out a long, happy sigh, and snuggles closer.

I’m going to keep you, Hob thinks. “Goodnight, Dream,” he says.

[wanderingaldecaldo]

Messages keep getting clearer Radio's on, and I'm moving 'round my place I check my look in the mirror I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face ▶

From the first draft of the corpo!val longfic...

“Good afternoon, welcome. Are you checking in?”

He steps forward to the counter, releasing his touch on Val at last. “Yes. Mitch and Valerie Anderson.”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson, I see your reservation here: four weeks in our lovely Morro suite. It is fully stocked one bedroom with full service kitchen and balcony with a water view.”

“One bedroom?” he falters; he’s certain Val told him there would be two.

“Yes, sir. Is that a problem?”

His eyes slide over to Val as the visual distortion increases and more hormones pump into his system. She squeezes his bicep as she steps up to the counter.

“I believe we had a reservation for your two bedroom suite. I adore my husband,” she says, pausing to look up at him with a sweet smile, and her touch grounds him somewhat. “But this man snores like a fleet of AVs. If I have to share a bedroom with him, I will be suing you to pay for our divorce, and for damages.”

Val’s face lights up as she laughs and he follows her lead, throwing his head back and guffawing. 

“Please, for the sake of my marriage,” he says, still chuckling as he turns back to the receptionist. “Don’t wanna test that prenup.”

Val laughs and swats him with her other hand.

“Let me see what I can do,” the receptionist says and smiles politely. She resumes typing and moments later looks up at them. “I apologize for that oversight. I do have a two bedroom suite available. There will be a slight price difference.”

Mitch waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever Valerie wants, she gets.”

She gives a laugh that he can describe as sultry as she leans into him, and he slides his organic hand down her back to her waist, pulling her tight against his side. 

“Of course, sir. We have adjusted our records. One moment please.”

A new alert pops up in the corner of his HUD, SCAN INITIATED, and it’s time for the first real test of the soft. The new deck from Vik shows the data being received by the scanner:

MITCHELL ANDERSON DOB: 2028-04-29 NATIONALITY: NUSA .... 

The data flowing from his deck matches the info packet passed on by Val and he releases the breath he’s been holding. He glances over at Val who’s watching him, and he gives her a lopsided smile and presses a kiss to her forehead. The chemicals taper off and the disorientation plateaus but he continues to focus on Val, on the feel of her against his side and the soft skin of her arm under his calloused fingertips.

“Very well, you are all checked in,” the receptionist says. “Please let us know if there is anything you require, otherwise please enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” Val says with a warm smile, and he nods with an awkward smile.

When the valet directs them away from the desk, Mitch finally releases his grip on Val’s waist and follows her to a bank of elevators.

[turtleinsoup]

Happy Birthday @thedawningofthehour!! I love ur work with DOTH!!

[astrum99]

Do you think bugs fall in love?

Their small bodies host even tinier brains. Built to crawl through soil and rocks bigger than itself. Running on a simple software bouncing between eat, sleep, fight, flight, and copulate.

V1 is smarter than a bug. It must be. It’s a war machine, so it must be. Its programming is complex enough to fry several motherboards; the internals are heated from constant, unrelenting processing needs. If it updates its optical data intake to any greater degree than these rough, messy polygons, it’d surely perish from the overwhelming information.

V1 is built to kill first, survive second. To be fair, survival would ensure more killing, so it’d be more effective. Moving through the battlefield, culling lives, drawing blood. Perfectly aligned with its programmed objectives, then.

Gabriel is smarter than a bug. He must be. He’s an angel, so he must be. He’s one of the best soldiers in the heavenly realm. Armour and swords glistened with pride and justice. He sees all. He judges all. His loyalty and perfect track record have earned him a high rank within the order. Leaving behind the creaturely "it". His light burns hot and bright within his constitution.

Gabriel is built as a messenger of the Father, then a judge of Hell. To be fair, the role of a judge was assigned to him by the council, so he supposes that his placement can be summed up as the bearer of the divine authority to bring right to all other creatures. Perfectly aligned, then.

Bugs… Well, they’re the same. I suppose. Small beings. Running pre-programmed orders derived from centuries of evolution: eat, sleep, fight, flight, and copulate. No role. No responsibilities.

Bugs are built naturally and fully, unlike humankind; but formed and ready to go within seconds from their births, like machines and angels.

So. Do they live?

When the machine and the angel escape their chains, do they see themselves in bugs?

Bugs are born to live, temporarily, fleetingly, yet live nonetheless. Do they, then, deserve to live, freeing and meaninglessly. No role. No responsibilities.

So. Do bugs love?

Do they learn that they can go beyond their basic structures? Do they see their own reflection in each other’s compound eyes? Do they recognize each other’s bodies, scents, heat? Do they feel the desire for closeness?

To flutter wings like a dance of waltz. To brush antennae like butterfly kisses. To greet and caress and lie next to each other near their death.

To move through the sky in battle, in passion. To clash swords and fists and bullets. To greet and caress and lie next to each other near their death.

The same cells in the same blood coursing beneath the same suit of exoskeletons.

Machine, angel, bug. Boiled down to the barest essence of existence; crisp simplicity.

To live, to love.

[simple-dark-eyes]

*Mexican!Yuu, going to Savanaclaw after putting up the ramshackle for collateral. Leona basically called them dumb for making a deal with Azul.*

Yuu: *pulling out the chancla* I'm going full Mexican on your bitch ass!¡Mas te vale que nos des un pinche cuarto! ¡Si no, horita te tumbo los pinche ojos güey!

Leona: Someone tell me what they're saying! I don't speak Taco Bell!

Ruggie: *hysterically laughing despite also not knowing what was said*

Leona: What the fuck are they saying?!

Ruggie: *wheezing, practically dying from laughter*

[sky-kiss]

Haarlep x F!Tav: Visitation

A/n: I promise, I am leaving the Boudoir now. We will go somewhere a little less red.

Ah, but wonder of wonders, the little mouse returns. It delights Haarlep. 

She comes to him like a virgin bride approaching her bedding, hesitant, and so, so sweet. Fire courses through her veins, yes, like a new flame basking lovers in its glow, kissed with cinnamon and heat. Her scent is fresh compared to Avernus' brimstone and ash.

She smiles, raising her hand to brush the fringe of her hair back, a flush of pink in her cheeks- so delicate, his mouse, so breakable. It's intoxicating.

"Bold, pet, so bold of you to return. Did you escape once? Yes. But twice?" Haarlep strokes the space beside him. "That may be too much to ask." 

An unspoken truth hangs in the air, tantalizing, a pretty threat: none could enter the House without the Master's permission. Yet here is the mouse, alone and hungering, while the whisper of her essence bound to him whimpers. Keep her, it says, and he nearly moans, oh, keep her, use her.  

"I was dreaming." She chews her lower lip. Such a pretty mouth, full lips, aching to take his cock. "Tell me I'm still dreaming?"

"Mmm, but I could tell you far sweeter lies, so why waste the effort?" He holds his left hand out for her, fingers crooked. The claws are razor sharp, ebony black, and glittering in the torchlight. "Come."  

She comes, eager to please. Haarlep sees the inexperience written across her soul, if not her body. A foolish little creature, lost, starved for pleasure and the world's validation. She crawls to him, shivering despite the House's warmth and the force of her desire.

"Good girl. Closer." 

She hesitates, knees fetched against his thighs. Such trepidation, such tiresome guilt. "Haarlep, yes?" 

"Yes, sweetling. Now come closer." 

"I've no desire to use you, Haarlep." Another wash of color across her cheeks, delightful, naive little thing. Heat licks across the space between them, her blood heating in response to his proximity. It cares as little for her moralizing as he does. "Please. I've not come here for that." 

"Of course," he coos, reaching out. His hands settle over the sharp rise of Tav's hips, tracing the bony ridges. "You would never dream of it. Only," he pulls her near, speaking into the hollow of her throat. "You were dreaming, weren't you?" He tastes sweat and cinnamon on her skin. "Tell Haarlep what about, sweetling. I shan't tell a soul." 

Ah, but he already knows. The reason and cause of Tav's arrival were the same, equally disappointing. Their Master. The little creature's mind is full of Raphael. Laughable fantasies: Raphael loving her, a partnership, belonging. It's a soul-deep longing, infatuation, and attraction drowning out her common sense. It's baffling. She pulls back to look at him, eyes wide and full of feeling. 

"Kissing you," she mumbles, gaze flicking to his lips. "I wanted to kiss you. Him." 

Gods help him, he laughs. "Oh, you do sell yourself cheap."

She aches with the force of her want. Aches down to her bones. It calls to him, to the primordial part of him Raphael could not change. Haarlap gathers her into his lap, reveling in the catch of her breath. Her arms come around him, one hand tangling in his hair, an intimate embrace, a lover's hold. 

Her fingers play through his hair, occasionally tugging, never pulling. The gentility is as expected (and welcome) as a nun in a brothel. Tav's touch feathers upward, brushing the double set of horns. It's a charming little eccentricity but not interesting. They are more interested in the wash of heat as he rocks into her. Raphael will lavish in the sensation. 

Corruption is, in many ways, as sweet as the act itself.