#Black is the name of my Narrator by the way

[blackkatdraws]

OMG IT'S THE LITTLE MAN 🫵 THE SKRUNKLE‼️

Only Black's allowed to do that💗 @raptor-lucid

This comic is referencing this post

[employee052]

this is your reminder to make ur cringy n self indulgent art bc cringe is dead and you gotta live life (I say, despite the fact i still feel a bit cringe but im being so brave abt it)

lettin myself post n do more art for myself so apologies for the more selfshippy art than usual

[physalian]

How To Make Your Writing Less Stiff 5

Movement

Dredging this back up from way back.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much during heavy dialogue scenes. E.g. two characters sitting and talking—do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them…

Gesture

Wave

Frown

Laugh

Cross their legs/their arms

Shift around to get comfortable

Pound the table

Roll their eyes

Point

Shrug

Touch their face/their hair

Wring their hands

Pick at their nails

Yawn

Stretch

Sniff/sniffle

Tap their fingers/drum

Bounce their feet

Doodle

Fiddle with buttons or jewelry

Scratch an itch

Touch their weapons/gadgets/phones

Check the time

Get up and sit back down

Move from chair to tabletop

The list goes on.

Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t—what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

As in, you could say “he’s nervous” or you could show, “He fidgets, constantly glancing at the clock as sweat beads at his temples.”

This site is full of discourse on telling vs showing so I’ll leave it at that.

Epithets

In the Sci-fi WIP that shall never see the light of day, I had a flashback arc for one male character and his relationship with another male character. On top of that, the flashback character was a nameless narrator for Reasons.

Enter the problem: How would you keep track of two male characters, one who you can't name, and the other who does have a name, but you can’t oversaturate the narrative with it? I did a few things.

Nameless Narrator (written in 3rd person limited POV) was the only narrator for the flashback arc. I never switched to the boyfriend’s POV.

Boyfriend had only a couple epithets that could only apply to him, and halfway through their relationship, NN went from describing him as “the other prisoner” to “his cellmate” to “his partner” (which was also a double entendre). NN also switched from using BF’s full name to a nickname both in narration and dialogue.

BF had a title for NN that he used exclusively in dialogue, since BF couldn’t use his given name and NN hadn’t picked a new one for himself.

Every time the subject of the narrative switched, I started a new paragraph so “he” never described either character ambiguously mid-paragraph.

Is this an extreme example? Absolutely, but I pulled it off according to my betas.

The point of all this is this: Epithets shouldn’t just exist to substitute an overused name. Epithets de-personalize the subject if you use them incorrectly. If your narrator is thinking of their lover and describing that person without their name, then the trait they pick to focus on should be something equally important to them. In contrast, if you want to drive home how little a narrator thinks of somebody, using depersonalizing epithets helps sell that disrespect.

Fanfic tends to be the most egregious with soulless epithets like "the black-haired boy" that tell the reader absolutely nothing about how the narrator feels about that black-haired boy, espeically if they're doing so during a highly-emotional moment.

As in, NN and BF had one implied sex scene. Had I said “the other prisoner” that would have completely ruined the mood. He’s so much more than “the other prisoner” at that point in the story. “His partner,” since they were both a combat team and romantically involved, encompassed their entire relationship.

The epithet also changed depending on what mood or how hopeless NN saw their situation. He’d wax and wane over how close he believed them to be for Reasons. NN was a very reserved character who kept BF at a distance, afraid to go “all in” because he knew there was a high chance of BF not surviving this campaign. So NN never used “his lover”.

All to say, epithets carried the subtext of that flashback arc, when I had a character who would not talk about his feelings. I could show you the progression of their relationship through how the epithets changed.

I could show you whenever NN was being a big fat liar about his feelings when he said he's not in love, but his narration gave him away. I could show you the exact moment their relationship shifted from comrades to something more when NN switched mid-paragraph from "his cellmate" to "his partner" and when he took up BF's nickame exclusively in the same scene.

I do the same thing in Eternal Night when Elias, my protagonist, stops referring to Dorian as "it" and "the vampire" instead of his name the moment they collide with a much more dangerous vampire, so jarringly that Elias notices in his own narration—the point of it being so explicit is that this degredation isn't automatic, it's something he has to conciously do, when everyone else in his clan wouldn't think twice about dehumanizing them.

—

Any literary device should be used with intent if you want those layers in your work. The curtains are rarely just blue. Whether it’s a simile with a deliberate comparison or an epithet with deliberate connotations, your readers will pick up on the subtext, I promise.

[its-your-mind]

ORV as textposts 39/???

[Photo ID - 10 images from the Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint manhwa with Tumblr posts pasted upon them.

The first image shows the backs of nine members of the main cast as they look toward the sun in the background. The text post is by Tumblr user daisies-on-a-cup and reads, "THEY DID IT THEY ESCAPED THE NARRATIVE!!! THERE IS A WAY OUT!!! THE STORY CAN BE ALTERED!!! YOU ARE NOT STUCK-THERE IS AN ESCAPE!!!! THERE IS A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL BUT YOU HAVE TO WALK TOWARDS IT!!!!"

The second image shows Kim Dokja in a suit with his hand on his hip. The text post is by Tumblr user yuridefender and reads, "i do love stories that start out with the protagonist going "hi! 👋😀 i am such a normal guy. the most average person ever. 😄 an average joe even. i have no friends or enemies. i spend my time reading books and sing to myself on occasions. nothing to see here! ^^" and it turns out that not only are they a liar but also the most fucked up person ever. and a cunt"

The third image shows Kim Dokja with a shocked face. Yoo Joonghyuk is clutching Kim Dokja's shoulder as he falls. Lee Hyungsung is behind Kim Dokja on the viewer's right, and Yoo Sangah and Shin Yoosung are running toward Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk from the viewer's left. The text post is by Tumblr user littlespoonsokka and reads "oh and btw the love was there and it changed everything. if u even care"

The fourth image shows Kim Dokja. The text post is by Tumblr user tomwambsgirl and reads, "being an unreliable narrator is inherently homoerotic". They reblogged with an addition that reads, "what do you have to hide? your sexuality?"

The fifth image shows Yoo Joonghyuk yelling dramatically. The text post is by Tumblr user fembutchboygirl and reads, "He's a cis man. He's transfem. He's nonbinary. He has 35 genders. He's a cis woman. He's a trans man. Gender, he barely knows her. He's transmasc. He's gnc. He doesn't know what a pronoun is. I didn t say his name but he popped into your head didn't he"

The sixth image shows Yoo Joonghyuk staring at Kim Dokja while he holds him by the throat. Kim Dokja is slightly beaten up and smirking back at him. The text post is by Tumblr user neilgayman69 and reads, "They have never canonically fucked. But also they have, and they should, and it would be a horrible idea."

The seventh image has Yoo Joonghyk hunched over in the foreground with Lee Hyungsung to his left and Shin Yoosung to his right. Kim Dokja is in the background with Yoo Sangah on his right and the viewer's left. He's facing Yoo Joonghyuk and the viewer slightly and is hunched over with a sword in his hand. The text post is by Tumblr user billypotts and reads, "stories about time travel are about two things. number one is inevitable tragedy. number two is seeing that inevitable tragedy and saying oh god I will make this right please even if I can't fix it I will try to make this right. also I lied they're about three things and third is obviously love"

The eighth image is a close-up of Kim Dokja with smile and dull eyes against a black background. The text post is by Tumblr user raylangivins and reads, "I love a character who's like "I know exactly who I am and I'm being very authentic about it" and then when you analyse his behaviour even a little bit you realise his self perception is completely selective and delusional."

The ninth image shows Han Sooyoung, Yoo Joonghyuk, and Kim Dokja. Yoo Joonghyuk is leaned over Han Sooyoung's back while Kim Dokja is slightly off to the viewer's right with a confused expression. The text post is by Tumblr user notsoni and reads, "Not soulmates but it always had to be them and they weren't destined to be together but they were doomed to be but also it took everything for them to get here and also it was never supposed to happen but also it always was and had to happen this way. Hope this helps"

The final image shows the members of Kimcom sitting around a garbage-can fire with drinks. The text post is by Tumblr user gothritsu and reads, "if theres no found family what is the God Damn Fucking Point". /End ID]

ID by @incorrect-web-novels tysm!!!

[velarisdusk]

Beneath the Vines

Lucien Vanserra x Reader

word count: 6.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, sex pollen (so, dub-con), unprotected PIV, public sex (forest setting), language, rough sex, biting/marking ] summary: Seeking refuge from court politics in a secluded part of the forest, Lucien meets a female from the Summer Court searching for a hidden spring. He offers to guide her, but their journey takes an unexpected turn when he comes into contact with a mysterious pollen... author's note: this idea has been cooking in the back of my mind since i finished the first book back in december, so i'm happy to finally share it :) writing some of his lines and the narration had me swooning i love him your honor ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

Lucien let out a long breath as the sounds of the court faded behind him. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the forest floor with warm patches that shifted in the gentle breeze. He closed his eyes, focusing on the soft rustling of branches and distant birdsong. It was rare to find such quiet moments, free from the constant dance of court politics and expectations. As the tension in his shoulders slowly eased, Lucien allowed his thoughts to wander, no longer needing to guard every expression and word. 

His brow furrowed as he mulled over the latest reports from their border scouts. Hybern was growing bolder, their movements more frequent and less concealed. He’d tried to discuss it with Tamlin, but the High Lord seemed more concerned with maintaining the illusion of peace, instead focusing his people and efforts on the upcoming Calanmai festivities. 

A twig snapped beneath Lucien’s boot as he began to pace. Rumors were swirling through the courts. Whispers of Hybern’s king sending one of his most cunning generals to Prythian. Amarantha, they called her. The name tasted like ash on his tongue. 

He paused, leaning against a tree trunk, its rough bark grounding him. How long could the Spring Court afford to turn a blind eye? How long before the fragile peace between the courts shattered under the weight of this looming threat? Lucien’s gaze swept across the peaceful forest, so at odds with the turmoil in his mind. He’d seen firsthand how quickly alliances could shift, how devastating the fallout could be. This time, he vowed silently, he’d be prepared. Whatever storm was coming, he’d do everything in his power to ensure Spring weathered it. 

His ears pricked at the sound of rustling leaves, followed by the snap of a twig. In an instant, his posture changed from relaxed to alert. His hand flew to the dagger at his hip, drawing it in one fluid motion as he spun towards the source of the noise, russet eyes scanning the brush.

A figure emerged from behind a large oak, and Lucien found himself face to face with a female High Fae. She froze, eyes wide, clearly not expecting to encounter anyone else in this secluded part of the forest. Lucien’s grip on his dagger loosened slightly as he took in the unexpected sight before him. The female stood there, clearly startled, holding a woven tote bag over one shoulder. Her hair flowed slightly in the wind, and she wore a sheer, cream-colored crochet cover-up that did little to conceal the black swimsuit underneath. The ensemble was revealing for a trek through the forest. 

“Sorry to interrupt, kind sir,” she said sarcastically. “Just passing through.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“How could you possibly know that? You don’t even—”

“You’re looking for the spring, right? It’s not that way.” He gestured to his left, far ahead. “It’s hidden, and not in the direction you were headed.”

She crossed her arms, clearly skeptical. “And you know this because…?”

Lucien chuckled softly. “Because I’ve spent more time exploring these woods than I’d like to admit.”

She started walking off in the direction he signaled, and he jogged a bit to keep pace with her. “I can show you the way, if you’d like.”

After a moment’s hesitation, came a shrug and a nonchalant response. “Alright, lead the way then.”

He didn’t try to hide his smirk at her casual demeanor. 

As they fell into step together, he couldn’t help but notice the graceful way she moved across the uneven forest floor. He broke the silence after a moment.

“You’re not from the Spring Court, are you?” he asked, his tone light and teasing. 

Her lips formed a small smile. “Is it that obvious? I’m visiting from the Summer Court. I heard tales of the hidden natural springs here and couldn’t resist seeking them out,” she replied. “And the heat wave made the idea of a cool spring irresistible.”

Summer, he mused. She had a brightness about her, a warmth that seemed out of place in the cool shade of the forest.

He chuckled. “Well, you’re in for a treat. Just beyond those trees over there, through the vines. I must admit, Summer, you certainly know how to find the most intriguing places.”

She glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “‘Summer’?”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. “Seems fitting for a female as radiant as yourself.”

An eye roll failed to hide the smile tugging at the corners of her soft lips. 

“I’m Lucien,” he said, extending his hand with his palm up. 

She hesitated for a moment before placing her hand gently in his. “(Y/N),” she replied, her eyes meeting his with a spark of curiosity and amusement. 

“A pleasure, Summer,” Lucien said, his voice low and smooth. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across the back of it.

She laughed, a melodic sound that seemed to blend with the sounds of spring around them. “Nice to meet you too, Lucien.”

He lingered for a moment, their hands still lightly clasped, before finally releasing her. “Shall we?” he asked, a smile playing on his lips, his eyes twinkling with intent. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Their conversation flowed easily as they walked, with Lucien pointing out various plants and sharing tidbits about them.

“What’s this one?” she asked, pointing to a vibrant blue flower.

“That’s moonbloom. It only opens at night, used in sleeping draughts,” Lucien explained, pleased by her interest.

“And that? The tree with the silver bark?”

“Whisperwood. The Court’s best instruments are carved from it.”

Their exchange continued, with Lucien sharing more about the flora they passed. Eventually, he turned the conversation to her.

“Tell me about the Summer Court. I’ve spent some time there, though I suspect there’s always more to learn.”

“It’s vibrant and full of life. There are endless festivities, stunning beaches, and exquisite food. I may be biased but of all the courts I’ve visited, Summer definitely has the best cuisine. People are already preparing for the solstice even though it’s barely March.” A soft sigh. “But… the constant activity, the heat… it can be a bit overwhelming.”

Time seemed to slip away as they walked, the forest around them a lush backdrop to their discussion. Eventually, they reached a curtain of vines hanging between two ancient trees. 

Lucien stepped forward gently parting the greenery. A fine, glittering pollen dusted his hand as he brushed against the vines. He blinked, momentarily disoriented by a sudden rush of warmth through his body, but he attributed it to the day’s heat. 

"After you," he said, holding the vines open with a slight bow, trying to shake off the lightheadedness.

Amusement and appreciation danced in her eyes, accompanied by a warm smile as she stepped through the vines. Lucien followed, letting the vines fall back into place behind them. As they walked, a sweet scent filled his senses — warm vanilla mingled with honey and a hint of sea salt. He found himself inhaling deeply, drawn to the aroma.

As they rounded a large boulder, the spring came into view, its serene beauty unfolding before them. The sight before them was breathtaking. A lush, verdant oasis spread out in a natural amphitheater, encircled by towering trees draped with cascading vines. The milky white pool at the center was fed by a small, delicate waterfall, its gentle cascade a soothing murmur that filled the air. Vibrant moss cloaked the surrounding rocks and tree roots, forming an ethereal green expanse that stretched to the water’s edge. Exotic flowers in vibrant hues dotted the landscape, their colors a stark contrast to the predominantly green surroundings. Above, the canopy formed a natural dome, with sunlight filtering through the intricate patterns of leaves, casting a magical glow over the alcove. 

"It's beautiful," her words were hardly more than a breath, eyes widening in genuine awe as she tentatively stepped deeper into the sanctuary.

Lucien nodded, his gaze drawn between the spring and his companion. "The minerals in the water give it that color," he explained, his voice taking on a rich, velvety quality that surprised even him. He cleared his throat and leaned against a tree, arms crossed. He watched as she  set her woven tote bag onto a nearby rock. Reaching over her shoulder to unfasten the tie of her cover-up, the delicate fabric slipped off her shoulders, revealing soft, smooth skin. The way the bikini she wore fit every dip and curve deliciously. His breath hitched as his russet eyes lingered on her, watching her with an intensity that surprised him. 

Flip flops discarded, she dipped a toe into the water, a shiver running up her spine as the coolness contrasted with the warm air. “Oh, that’s refreshing,” she murmured, taking a tentative step into the spring.

The water was unlike any she had ever felt, a soothing mixture of cool and silky, enveloping her in a comforting embrace. She fully submerged herself, the refreshing sensation washing over her as she disappeared beneath the surface. When she emerged, droplets of water clung to her skin, shimmering in the sunlight. 

A warmth spread through Lucien’s veins, his pulse quickening as he watched her. The way the sunlight played on her skin, highlighting the gentle curves and the elegance of her movements, captivated him. His thoughts grew hazy, his usually sharp focus dulled by the inexplicable urge to be closer to her. His gaze traced the line of her neck, watching as the breeze gently lifted strands of her hair. Every subtle shift, every graceful motion seemed to draw him in further. The serene pool and vibrant surroundings had practically faded, leaving only the mesmerizing vision of his Summer Court visitor before him. 

His…?

Lucien shook his head a bit, a useless attempt to rid himself of the growing intensity of his thoughts. It had to be the heat, it was getting to him. 

“You look hot,” she said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Lucien blinked, momentarily flustered as he took in the way her wet hair clung to her, the bathing suit now a shade darker and clinging to her curves. She looked exquisite, the milky white water droplets glistening on her skin like tiny jewels. “So do you, Summer,” he replied, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

She laughed, the sound like a light, bubbling brook. “I meant you’re dressed too warmly for this weather. Why don’t you join me and cool off?”

Lucien felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the weather. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately, as he began to undress. His fingers deftly unfastened his tunic, revealing a chiseled chest and toned muscles beneath. The sunlight filtering through the leaves cast tantalizing shadows across his skin, highlighting every ridge and contour. 

As he shrugged off his tunic, he noticed the sticky pollen coating his hand. He tried to rub it off onto the fabric, but it clung stubbornly to his skin. He frowned slightly. No matter, it would come off in the water. 

He continued undressing, kicking off his boots and undoing his belt, letting it fall to the forest floor. As he slipped out of his trousers, now standing in just his boxers, he couldn’t help but notice her eyes following his every move.

Lucien caught her gaze and held it, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He had been watching her watch him the entire time, a fact she only realized when she tore her eyes away from his body and looked up to meet his gaze.

With deliberate grace, he stepped into the water, the coolness a stark contrast to the heat bubbling beneath his skin. The spring’s translucent white waters swirled around his calves as he waded deeper, his eyes never leaving hers. 

He finally submerged himself, the water rippling around him as he moved closer to her. “Better?” he asked, his voice low and intimate, the playful smirk returning to his lips.

She felt her pulse quicken, the sight of him, all muscle and smooth confidence, stirring something deep within her. “Much,” she replied, a smile playing at her lips. 

They floated together in the cool water, the soothing embrace of the spring relaxing their muscles. Lucien watched as she dipped her head back, letting her hair float around her like a halo. She closed her eyes, a look of pure bliss on her face.

“This place is incredible,” she said softly, her eyes still closed. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

Lucien smiled, his own tension easing in the tranquil atmosphere. “It’s one of the Spring Court’s hidden gems. Not many know about it.”

Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a flicker of curiosity. “How did you find it?”

He shrugged, moving closer. “I stumbled upon it years ago, during a particularly stressful time. This general area of the forest has been my escape ever since.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying the peaceful surroundings and the coolness of the water. Lucien felt a tingling heat spreading through his body, no longer the gentle warmth of before. His thoughts kept drifting back to the female in front of him, the way her skin glistened with water droplets, to the curve of her lips when she smiled. He wanted to feel those lips.

He tried to push the thoughts aside, but the more he tried to ignore it, the more intense it became, his desire for her was becoming harder to control, the need to touch her, to feel her against him, was almost overwhelming. 

“This spring is said to have unique properties,” he continued, his eyes lingering on her face, her eyes, her lips. “Some say that bathing in its waters can bring good fortune, or help with one’s artistic talents.” He chuckled softly. “But others speak of it being enchanted in a more intimate way.”

This provoked a turn of the head and a raised eyebrow, curiosity peaked. "Well, I never cared much for fortune, and I’m a sorry excuse for an artist,” she laughed softly. “So what have you heard? About the intimacies of the spring?” An almost knowing smile graced her lips. 

He swallowed, trying to cover it up with a nonchalant shrug. “They say,” he began, slowly, “that the waters can awaken one’s deepest desires. Enhance one’s… physical urges.”

She smirked at that. “Sounds to me like whoever came up with that got to this spring already horny,” she laughed. At the shit-eating grin on his face, her laughter grew infectious. “Oh, shut the fuck up,” she said, playfully shoving his shoulder.

But the touch was searing. He hissed, a jolt of electricity shot through Lucien’s body, his skin burning where her fingers made contact. His pulse quickened, and he felt a raw, primal need flare up inside him. The laughter faded, replaced by a charged silence. Every muscle in his body tensed as he struggled to keep composed. 

“Lucien?” Concern laced her voice. She reached out for him, but he flinched away from her touch, bringing his hands up to stop her. Hurt flashed across her face until she noticed… “What’s that on your hand?”

She reached out again, but he pulled his hand back, glancing at the sticky pollen coating his skin. Suddenly, it clicked. He knew what this was, had heard tales of its effects but had never encountered it personally.

“It’s… it’s this pollen,” he said, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “It must’ve been on the vines at the entrance. I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together…”

A mix of curiosity and concern filled her eyes. “What does it do?”

Lucien took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He could hear his heart thrumming in his ears and wanted nothing more in that moment than to throw himself at the female mere feet across from him. “The pollen is known to,” he pauses with a sigh, choosing his words carefully. “It causes arousal, an intense arousal, making it almost impossible to think about anything else. It heightens every sensation, makes my skin feel like it’s on fire whenever you touch me.” She could see his chest rising and falling more shallowly, could hear his breaths coming more rapidly, could see his pupils dilate each time he looked at her. He hesitantly added, “The only way to get rid of its effects is through… physical intimacy.”

Her eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning on her. “You mean…?”

He nodded, though his regretful expression barely concealed his longing. “Yes, but don’t concern yourself. This isn’t your problem to solve,” he said, his voice strained yet resolute. “I’ll return home and find a way to… handle this. You’re under no obligation here.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched, clearly struggling with the pollen’s effects, but his eyes remained steady. “I apologize, it was careless of me not to recognize the signs sooner.”

With that, he turned, moving to exit the spring and retrieve his clothes. The cool water swirled around him as he took a step, but he felt a hand grasp his bicep, halting his retreat. The contact sent a shockwave of heat through his body, as if her hold would be permanently marked on the flesh there. His muscles coiled tightly beneath her touch, and he had to force himself to contain a whimper that threatened to escape his throat. Every sensation was amplified, transforming the simple gesture into an exquisite torment. He glanced back, his eyes darkening, surprise giving way to raw, unadulterated need. 

“It’s not such an inconvenience,” she said softly, her gaze meeting his with an intensity that made his skin prickle with anticipation.

His eyes widened in surprise, but she rolled hers, a playful smirk forming on her lips. “Don’t act so surprised, Lucien.” His name on her tongue sent a jolt of arousal through him, and he only realized now how painfully constricted his cock was. “It’s obvious I want you, and I think you wanted me even before the pollen?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I did. I do.”

Her smirk turned into a gentle smile as she reached out again, tracing a finger down his chest. “So let me help you.”

Lucien’s body tensed, caught between desire and restraint. “Wait,” he said, his voice husky. As he spoke, his hand dipped beneath the water, fingers flexing unconsciously. “You should know… I’ve managed to control myself thus far, but if we continue…” He paused, swallowing hard, his voice dropping to a low, strained growl. “Once I feel you, I won’t be able to stop.”

His fingers curled into a fist underwater. Most of the visible pollen had washed away, leaving only faint traces on his skin, but its effects still coursed through his body. The cool water did nothing to dull the rush of his blood pumping in his ears. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, he refocused on her, his eyes full of want. 

“The pollen… it’s mostly gone now,” he managed, his breath nothing more than rhythmic, short pants. “But it’s like it’s under my skin, in my blood. I can feel it everywhere.” He unclenched his fist, watching as the last remnants of the pollen dissipated into the vast pool, now diluted and rendered harmless. “You won’t be affected, but I…” His eyes bore into hers, desperation in his voice as he spoke, “I’m burning for you, (Y/N).”

With a tender smile, she closed the distance between them. Her hands cupped his face, thumbs gently caressing his cheekbones. Lucien's breath caught in his throat, her touch igniting sparks beneath his skin. His hands remained steadfast on the large stone submerged beneath the water behind him, as though touching her might shatter what fragile self-control he had left.

"It's okay," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his lips. "I've got you."

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his with exquisite softness. The kiss was slow, deliberate, a stark contrast to the fire raging within him. Lucien's eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed by the sensation. Even in the cool water, heat radiated from his skin, and where her lips met his, it felt as though he might combust.

She drew back slightly, placing feather-light kisses along his jaw, then down his neck. Each touch was like a brand, marking him, stoking the flames of his desire. Seeing his hesitation, she gently guided his trembling hands to her waist. The sensation of her bare skin beneath her fingertips sent a shiver through him, and he instinctively bucked his hips against her, a long, deep whine escaping his lips like a plea. The sound shot straight to her core. 

"(Y/N)," he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips. 

A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. “Not ‘Summer’ anymore? I was starting to think you’d forgotten my name,” she spoke against his neck.

Lucien’s gaze was unfocused, looking at the vines on the other side of the spring, pupils dilated as he struggled to process her words. His breath came in short, ragged pants, and a fine tremor ran through his body. “Forget your name?” he murmured into her ear, his voice hoarse. Each word seemed to cost him great effort, as if speaking required immense concentration. “Darling, it’s the only word my mind can form right now.”

His fingers tightened on her waist, seeking an anchor as the world around him seemed to blur, leaving only her in sharp focus.

The gentleness of her actions was both a balm and a torment. His body screamed for more, for friction, for release from this exquisite agony. Yet he found himself surrendering to her pace, allowing her to lead him through this intoxicating haze. 

She returned to his lips, deepening the kiss ever so slightly. Lucien responded with a low moan, the sound vibrating through both of them. The gentle waves of the spring embraced them, their cool touch contrasting with the heat building between them, intensifying every sensation.

Without breaking the kiss, Lucien’s hands tightened on her waist, subtly guiding them towards a shallower part of the water. He felt the solid presence of a smooth, submerged stone beneath him and sank down onto it, pulling her closer. She straddled him, her legs on either side of his, pressing her body against his so deliciously that he couldn’t help it when his hips bucked up hard against hers. She gasped in surprise, the sound mingling with their shared breath.

“I’m sorry, I—” he began, but she silenced him by grinding down onto him, her movements deliberate and slow, a wordless reassurance that sent yet another pulse of need crashing through him. His mind spun, every point of contact between them sent his nerves into a frenzy. Her skin felt like silk under his fingers, warm and inviting. He let his hands roam, tracing the curve of her back, feeling the subtle shift of muscles beneath her skin. The way she moved against him, the soft gasps and moans escaping her lips, were a symphony that played directly into the hot coil within him. His hands wandered further, exploring every inch of her, committing the feel of her to memory. He caressed her sides, ran his fingers along the edges of her swimsuit. His touch was gently yet firm, reflecting his reverence for her as well as the uncontrollable hunger that coursed through him. 

But it wasn’t enough. The burning within him grew fiercer with each passing second. He needed more, craved more. The sensation of her grinding against him was driving him to the edge of sanity. It was sweet torture, the ache of unfulfilled need becoming almost unbearable. Lucien’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his body screaming for more, for release — demanding it. The longing was a physical pain, a fire that consumed him from the inside out. 

“Please,” he groaned, his voice rough and low, a powerful undercurrent of desperation threading through it. “I need more, (Y/N). I can’t take it… I need you.” His eyes locked onto hers, a fierce determination in their depths, even as his words pleaded for relief. His grip tightened on her waist, guiding her movements with urgency and restraint, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. “Please,” he repeated, his voice a pained rasp. 

“You need me?”

A single, tense nod.

She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the same need. “Then take me,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with anticipation.

Lucien captured her lips once more, much more hungrily this time, their bodies moving together in the water. Her hands raked over the expanse of his back, nails lightly digging in. She relished the feel of his muscles tensing beneath her touch, the warmth of his skin under her fingertips. Every contour and ridge of his body seemed sculpted for her hands alone. The power in his frame, the way he responded to her every touch, sent a thrill through her. Her hands wandered, exploring the strong lines of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, and the tautness of his abdomen. Each caress was deliberate, savoring the sensation of his body and the way it reacted to her. 

Lucien's breath hitched as her hands moved lower, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, tracing the edge of his waistband. Her touch was both curious and confident, a gentle exploration and bold possession. 

With a low groan and little thought, Lucien's hands moved to her bikini top, tugging it up just enough to expose her chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, only taking a moment to admire them before descending upon them, his mouth eagerly finding her exposed skin. He left a collection of red and purple marks across them, and she couldn't help but hum softly at the sensation.

Smiling, she pulled the bikini top the rest of the way off, tossing it to the shoreline. “Impatient, aren’t we?” she remarked, her voice breathless and not nearly as teasing as she’d hoped it’d be.

Lucien looked up at her, his eyes so different than when they’d first encountered each other not an hour prior, a smirk playing at his lips. “Only for you,” he murmured before his mouth returned to her skin, his kisses hungry and possessive, leaving a trail of marks across her chest. He shifted slightly, the water lapping at his chest. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his shoulder, not ceasing the movement of her hips. 

“You’re trembling,” she whispered, concern evident in her voice.

He straightened, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips. “It’s unbearable. Every touch, every breath…I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.” He swallowed hard and brought her hand to the nape of his neck, leaning into her touch as if it were a lifeline. 

“Are you sure this is helping…? Maybe we could try—”

“(Y/N),” Lucien interrupted, his eyes wild and craving. “Doing anything but this would destroy me. I’ve never felt anything like this before, but I know… I know that I need you. All of you. I need to feel every inch of you against me.” His gaze locked onto hers, pupils dilated. “Your touch,” he choked out, “is both torment and salvation. I crave it like I crave air to breathe.” Lucien’s hands trembled as they moved to her hips, urging her closer. His fingers splayed across her skin, desperate to eliminate any remaining space between them. “Please,” he whispered, the word barely audible over the soft lapping of the water.

She shivered against him, not from the water, but from the raw emotion in his voice. She brought her hand from the back of his neck to his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. 

“Lucien,” his name on her tongue was so pleasing to his ears. He couldn’t help but close his eyes, lean into her touch.

Her other hand trailed down his chest, his abdomen, finally reaching the waistband of the only thing keeping all of him from her. 

“Let me take care of you,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over his ear. Her hand traveled further yet, getting ahold of him, cupping him, squeezing him, feeling the size and weight of him.

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, muscles taut. A strangled moan escaped from his lips, closing his eyes and rolling his head back. He dug his fingers into her hips, only vaguely aware of the frustrating barrier of her swimsuit. “(Y/N)...” Her touch, her ministrations, it was all so intense. “You’re driving me insane,” he growled.

A low chuckle emanated from her. “Say my name like that again, let me hear it.”

He obliged, her name falling from his lips like a reverent prayer, drawing out each syllable like a sinful plea. 

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Whether it was from his voice or the fact that he was tugging her bottoms off, he had no idea. But the sounds she let out were mouthwatering. He watched as she shuddered and moaned beneath his touch, letting out grunts and curses of his own. “Gods,” he rasped, his voice thick. “You sound so beautiful when you moan for me.”

She squeezed him sinfully at that bit of praise, moaning his name quietly. 

“Please touch me, (Y/N)... It hurts…”

In that moment she caved, both of them lifting up a bit to allow the other to rid them of their last bits of clothing. She tugged him a few times, grip tight and movements long. He rocked into her hand, a string of curses falling from his lips. Normally he wouldn’t unravel so quickly, but with every sensation magnified, he’d be surprised if he lasted another minute. 

“Sweetheart, you have to… Gods, please don’t stop,” he managed to gasp out, his hips rocking eagerly, his face scrunched in concentration. 

She met his gaze, her eyes darkening with desire. Nodding slightly, her breath coming out in puffs, she continued, increasing her pace while he maintained his movements into her hand. Lucien’s breath caught, his muscles tensed as waves of pleasure washed over him. He clung to her desperately, burying his face into the crook of her neck to muffle his increasingly vocal responses. His release coated her hand, but quickly washed away into the water as she continued stroking him through it. She murmured soft encouragements all the while. 

She felt his weight slumped against her, heard his breathing slow, found herself wondering if it had passed. She held him close, running a soothing hand along his back, through the hair and the nape of his neck.

When he finally lifted his head, she was ready to greet him with a warm smile, but where she expected either newfound calm or lingering distress, she found neither. On the contrary, it almost seemed as if their actions amplified his hunger. 

Lucien wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace and found himself rutting his hips up, thoughtlessly trying to find her entrance. She gained purchase on a stone behind him, her chest hovering over his face. With a groan, he released one of his arms from around her, using the hand to guide himself. But when his fingers brushed against her and she let out the softest, most helpless whimper he’d heard in his life, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to hear more from her. He replaced the head of his cock with his fingers, shakily grazing over her folds. 

Her repeated mantra of “oh’s” and “yes’s” goaded him on, and as he dipped his fingers further through them, he slowly thrusted the still-hard length of himself along her cunt. The caress of both on her sensitive skin getting to be too much. “Lucien, why don’t you just—” What bordered on a wail interrupted her words when he let his tip brush against her clit, the first meaningful relief of pressure she’d gotten there all this time. 

“Wanna feel you, wanna make sure you’re alright,” she could hardly recognize his voice, it sounded pained, his words slurred. “Don’t want… to hurt you.” When he went to slip his fingers into her, she pulled them away, moving to seat herself on him.

“Don’t worry about me,” she assured him she was alright. “I’m helping you, just worry about yourself, okay?” But he shook his head, insisting that he wanted her to feel just as good as he did. “I will. I am.” With that, she lowered herself slowly, taking him inch by inch. Their faces were a mirror of shared ecstasy, expressions soft with contentment. They were entwined — she cradled in his embrace, he sheathed within her warmth. 

Lucien's world had narrowed to this single point in time and space. Any remaining semblance of coherent thought dissolved entirely. The feel of her skin, the sound of her breath, the scent of her hair — these were the only realities that existed for him now. Nothing else mattered — not the court, not his duties, not even his own name. There was only her, only this. 

A low growl rumbled in his chest as he tightened his hold, desperate to remove any open space from between them. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, leaving only base instinct and overwhelming need.

“(Y/N),” he huffed, voice rough with emotion. “I can’t… I need…”

Words failed him, but his body spoke volumes. Trembling muscles, racing pulse, sharp breaths. He was a male consumed. Lucien heard her voice distantly. 

“It’s okay… Take what you need, Lucien.”

As she pulled herself up, something primal awakened in him. Lucien drove his hips up into her and moved with fervent intensity, his actions far beyond conscious control. Every fiber of his being sang with pleasure, drowning out all else. Nothing beyond this moment.

He was dimly aware of sounds escaping him — groans, gasps, fragmented words of reverence. There was only feeling, only her, only them. 

The spring water surged around them, disturbed by the frenzied movements of their bodies. Each trust was relentless, powerful, driven by an urgent need. Lucien’s hands guided her by the hips with a force that left no room for gentleness.

He groaned her name, told her he needed more of her. He didn’t know how it would be possible, in this moment she was his everything. 

Her responses were lost in a series of breathless moans and gasps, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she tried to match his relentless rhythm. “Lucien… don’t stop… please…”

The words spurred him on, his pace now frantic. His eyes bore into hers. Every thrust, every movement, was a raw expression of his need, amplified by the pollen’s effects coursing through his veins.

Her nails raked down his back, leaving red trails in their wake. She clung to him, feeling the intensity of his desire in each powerful motion. The friction and pressure were overwhelming, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Her body responded to his instinctually, her moans and cries echoing through the trees around them.

“So… damn good… So tight,” he groaned into her.

She gasped, her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as she rode him, rode the pleasure coursing through her. “Lucien… oh gods… you’re so deep, I can’t,” she buried her face into the crook of his neck. All she saw was the tanned color of his skin, the golden red of his hair, and smelled the earthy scent of cedar and fresh rain, mingling with the faintest hint of smoke and spice.

He shook his head. “Don’t hold back… Let me hear you. Tell me—fuck—tell me how good it feels.”

Her voice came out in broken gasps, each word punctuated by a moan. “It’s… so good… you’re so good... I can't... I need…”

Lucien's lips found her neck, his teeth grazing her skin before he sucked hard, leaving a mark. "Need what, darling? I want to hear you say it."

"Need you... need you to make me come," she confessed, her voice trembling with need. "Please, Lucien... I’m so close."

He groaned in response, the sound vibrating against her skin. "Anything for you, love." His mouth trailed down to her chest, his lips closing around one of her nipples. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core.

She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. "Lucien... yes, just like that... don't stop..."

His free hand snaked between their bodies, fingers seeking out her clit. He rubbed in firm, deliberate circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The combined sensations of his mouth on her nipple, his fingers on her clit, and the relentless drive of his hips were too much.

Her body tensed, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she teetered on the edge of release. Lucien bit down gently on her nipple, the sudden spike of pain mingling with the overwhelming pleasure, pushing her over the edge. She shattered around him, her orgasm ripping through her with an intensity that left her breathless and trembling.

Lucien didn’t slow, riding out her climax, his own release following swiftly. With a final, powerful thrust, he let out a primal roar, spilling into her with a force that made stars dance behind his eyelids.

For a moment, they were locked together, their breaths harsh and mingled, hearts racing in unison. Slowly, as the intensity of their climaxes began to fade, they slumped into the water, still entwined, the spring's cool embrace a stark contrast to the heat of their encounter.

Lucien pressed his forehead against hers, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. "Are you... alright?" he managed to ask, his voice hoarse with lingering desire and concern.

She nodded weakly, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. "More than alright," she replied, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "That was... incredible."

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through both of them. 

She lifted her head slightly, looking into his eyes. "How are you feeling now?"

Lucien took a deep breath, still holding her close. "I still feel it," he admitted, his voice softer now, more controlled. "But it's much more manageable.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. "I'm glad," she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. "I was worried for a moment there."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his eyes softening. "You were amazing," he whispered. 

They lingered in the water for a few more moments, their breaths slowly returning to normal. But the connection between them, the raw need, was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

And then Lucien moved again, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. "But I think," he said, his voice taking on that rough, hungry edge once more, "that we have a bit more to take care of."

She shivered in anticipation, her own desire flaring up once again. "What do you have in mind?" she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice.

His answer was a low growl as he shifted their positions, lifting her up and guiding her onto a nearby rock. He took her again there, their bodies moving together with a renewed intensity. Then, he turned her around, bending her over it, her cries echoing through the spring as he thrust into her from behind.

They moved to the water's edge next, Lucien pulling her onto his lap as he sat on a submerged boulder. She rode him hard, the water splashing around them as their movements grew more frantic.

Later, he laid her down on a bed of soft moss, hovering over her as he entered her again. The rhythm of his thrusts was relentless, each one pushing them both closer to the edge once more.

And when they finally left the spring, sated but still hungry for each other, Lucien carried her back to his chambers. He laid her on his bed, driven by a deeper need, something more enduring. There, in the privacy of his room, he took her yet again, their bodies entwined in a dance of passion and connection, free from any enchantments, driven only by their desire for each other.

[markerofthemidnight]

When the Miss Holloway backstory musical comes out, I hope it contains plenty of fourth-wall breaking on Holloway’s part.

When I say that, I mean imagine if it’s framed as her having the opportunity to share her backstory with a large group of people who, for once in her life, won’t forget it, and that’s why the musical’s happening.

There are certain intervals where she personally addresses the audience, like the Narrator likely will in Cinderella’s Castle, and sometimes in the middle of an actual important lore scene she’ll like, turn to the audience and make some silly remark or something, and also similar fourth-wall breaking bits, such as:

Her referring to a character by their actor’s name before correcting herself in the middle of an interval (sarcastically with quotation marks on the character’s name, or in some other way that makes it clear to the audience that this is a bit and not a genuine slip up)

Refers to the audience as “The Watchers with 1000 Eyes” at some point, before adding, “Thankfully not the real Watcher with 1000 Eyes, but hey, even if it was, it certainly wouldn’t be my first time having to deal with him.”

If there’s a scene where she plays Run Away With Me, she turns to the audience beforehand and goes “Sing along if you know the words.” Once the music starts and they inevitably all start screaming upon realising what she’s about to play, she just smiles at them and winks before starting to sing.

Right before she summons the Lords in Black for the first time, she goes, “Now, I feel the need to add: please don’t sing along if you know the words. They’ll get enough attention tonight just with this scene alone, we don’t need about 350-or-so people summoning them all at once.”

To make that bit even better, the next time there’s an interval after she makes that deal, she’ll be in the middle of talking to the audience before being interrupted by one of the Lords for a few seconds (which one maybe being different each show, like it being Pokey on the digital ticket and Tinky on the one that eventually goes to YouTube), after which she turns back to them and goes, “You sung along, didn’t you, you bastards?”

[rileyslibrary]

The hot seat.

Synopsis: You decide to attend a speed dating event in the city where you're deployed. Simon “Ghost” Riley, your lieutenant, is also there.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,595

Notes:

I got this idea after a friend told me she matched with one of her colleagues on Tinder.

Fluff.

Want more?

———————————————————————

“Why don’t you just give it a try?” One of your friends suggested, “It’s not like you’ll be committing to anything.”

And when you told them there are other ways to meet new people, such as dating apps, they laughed so hard that you felt offended. “You don’t trust your own shadow,” one of them said, “how could you possibly trust a couple of pictures and a few messages before meeting a stranger?”

They were right; not only had it been months since your last date, but your trust issues weren’t helping. So you listened to your friends and decided to give it a shot. This could be your opportunity to get “back on the horse.”

They wanted to come to your house a few hours before to advise you on what to wear—it seems like it wasn’t just you who had trust issues. “You have a thing with self-sabotage,” one of them admitted, “and we don’t want you to portray yourself as less than who you really are.” A bolt claim from Jessica, the master of self-sabotage, who kept bailing her partner out of jail because he was constantly breaking into people’s houses.

You politely declined, promising to do your best. You chose a little black dress, opaque tights, and black heels. You let your hair down for once, since the army wouldn’t let you, and applied some make-up—but not too much—to enhance your features.

The speed dating event is held in a trendy downtown bar. The room is crammed with small tables, each with two chairs facing each other. You take a deep breath and walk over to the registration desk. You sign up, fill out a form with your information, and they hand you a name tag.

“This Is What You Came For” plays over the speakers, and you can’t help but wonder what made the DJ choose that song. What did I come here for, Rihanna? You think to yourself. To tell a stranger in three minutes about my food preferences and favourite colour? Is that what will ensure compatibility?

Your nerves start to kick in, so you rush to the bar. Your options are limited to beer or wine, according to the bartender. When you ask why, he starts narrating the horrors he’s seen of people attempting to calm their nerves with shots before the speed date. You choose wine and turn to face the people you’re about to meet in three-minute rounds. A few catch your eye; some look intimidated, while others appear overconfident and exuberant. “Peacocks”, as you call them.

The event organiser announces the beginning of the event, and you make your way to your assigned table. Dread grips you. What if you don’t meet anyone interesting? What if everyone you talk to is dull or uninteresting? You take a seat and wait for the event to start.

The first guy who sits down is a health freak, to put it mildly. He gets up at 4 a.m., lifts “hard” for two hours, goes to work, and waits until his next workout at around 6 p.m. He says he likes chicken because of its high protein content and asks what your favourite food is, to which you respond, “Haribos,” to piss him off.

The next one is a cryptocurrency investor. Enough said.

The third guy is a motivational speaker. You’re unsure about the “motivational” part, but he’s undeniably a “speaker.” He doesn’t. Stop. Talking. He only asks for your name, which you don’t have to say because it’s written on your tag. He then starts mumbling about books he’s read and the importance of a proper and consistent morning routine. He and Mr Health Freak could have easily become soul mates, you think to yourself.

Three minutes pass like hours, and you lower your head to the table. This was a mistake. Coming here was, as you suspected, a bad idea.

“I see you’ve already given up.” The man in front of you comments with a smile.

You look up and meet his gaze. He is tall and well-built, with short blonde hair and dark brown eyes. But it’s his sleeve tattoo that draws your attention.

It’s familiar to you. You’ve seen it before, peeking through a military uniform and tactical gloves.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

You’d never seen him without his mask, but his build, voice, and tattoos are distinct. Your heart is racing as you struggle to remain calm. He, too, appears surprised. Did he not recognise you at first because of your make-up and hair?

Well, it seems like he recognises you now. But you’re not supposed to acknowledge his true identity; doing so might destroy everything he’s worked so hard to keep hidden all these years. It may also jeopardise your professional relationship.

But, my God, he’s hot. He’s exactly as you imagined him, if not better. It’d be best to act as cool as possible. Ignorant, stupid, call it whatever you want—just don’t reveal his identity. There are tens of thousands of people named Simon, and you are not supposed to give your surname to the other person here. So all you know about him is his name. He could be any of the other “Simons” out there.

You immediately put on a happy-go-lucky face and smile, trying to muster the courage to date your lieutenant for three minutes.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you reply, trying to play it cool.

He fidgets in his seat, still feeling uneasy. You need to act quickly.

“Yes, I’m about to give up,” you moan and pout, “so please, for the love of God, be a decent one.”

He lets out an awkward chuckle. “I’m not sure about that,” he says.

“Oh, really?” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows, “Unless you speak nonchalantly about yourself, chuck twelve egg yolks in the morning, or boast about imaginary coins, you’re good.”

“Ah,” he says hesitantly, “no, I prefer my eggs cooked.”

“Boiled, scrambled, or sunny side up?”

“I don’t mind as long as they’re cooked properly.” He responds, and you raise your fist to your mouth.

“I assume no runny egg whites?” You ask, making a disgusted face.

“Christ, no.” He smiles and shakes his head.

He appears more at ease now, thinking you haven’t identified him.

But then another problem arises. When dating, one of the first questions you usually ask is about the other person’s occupation.

“So, Simon,” you say, “what do you do for a living?”

“I, um, work as an operator,” he replies. “And you?”

That was a wise move on his part. He knows you’ll relate if he discloses his primary occupation, and you’ll start speculating. So he decided to reveal his side job. Although he is not completely honest with you, which could be interpreted as a red flag, there is a serious reason behind his answer.

“I’m a sergeant in the military,” you admit.

He nods and smirks but doesn’t ask a follow-up question.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not very good at this.”

“Neither am I,” you chuckle, “but I can help you.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Do you prefer cats or dogs, Simon?”

“I like both,” he says, “I can’t have a preference for animals; they aren’t eggs.”

“Phew!” You exclaim, theatrically placing the back of your hand on your forehead, “most of the men I met today hate cats!”

“Yeah,” Simon agrees. “I believe it’s because they don’t have control over them like dogs.”

“I feel bad for most of the women in here,” you say, looking around, “for settling for such controlling personalities.”

“How do you know I’m not controlling?” He asks, his brow furrowed.

“Men whose job is to order soldiers around, tend to live a more chilled lifestyle.” You elaborate.

“Order soldiers?” He asks, and you immediately stiffen up. “How do you know I order soldiers at my work?”

“I, um, assume you do because of your profession.” You stutter and look down at your lap.

“I said I’m an operator,” he smirks, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, “but I never said what kind of operator I am.”

Your chair has turned into a hot seat all of a sudden.

“From what you know, I could be a heavy machinery operator.” He adds, his smile widening.

You blush and turn to look at the clock; time’s almost up.

He leans forward to the table. “Why such eagerness to end our date, sergeant?” he whispers, “I thought we were doing so well.”

You raise your head to look at him. “I’m sorry, Lt.,” you admit, “I just didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I appreciate that,” he says, “but knowing that you know who I am is already uncomfortable, don’t you think?”

You look down again, and he continues.

“Perhaps it would have been better to acknowledge the elephant in the room from the beginning.” He explains.

You let out a sigh. “You’re right,” you say, “I should have been more honest.”

He nods, and the bell rings for your next date. Simon gets up from his chair and smiles at you.

“Normally, I’d end this with a nice to meet you,” he says, “but in this case, it’s more of a nice getting to know you better,” he adds, extending his hand for a handshake.

You stand up and take his hand in yours. “Likewise, Lt.,” you say, smiling.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“For another date?” You joke, “You move too fast, Simon.”

“For the best military drill of your life,” he corrects you with a smirk, “for thinking you could fool me so easily.”

———————————————————————

Part 2 ->

[milaisreading]

🌱🩷:Blue lock au where Y/n got invited to join the Blue Lock program as a player. She crossdresses as a boy and is friends with Reo and Nagi (they don't know she is a girl). I didn't change much abt Y/n's appearance, except that I made her around 5'10" tall and that she has a similar hairstyle to Chigiri's (the color is up to you, tho)

Warnings: None in particular. Reader uses she/her when narrating, otherwise the characters use he/him for Y/n. Requests are open for this AU.

⚽️Blue Lock belongs to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura⚽️

'Blue Lock... so this will be my new escape...' (Y/n) gulped as she looked at the building in front of herself. She saw a lot of people, well known high school players enter the place, making her nervous over the whole idea. Sure, she was excited over finally leaving her home, her adoptive parents for a while, but she was just entering a bigger hell than she already left. Now, some might be confused what a girl was doing at Blue Lock? A project meant for the best football players in Japanese high schools. For male football players. Well, the question was pretty easy to answer, kinda. (Y/n) was adopted at a pretty young age into a somewhat well-off family, but the life she had wasn't the best. Her parents always wanted to have only boys, and while they had 2 biological sons, they didn't want to have a daughter.

'The only reason we adopted you was because I was indebted to your father.' She shuddered as she remembered her adopted father's words. (Y/n) knew they didn't want her, so she did her best to survive the household till she can be free. One of the ways was giving into her parents' demands on changing her personality and appearance to suit a stereotypical guy. (Y/n) didn't want that, at all, but for now she had to be someone she wasn't.

'At least they let me grow out my hair... and they allowed me to leave to this football camp.' She thought, touching a few strands of her (h/c) hair.

"Hey! Earth to (Y/n), are you alright?" She jumped, looking over at her teammates, Nagi and Reo. The two looked at her in worry for a moment, which caused her to smile and nod her head.

"I am fine! Don't worry... Just a little nervous." She thought as Reo grabbed her hand and pulled her into the building while Nagi followed after them.

"Don't be. All three of us are highly ranked football players, I am sure this thing will be a walk in the park for us." Reo laughed.

"Yeah, you worry too much." Nagi yawned as they got into the main hall where the other players were. (Y/n) recognized some from her previous matches, and some were unfamiliar.

'Oh... that Kira guy was invited here too? Figures, he was a good opponent back then...' She thought, recognizing the white haired boy. She then turned her attention to another guy standing next to Kira, they seemed pretty close.

'Who is he? I never saw him before...' (Y/n) thought while observing the blue-eyed boy.

'That sprout is cute tho.' She smiled, noticing the few strands of hair that were sticking out.

"Who are you looking at? Come on, we need to catch up to Reo." Nagi ground as he tugged on the pants of her uniform.

"H-huh? Nobody! Let's hurry up." She said, glancing a few more times at the unknown boy.

They soon reached Reo, only for him to scold the duo for getting lost.

"Congratulations, you unpolished lumps of talent." The trio froze for a moment and then looked at the stage, only to find a guy with bowl-cut black hair and glasses looking at all of them.

"Who is he?" (Y/n) muttered.

"Dunno." Nagi shrugged.

"What did he just call us?" Reo wondered.

"According to my personal judgment the 300 of you are the best strikers under 18. My name is Jinpachi Ego and I was hired to give Japan a World Cup victory." Everyone kept silent as (Y/n) stared at Ego in shock.

'World Cup victory? Japan can't qualify for semi-finals, what does he mean by victory?' She thought skeptically.

"I'll say this plainly. One thing is needed for Japanese soccer to become the best in the world: the birth of a revolutionary striker. From you 300 players gathered here today, I will forge the best striker in the world through a certain project."

Ego continued his speech, not giving anyone time to digest anything.

"What a bore." Nagi groaned, earning a kick to his leg by (Y/n).

"Shh." She warned, then looked back at Ego.

"All of them revolutionary strikers!! Their extraordinary egoism is the one thing Japan’s football lacks. You will not become the greatest strikers in the world, unless you have the ego to match. My purpose here, is to create such a player in Japan."

'Egoism? Shouldn't football be treated as a team sport? What good does it bring to act like that on the field?' (Y/n) raised her eyebrow, tuning out whatever Reo and Nagi were saying.

As Ego kept on talking, (Y/n) was getting lost in her thoughts.

'So we are basically training for our national team now... Getting out of one hellhole into another, but at least here... at least here I feel a little bit more like myself, as odd as it sounds. While I can't tell to anyone I am not a guy, at least I can play the sport that always saved me from going insane.' (Y/n) thought, looking back at the crowd as Ego finished his speech. (Y/n) listened as he talked about reaching the goal he set up for them, and if the players who were gathered had what it takes to become a striker. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the boy from before rush to a open door, and something struck her. She wasn't sure what it was, but something about him and the look he held in his eyes made her hypnotized, and she quickly ran after him.

'Who are you? And what's up with you?' She sprinted faster after him, ignoring Reo and Nagi's calls, both desperate to catch up with her.

"Huh? Thank you... so you said I am in Team X, Teieri-san?"  (Y/n) asked the woman, who smiled and nodded her head.

"Yes, that's just down the corridor. I will keep your phone and other items safe while you are at our facility." (Y/n) thanked the woman and started walking down the hallway, looking at all the rooms in curiosity.

'Probably the storages...' She thought.

'This place is like a prison, but I can welcome it. I wonder how I will keep myself hidden now... now that I have to share a room and everything with some dudes.' She cringed and sighed, then slowly walked into Team X's room. Inside were, as expected a bunch of other guys, some changing, some just talking.

'Oh brother....' She thought, looking to the side.

"Ah? You are our other teammate?" A guy with brownish hair asked.

"Y-yes! (L/n) (Y/n) is my name." She said in a little bit deeper voice.

"(Y/n)? Isn't that a girl's name?" Another guy asked while walking up to the duo.

"My parents have a thing for feminine names." She answered with the same lie she's been using for years.

"Wait... (Y/n)... (L/n) (Y/n)? Hakuho's eagle?"

"What?" (Y/n) she raised her eyebrow as a blonde approached them.

"You are known as a beast with those precise shots. I should have expected someone like you being here."

"Ah... thanks." (Y/n) answered, unsure what was going on at this point. By now a group has been formed around her and the guys started asking her different questions, until someone cleared his throat.

"Can you donkeys shut up?"

(Y/n) tensed up and looked at a pair of red eyes staring directly at her.

'Ahhh!! Scary!' She thought.

"Sorry, Barou." A few sighed out as the boy and (Y/n) had a stare down.

"Barou... I know you. You are that guy from Akudo Academy. We played against you at the quarterfinals." (Y/n) recalled, remembering the sheer force he used back then.

"So what about it?" The boy asked, obviously annoyed that she brought that up. Some of the teammates backed away, scared of a possible infight.

"Nothing-"

"I see you unpolished lumps have all found your room." The group looked at the monitor, only to find Ego staring down at them.

"Good, now it's time for the first elimination round."

"What?" (Y/n) and Barou asked at the same time.

"Every team in our 5 buildings is playing a game of tag, in a football way. You will be given a football, the person you hit with it will be it, and will chase someone else." Ego started explaining as a football fell from the ceiling, landing between Barou and (Y/n). The duo glanced at the item and then at each other.

"You are given 2 minutes. The person who stays it when the time runs out, is eliminated from Blue Lock..." The room fell into a tense silence.

"And, subsequently they are losing the opportunity to ever play for Japan."

"Haaa?!" Barou and (Y/n) yelled in shock.

"That's rediculous, how is a game of tag going to help here?" Barou wondered.

"Especially if you only give us 2 minutes."

"2 minutes is the most a player spends in the possession of the ball during a game. Now hurry up. On your sleeves you will see your current rankings, the one with the lowest is the 1st it."

(Y/n) quickly went to look at hers and scanned the tag.

"Currently the highest ranked one here is (L/n) (Y/n), at 252."

"How does this ranking even work?" She wondered to herself as the screen flashed the name of the first it. She looked at the boy and felt a little sad, he looked pretty meek.

"Donkey." Barou started, hitting (Y/n)'s head.

"Ow! What? And did you just call me a donkey?" She asked in disbelief.

"Don't get too distracted, can't have you eliminated this soon." Barou warned, confusing the girl a little.

"What? Why would you care?"

"Because I still need to prove to you that I am far better than you are."

The girl sweatdropped as the siren signaled the start, causing everyone to disparage across the room. She watched as the boy nervously looked around before his eyes fell on her.

'Shit.' She thought, dodging the ball that came flying to her.

"Huh? Why aren't you kicking back? You are the higher rank here." Barou questioned, annoyed at her move.

"What? The goal here is not to be it!" She watched as the ball bounced off the wall and back to the boy, who seemed more and more determined to get her instead of someone else.

'I can't be eliminated.... I don't want to go back home...' (Y/n) thought, glaring back at him.

[therabbitthatpostthings]

Okay let's talk about Reality in Welcome Home.

YES THIS IS JUST ME RAMBLING AGAIN BUT I SWEAR I HAVE A POINT TO MAKE. This is more of my collecting my thoughts and trying to make sense of what we have right now.

TLDR: The reality of Welcome Home is separated by the "fourth wall" that the characters are not aware of except for few.

So ever since the first update after the website launched I have been wondering about where the reality shift lies in Welcome Home. How can this be a haunted puppet show with no notable names for actors, production crew, puppeteers, etc. I was basically trying to figure out if this was Hello Puppets or My Friendly Neighbourhood kind of situation. Especially after Sally's Halloween Story, it came ever more clear that they are not fully aware of the fact that people are filming them.

This past update has somewhat solidified what I think is happening. The Welcome Home Puppet show exist in it's own version of reality literally separated by the fourth wall. The neighbours are completely unaware that they are puppets, being filmed, etc. The idea that a magic narrator can talk to them is normal (as it is in many children's cartoons, the Narrator from The Powerpuff Girls and The Storyteller from Into the Woods comes to mind). This really all comes together for me alongside the theory that some of the neighbours are self-aware. I'm not gonna argue who is and who isn't but I don believe the Neighbours featured in promotional material that directly speaks to the viewers or anything outside the show are aware.

(Note: It would be a big stretch to say the things like the TV and radio apprenticed were staged or faked by the Welcome Home Crew)

I think the ones most aware are Wally, Barnaby, Frank and Howdy. Everyone else is rather slowly becoming aware or going through the motions like Eddie. Wally and Barnaby are self-explanatory, they are closest to Home and the Narrator(s). Frank by the way of the Bug Theory and the fact that he "breaks script" to comfort Eddie. Howdy is because I cannot think of a way that he would participate in those commercials without knowing somehow. If Home really is antagonistic towards the Neighbours, I can believe they would act in line. Also during Eddie's panic attack, he doesn't move ever after expresses him desire to leave, because he can't move. He's a puppet. It's worth noting that everyone else has a puppeteer accept Wally and Home. Wally has a handler and Home's eyes are the only thing on it that can move via a crank on the side of it not showing to the camera.

I believe the cartoon reality is the one that the puppets see and why in all of Wally's answer videos we see it in IRL footage. He is not blind to what the show is doing. Eddie's panic attack shows up that what they see and we see are very different. This isn't like a foolproof way of thinking because it leaves a lot of holes but most of those holes have to do with things I believe will be answered later. Like:

What exactly is Home and the power Home has over the Neighbours?

Why did the show shut down?

The benefactor sending the packages

Why is Wally the one that remains? Where are the others?

Why were we able to see what Eddie and Wally sees outside of the reality they exist in?

etc.

Thats last point is still up in the air for me because that easier could of been a storyteller point but the fact that Welcome Home narrator and logo pops up at the end of the Homewarming Special alludes that everything Eddie went through we saw. Or at least it was filmed and probably cut out of the official broadcast.

I don't have any answers. What we do know now is that the show shut down, someone is still present and sending packages to the WHRP and Playfellow. This mysterious black goop has the power to influence those in contact with it, even causing loss of time. The WHRP went through an investigation internally and in the website. W is a part of the website and actively doing their own investigation after "supposedly" making contact with Wally in the post-halloween/pre-March 9th update (which you can see btw on the Wayback Machine). Wally, regardless if he is the one sending the packages, is using them to communicate. He wants someone to find him because he KNOWS we are watching and we are looking for him.

Personally I believe Home or whatever entity is controlling it, is sending the packages and trying to control others. I think Wally is a by product of all this and is trying to find his way out by any means necessary. I will never let my "Wally did nothing wrong" propaganda go.

This all btw does nothing to answer the mystery on the website. I have no idea how this reality breaking allowed Wally yo infiltrate the website. The fact that his eyes are no longer visible on the page means he's not here watching us (for now). Also the "You" character description is missing. As far as the Bug theory goes, I still believe that is Frank trying to give us more insight on what happened/happening. Same goes for W, who we know is human since they described the same events of the phone ringing and hearing Wally that the curator did. I don't believe this is Wally vs the Neighbours. I think this is the neighbours being physically or metaphorically trapped while not able to reach Wally they can reach this website and are doing the same as Wally, reaching out to us. I still believe Home/Entity has some control over them and is connected to who is sending the packages and infecting the WHRP and Playfellow. W is also apart of WHRP but has taken notice to everything going around and is choosing to document their findings since the WHRP is starting to run a tighter ship after the last slip up of W (probably) contacting Wally.

Hopefully this made sense to you guys...

[deviousnarrator]

Everything you've ever known about Mantra is WRONG.

Over a year ago.

I joined the community completely unaware of how to start with creating Mantra lore, I joined a few trends that were organized to be complete shitposts. The gluetrap was kinda the way he was introduced to Tumblr. Looking back at it now, it kinda bugs me that I couldn't clarify it, not being canon.. As I didn't have really ANYTHING to work with at the time with his canonical lore, considering it blew up so much, it was what I was gossiping over at the time.. Not realizing that it may be what idolized him.

Now that I'm feeling a bit more comfortable with Mantra's character and lore, something that I've noticed is how it may be impacting how others started to get to know him as a narrator. I feel comfortable coming out to properly execute the false information of what felt canon. I do want to focus a bit more on his seriousness of his character.

As for the scar situation, I already plan to explain that in his backstory once it is done. As for any AU interactions, there are parts I'm tackling to rearrange for some actual relationship bonds that he has with people. A lot of it is still questionable gaps.

Im asking you guys to please keep in mind that those trends are AUs, not CANON.

first chain:

second chain:

@blackkatdraws did the thumbnail

[redxx95]

Is Kurosawa really not Adachi's "type"?

Surprise, this essay is Adachi-focused for once 😂

In my last essay (which you can find here) I mentioned how Kurosawa thinks Adachi has a type (as in, certain traits he finds attractive) which he believes he does not fall under. In this essay I'm not only going to prove him wrong but also really examine what Adachi's "type" even really is, because I think Kurosawa is somewhat of an unreliable narrator in this.

Kurosawa's assumption

First let's take a closer look at the traits Kurosawa names when he talks about Adachi's type. In Japanese, those are 青春系 (youthful-like, which got translated as "pure and innocent vibe") 清掃 (clean, translated as "delicate") and 優しい (kind) (panels are from ch 5.5 and 18.5)

Does Kurosawa fit those traits? Well. Kinda. There's this one panel where Adachi sees him as "pure" and there's many instances where Kurosawa acts kind of childlike which one could describe as youthful/innocent, but it's not the most solid proof.

"Clean" is an easier descriptor to prove though, since Adachi calls him that multiple times, albeit not exactly the same word in Japanese. (He uses 清潔 which translates to "clean" and, funnily enough, "pure" but in the sense of perfection rather than innocence.)

And so is "kind", which is a core trait Adachi values about Kurosawa and even mentions it first when asked. (This is not super relevant but I also want to point out that the first character in Kurosawa's first name (優) is literally the kanji for "kind".)

But if you actually check whether or not Adachi ever uses these words to describe Fujisaki himself, you'll find that the only one he uses at least once is "kind", and I could only find that in the japanese version. More on that later though.

What he never calls her though is pure, youthful, innocent or delicate.

Exploring Adachi's type

So now that we established that Kurosawa's assumption is kind of shaky, let's try to figure out what traits Adachi is actually attracted to, and whether or not those can be applied to Kurosawa. Our candidates who he has shown to be interested in are as follows:

The middle school girl and the black haired woman from his nightmare/flashback, and Fujisaki.

That is… not a whole lot. Since we can basically immediately exclude the middle school girl, because we have only one panel to go off of, we're left with only two people to examine, but examine we shall nonetheless!

Let's start with the flashback woman. She does visually resemble Fujisaki quite a bit, but I believe the actual reason Adachi even considers her is because of this.

She seems (at least initially) open-minded and is the only one putting a somewhat positive spin on men with no relationship experience. She's probably displayed this trait before and that might have been why Adachi got interested in the first place. And guess who else does that, who we know Adachi is definitely interested in.

The way this is the whole reason he even realizes his feelings for Kurosawa is also very telling. I think that for him looks take a backseat in favor of personality. He's pointed out the conventional attractiveness of the women in Toyokawa before but he never shows any actual interest in them.

Here he also points out their prettiness but is immediately scared off when he learns of their thoughts about him. The only one we see him actually interested in is Fujisaki, whose looks are more on the average side but whose thoughts never get nasty and insulting like the ones he hears from the pretty women. … which is also a thing he values about Kurosawa, and he even tells him that directly in ch 34 when they have their heart-to-heart pre-first time. And it's funny because in the beginning he does expect him to have a "nasty personality", probably because he's so used to good looking people being like that.

In conclusion: The reason he likes the flashback woman is not because she has pretty long black hair but because she is not mean about other people's shortcomings, which can be applied to Kurosawa as well.

Now let's look at Fujisaki and all of her interactions with Adachi and see if we can find some more of those Parallels that we love so much on this blog.

Adachi mentions that Fujisaki is cute quite often.

… which he also thinks of Kurosawa very often. There were honestly so many instances where Adachi finds him cute that I would reach the image limit on this post very quickly so have this one panel instead:

Bonus: he also very much enjoys Kurosawa's smell.

And since we're on the topic of "cute", I think a big reason why he finds her so cute is also that Fujisaki often asks Adachi for help, and as I mentioned in this essay, Adachi likes to feel needed.

Which, again, very much applies to Kurosawa, too.

Adachi also seems to appreciate that Fujisaki is a hard worker. (He doesn't know she's reading yaoi on company time though.)

And once again, he states this to be something he likes about Kurosawa as well.

Another descriptor he likes to use for her is "good". This often means "kind" in the japanese version, which I already elaborated on above. (For example in the panel below "nice" is "kind" in the original.) But there's also plenty of times he calls Kurosawa a "good guy" (i.e. "kind")

I know I said before that visuals don't matter as much to him but these parallels are just too funny not to include. Flower backgrounds for the pretty people 💐

Bonus Mari in here because I think it's cute how he blushes at her. Both Kurosawas are simply too much for this bisexual disaster man.

And apparently he's also just really into very shiny people.

So now that I've really hammered my point home that Kurosawa is just as much Adachi's type as any of his other interests, let's think about why there's even such a discrepancy between what Kurosawa assumes and what actually is. I think it's because his only point of reference for Adachi's interest in romantic partners is Fujisaki. What he doesn't consider, however, is that Fujisaki never tried to put up a perfect front around Adachi the way he did. Adachi has had the chance to see Fujisaki fail and find that immediately endearing, whereas with Kurosawa he had to first get magic mind reading powers to get to that same point. At least they got there eventually 🫶

Ok I'm finally done rambling, this thing got way too long again 😩

Are YOU Adachi's type? 🫵 Tell me about it in the comments!

[foolsocracy]

Hi, hello, I’m new to your blog. I’ve made myself at home. Lovely carpet.

Can I please know more about your spider Robbie pie? Can’t seem to find the silverware.

but of course, kind anon

Spider Robbie is an au in which Robbie Robertson takes up the spider mantle after the death of the one before him. He is the third, following Ben Urich and, most notably, Peter Parker.

This au is very much canon divergence from Eyes Without a Face, where Peter makes it in time to save Robbie from his original fate but dies in the process. Peter is shot while rushing Robbie and the others out. In his panic and elation at finding Robbie physically unharmed, Peter outs himself as the Spider Man to his best friend. Robbie stays with him as he bleeds out and resolves to continue to hide Peter's identity.

Peter is buried and remains that way for... an undetermined amount of time.

Robbie is left with a mask, a jacket, and the question of just who was this other half of his friend. As he learns more of who this... Spider Man was, he gets more and more involved in the spider's cases and conflicts. Robbie gets more sure of his own abilities and makes a bit of a name for the Spider Man within his own community, though the people of Harlem are largely unaware that the appearances of a masked vigilante match the interests of one Robbie Robertson.

It is to be noted that none of these aforementioned abilities are spider-god-induced powers like Peter's. Robbie, especially at the beginning of his spidering career, leans more into Urich's role than Parker's. To me, Robbie has been passionate about the press and journalism in a way that Peter never was. For Pete, his job as a photographer and reporter was a job he took until he could get into college and study science. Robbie has a way with words and communication that Peter frankly lacks. Of course, that isn't to say that Robbie won't be kicking ass, because he will. It will just take him a bit of time to get some of those skills as he's, well, a normal guy. Not everyone can get their biology scrambled like Pete.

And just because Robbie hasn't been scrambled doesn't mean he's completely separate from all things supernatural either!

I think the marvel noir universe is at its best when there's a magical, supernatural undercurrent. This concept isn't super prevalent in the actual comics, but HoplesslyLost on ao3 has done some really cool world building with it.

I think in Robbie's case, where he would be the narrator, "magical realism" would be an interesting avenue to take it. I use this term in particular because I most closely relate it to Toni Morrison in my head, when I first learned about it through her work in high school. For Morrison, the concept was inseparable to blackness and I think for Robbie, where his blackness is so central to his character and his motivations, drawing on that could be more of a service to his character. It feels better to do that than ignore how incredibly racialized his society and story is. It will make his relationship with the spider god, Peter (who I will get to very very shortly), his community, and his own mythos as The Spider Man really interesting and complex.

So it's been established that Robbie doesn't have spider powers. And we all know that Peter did-- or should I say does. One of the spider god's abilities is to bring Peter back to life. She does this in the comics, but not in any of the runs from 2008-2010 (the runs that make up this au). When Peter dies on Ellis Island, he does not think he is coming back from that. Waking up again is a surprise.

Here's where I think the au really takes a left turn. Do I think the Spider God is purely evil and spiteful and has it out for Pete? No, not really. Will I be ramping said traits up to 11 for the au? Yeah, I guess I might. This is because I love a little bit of horror and the came back wrong trope. I will hopefully be fleshing the spider god out in the near future, but I really haven't given her the many hours of thought I have the other characters. For that I'm sorry spider god </3

Peter digs himself out of his grave, more spider than he ever has been. For much of his new, waking life he is more animalistic than not. There is clearly something wrong with him; his joints are too flexible and loose, he's got some eye-shine going on, his skin is pale and his veins are starkly dark beneath it. He's possessed. Someone is puppeteering him, someone who knows a lot-- almost everything about him, but it's clear that the someone isn't him.

And Peter--- the body, it can't be Peter. At least, that's what Robbie thinks when the figure catches his eye the first time. Because Peter is dead and buried, and he has been dead and buried for weeks.

[treasure-mimic]

Psychopomp and What Things Mean When They Don't Mean Anything

So if you haven't noticed or you don't follow me, I recently became interested in a small, one-man dev team indie game by name of Psychopomp. As a brief synopsis and pitch, Psychopomp is a game about a woman who seemingly suffers from paranoid delusions, through the lens of this narrator she tells us that there's a labyrinth of catacombs hidden underneath every public building and sets out to explore them to uncover the world's secrets, armed with nothing but a store bought hammer.

The game's intro puts it in words better than I could and more influential than any pitch is just seeing the protagonist's design.

As one commentator states, she looks like a skateboard mascot from the mid-2000s. Like she should be on those posters with a snarky quip just fucked up enough to catch those pearl clutching puritans off guard. I love the style and I love the tone and I love the premise.

This might be the best time to note that if you're interested in playing this game, you should stop reading here, as this discussion will contain spoilers. It's a short game, took me about 3 hours on my first playthrough, and it's pretty cheap, even has a free demo in the form of the base version with Psychopomp Gold serving as the expanded, completed experience.

Anyways.

I've always found conspiracy theories fascinating but in the modern age it can be hard to immerse yourself in these reality-detached belief systems without acknowledging, you know, the racist dogwhistling and tangible physical harm it's causing to society at the present moment. Psychopomp is able to pretty gracefully sidestep this issue by setting its anarchic anti-government sentiments against its protagonist's paranoid delusions rather than adherence to a faith or belief system.

Indeed, the game seems to take systemic beliefs as its central enemy. The entities that are necessary to kill to progress through its levels are defined by the systems they interact in, historical figures of elevated status, keystone positions in industrial manufacturing, even abstract systems like urbanism and DNA composition are posed as societal and oppressive. I'm not saying that there's no way to interpret the game in bad faith and make it directed at marginalized social, political, or ethnic groups, but I also struggle to imagine the person who takes the game literally on its face value?

Which I guess leads me to the main topic I wanted to discuss. The game very obviously has an unreliable narrator (for the record, the protagonist remains nameless for the bulk of the game, I will be referring to her as Venus as it's the closest she has to a name that's explicitly stated within the text itself) with the flavor of one whose intake of reality may be different from what's actually occurring. The game uses a combination of conspiratorial rambling and dream logic to stage its unreal tone; for example, one level delves into the "biology" of buildings, stating that they use graffiti to communicate and that black mold is a pheromone used to evacuate its inhabitants to allow for mating. Loading screens come with "Gameplay Tips" and "Real World Tips", both of which are often dense and inscrutable; for example you might get a pair like "Not all enemies are friends" and "Viruses do not exist. Illness is simply your body punishing you for what you've done wrong."

Surrealism and unreality as stylistic choices can be a bit of a tightrope walk to get right. On the one hand, if you make it explicit that a story takes place in a state that did not happen even within the story's universe, a dream or a hallucination, it can rob the narrative of its stakes, regardless of how well executed the internal metaphors are. Psychopomp very explicitly does not do this, regardless of what it is that Venus is experiencing, the game makes it clear through scientific logs and communications (as well as a brief epilogue set outside of her perspective) that something abnormal is happening, the question is just where in between normality and Venus's experiences does the truth of the game's narrative actually lie.

The other side of the tight rope is literal interpretation, presenting a setting that's absurd to our sensibilities but tangibly explainable, where meaning is supplanted by lore and the cosmology begins to solidify into a set of Calvinball rules that don't make sense, but are still adhered to, and this is the side Psychopomp threatens to lose me on. There is a credible argument to be made that there is no difference, that what Venus is experiencing is her reality without warping and distortion, it's a more credible argument than saying she completely fabricated all of it, and it's an argument I was starting to wonder wasn't the intended interpretation. Until I got the game's second, secret ending.

Psychopomp has one collectible that doesn't serve a direct gameplay purpose, but each catacomb has a key hidden away, often behind false mimic walls that bleed and scream when you hit them with your hammer, and which unlock new rooms in the only permanent location "Home". Initially a gray, cubical, concrete room with a single mattress and a small table with a radio on it, collecting keys allows you to further explore outside(?)/within(?) the home with a unique camera perspective and limited interaction. In the first layer there's a blob man who cries out in torment, demanding to know why you specifically made the world like this, giving some credence to the deification of Venus implied by the game's ending. In the last layer, Venus traverses underneath and past her own brain to unlock a repressed memory.

I take this as confirmation that there's some level of abstraction at play here. Under scrutiny it feels as though there must be some level of abstraction at play here because when taken as a whole, the conspiracies start becoming outright contradictory, even if you try to take the cosmology at play as fact, which are the closest thing to objective facts that we have.

See, Venus's perspective takes place an alternate Earth, one that both seemingly was broken off from the planet and now orbits it like a new moon but also has always existed. One of the locations is a natural history museum which explains the history of sentience on this counter-earth, humans rose, went extinct, were supplanted by a species called the thrait, then humans returned in a mutated form and retook the surface and forced the thrait back underground (though the museum also refers to the thrait as extinct despite being the most common friendly NPC you will encounter). Another location seems to imply that the humans of this world, or maybe only some of them, are artificial clay creatures, reinforced by the arbiters of the DNA factory too being clay alleles. The Human Seedbed even has the game's most effective jumpscare in it, where Venus cannot leave the area without being confronted with a jittering clay facsimile of herself.

But with that in mind, what the hell is Venus then? By no account is she one of these artificial clay people but then how did she get here? The game's introduction implies that she used to be a normal person, or at least closer to, with lived experiences inclusive of complete ignorance to this underworld, the game's endings imply that she's an immortal god-being who has been intentionally working towards her own reawakening, and that is actually one of the least ambiguous plot points within the narrative. None of the pieces of this world lock together to form a cohesive vision of a setting that operates on even the barest of internal rules, and yet the game in the same step refuses to be a character study or subconscious examination, I mean the epilogue is a damn sequel hook that involves assembling the damn Avengers to combat the ramifications of the events of the game.

So, I come to realize, I'm the problem. I might, in fact, be thinking about this too hard.

One of the locations in the game is called "Daddy's Bad Place". It is a single, tiny room of a house or apartment, frozen in a moment of tearing itself apart, that only contains a dusty old TV set with a small, pointless ornament sitting on top. In any other surrealist game, this isolated circle of clarity, a compact orb of recognizable terrain, would be a moment to deliver one single jolt of reality into the metaphor of the protagonist's journey through their own subconscious.

In Psychopomp the TV turns on and delivers a distorted warning about a giant insect which is deadly, deceitful, and above all, not real.

In Daddy's Bad Place I come to realize something. The lore is fake, the characterization is fake, the dichotomy of truth and delusion is fake, the insect is not real. Let's think about what I'm doing here for a moment, right? I'm trying to discern the truth from within a work of fiction. None of its true, none of it happened, what difference does it actually make?

The thing about conspiracy theories is that they don't make logical sense. It's a known phenomenon that conspiracy theorists love to debate, but cannot be reasoned out of their beliefs by facts or logic. There is never a counter, but always a failsafe argument that can be retreated to for safety. What conspiracy theories do make is emotional sense, they make narrative sense. The line that initially sold me on Psychopomp was one of the aforementioned loading screen tips, "All the food you've ever eaten is rotten. You have never tasted fresh food."

Patently false statement, does not hold under scrutiny, but I, as someone who lives in America and lives in a city center and has to get all my food through corporations, can look at a statement like that and say yeah. Checks out. I believe you. We would know if children were being smelted into egg slicers underneath public schools, but it resonates with our emotions about the systems of education we enforce upon children, so it could be true. We would know if buildings were a living, reproducing organism, but it resonates with the feelings of being born into a world where urbanism exists, has existed as permanent fixtures of the world, and is continuously encroaching upon the face of the world, so it could be true.

Anyone who understands the fundamentals of incentives and human psychology does not need to believe that there is a coordinated group of ontologically evil individuals driving the world to ruin for ruin's sake, but that narrative still feels true, it becomes validating in the ways that it plays off of the emotions of believers until it becomes a foundational pillar of belief that cannot be destroyed by logical contradiction.

Psychopomp, in the same way, presents information about its internal systems that cannot be true logically but form self-justification anyways through emotional resonance. It doesn't matter if the lore works because its stated, it isn't wrong, so it must be a truth. This is the way that Psychopomp emulates the unreality of the conspiracy theory in a way that can avoid the disturbing implications of the real world practice. I've made comparison to surrealism by dream logic and surrealism by internal self-reflection, but this is a different mode entirely and the game simply refuses to operate by those tropes at its core. Conspiracy is itself contradiction, not the soft contradiction of two halves of a dream that don't lock together, but the hard contradiction of attempting to apply emotion and narrative to a waking world that rejects either premise. Psychopomp, then, is surrealism by way of conspiracy.

[angy-grrr]

i understand ppl getting disappointing over today's ep, even tho I was expecting something like that it still look me by surprise too. But honestly, we got spoiled -we have been for a long time.

It means a lot to me the parallels between ep 7 season 7 and the memories ep where Izuku can't use black whip against Katsuki. Its so, so crazy. In this chat about romance, Midoriya gets extremely embarrassed over the concept of being someone's boyfriend, and Present Mic (one of the common narrators of the show) adds a little build up: he is really amazing and has earned great achievements, but for all of his triumphs, he is still, just a damn nerd.

He is still Izuku, that awkward kid whose childhood friend considers too nerdy to see or understand concepts like romance, boyfriend, and him getting involved in them. This call back to Katsuki is unnecessary, even more so considering he is not the narrator, but still, Present Mic considered the best way to describe him is to use the words his closest person says. With Izuku getting confessed, and him explaining what he considers to be a boyfriend's role, Katsuki's presence is still part of the scene. But what's even more interesting is the way he is also linked to the other part of the scene: what Izuku thinks about admiration and love.

When the word boyfriend comes out of Himiko's mouth is like his whole brain can just think about cheesy, typical movie stuff (thats what a boyfriend is, right? someone you hold hands with, share crepes and go to the amusement park with, right?) instead of feelings. Idk about how different the idea of love is in Japan compared to the one im used to, but Izuku seems to not know that, to be a boyfriend, first there are usually some feelings that make you want to become that -affection, curiosity, even love*. That word, boyfriend, is associated with many concepts, and instead of asking "boyfriend?! Like someone who makes you feel butterflies in your stomach?!" he focuses first on actions the boyfriend does -boyfriend is the one you hold hands with, the one who you share crepes with, the one who goes with you to the amusement park**.

But once Himiko explains her own idea of love and admiration he gets to focus on the latter part of the conversation, he does get what it feels like, but not like her. When its not associated with romance, its almost like he is allowed to express more freely about his emotions and opinions about love; he actually reveals some interesting stuff.

So first of all, Izuku seems to start thinking about it more deeply when Himiko explains that to her, being a couple means becoming the person she likes. That immediately reminds him of his own feelings towards his mentor -he does want to be like him, he gets that satisfaction, but not how that could be romance duh lmao, and he is the one who brings up the admiration aspect. He doesnt see it as a couple thing, or a romantic feeling, because he immediately associates it to pure admiration.

"Yeah I want to be like All Might my biggest idol, so I get how great it is to try it". That's his way of connecting to her, creating a bridge of understanding each other's perspectives -"I get this part, but I cant understand how you could not want to share the feelings of the person you love".

Then he follows it with "I dont want to hurt the person I love".

So, for Izuku, there's something more going on than just being completely clueless about everything -he does have an idea about what he wouldnt want to do to the person he loves, and an idea about what he does.

When he focus on the boyfriend or couple side, he gets all flustered, because those are embarrassing topics, and immediately jumps into a general, superficial idea about what those mean. Because... he doesnt get it when is described with those names -those names are related to things that look so unapproachable for a nerd like him. However, when he has something he relates to ("becoming the person... oh! like the admiration I have for All Might!"), he has a chance to actually explain his feelings and opinion about her confession.

Once this reaches an emotion he does understand, he spills how he wants to share the feelings the person he loves has. Which is... not that different from what Himiko feels. After all they both want to be closer to the people they love by having something the person has in common*** He also wants that kind of connection on a deeper, emotional level, rather than the superficial description he gave before; he is more free to express this when he can ignore the big name and connotation "couple" or "boyfriend" has.

When Izuku thinks about love without thinking about Love, he has an idea of what comes natural to him: to get closer to the person. Maybe thats why he doesnt think about Tenko the way Ochako does with Himiko -he feels empathy for his past and terrible present, currently he feels guilt over not being able to do more, reach out sooner, save... but he doesnt talk about feelings he wants to share with him like that. So, it makes sense thats how he views it.

For him, love is not only understanding the other, is sharing feelings of love. And the other key to Izuku's love is one Himiko cant ever reach: not wanting to hurt the person he loves.

This paralleling extra content shouldn't be that important, but considering Izuku is unable to use black whip when remembering Katsuki's sacrifice to him... doesnt it sound relevant?

Izuku confesses he doesnt want to hurt someone he loves, and it parallels a scene of him being... scared of hurting Kacchan the way AFO did, and deciding not to -whether it was consciously or not, black whip decided to not attack him.

He can train with him perfectly okay until his own quirk reminds him of Kacchan hurting.

Am i crazy? EDIT: alright I think I see some stuff about Izuku’s idea of love, and this will be the short, quirk version of this whole thing:

Admiration and wanting to be like someone, solely, it’s not enough for Izuku to consider it love —that’s what he does when it comes to All Might, and he knows he doesnt feel that way.

However, sharing the same feelings and not wanting to hurt them, thats way more important to him when it comes to love. Those, at least right now, are cores to his perspective of love.

He rejects Himiko's love because it has nothing to do with his from his point of view: she wants to hurt the people she loves, the biggest deal breaker, she doesnt share the same feelings as him, and she also considers imitation and admiration good enough to be considered love.

*it doesnt have to be romantic love, as platonic and queer platonic love and relationships can also start and continue to date and be wonderful for the people involved. Im adding this just to clarify there are multiple possibilities for a feeling of love, and its completely okay.

You can also date anyone for any reason really, including being confused by your feelings, expectations, social and peer pressure, etc., but im talking about what in theory would be the best case scenarios.

** This is in case we take into consideration the original meaning from the manga. In the anime, if the phrasing is actually different in Japanese as the subs suggest, then it would be "what a couple does".

*** The main issue that separates them is the abuse Toga has suffered that led to her seeing herself as a unlovable monster. For her, deep inside, she has to become the other person in order to be loved, bc she sees the goodness and precious things in others, and the only way she could ever be that... is if she literally stops being herself AAAAA MY POOR BABY

[mysterymeatmunchr]

Barkback Mountain By The MeatMunchr

Authors notes:

3.3k words, one shot, FTM MLM

This is basically my “If Brokeback Mountain was two trans male cowboys fucking raw and nasty in the woods” fantasy. Oh, and also they’re both into pet play.

Content Warnings:

Consensual Fighting/Impact play, Struggling/Struggle Fucking, Blood, Spit, Knives, Cutting, Degradation, Pet Play, Brief light CNC

Character Descriptions:

I didn’t name the characters because I want readers to be able to think of whoever they want, BUT I did picture what they look like to me. You can picture them differently if you would like to.

The Narrator:

FTM, bear, butch, short and stout, broad shouldered, muscular but not toned, beer bellied, full dark thick and curly body hair, full trimmed beard, chest length loose dark curls, wide calloused hands, dark hooded eyes, broad browed, and strong featured.

He wears a black cattleman hat, a dark denim shirt, dark denim pants, brown boots, and a silver bolo tie.

The Lover:

FTM, otter/cub, butch, short, muscular and toned, broad shouldered, full thick dark curly body hair, full overgrown stubble, brow length loose brown curls, brown soft downturned eyes, and soft featured.

He wears a tan cattleman hat, a blue denim shirt, blue denim pants, and tan boots.

As I stand in the clearing waiting for him to arrive, I wonder if he’s gotten lost again. I was sure to give him plenty of markers to look out for on the way, and it isn’t all that hard once you reach the creek, but for a cowhand he sure is poor at finding his way. I’ve waited this long to see him again, I’m sure I can wait moments longer until he stumbles upon the clearing. I find a stump to rest on while I wait with my thoughts to keep me company. The excitement and nerves tangle up my insides, but I can manage a stoic front.

It isn’t too long before a rustling comes from the trees and a familiar form appears. A man close to my height, a little more on the slender side compared to my burly stout build and beer fattened stomach, but still stocky enough to keep up with the other cattlemen. Unlike the others, we both hold the same secret. We knew from the day we set eyes on each other we were different from the others. It was an unspoken kinship, something in our eyes that screamed out to each other, ‘I know what you are.’ It wasn’t long before we started having our little… meetings…

As the other man approaches I stand to greet him, “Took you long enough,” His dark unkempt curls are spilling out from under his hat and his blue denim fit him well, starched like a gentleman for a special occasion. “You know I’ve never met a cowhand as directionless as you. It’s damn near shameful.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” he says with a smile.

“I wasn’t lost this time, I saw something a ways back by the creek and stopped for it.”

The man sets down his pack next to mine, then lifts his tan hat up revealing a white handkerchief tied up into a sack, peppered with deep dark stains. He hands me the parcel from atop his head. I untie the knots revealing blackberries bursting with juice.

“Well, this is mighty kind of you, thank you. I apologize for my comments.” I bit into a berry and he did the same, the dark juice pooling between his teeth like a beautiful premonition of what’s to come. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks me. His brown eyes glowing gold in the tree filtered sunlight.

“Of course I do, the hardest part is deciding whether or not I’m letting you throw the first punch,” I said, trying and failing to wipe a smirk off my face. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”

“I’m not,” his tone was serious. “I want this, and this time, I’m gonna win.”

“It’s cute that you think that pretty boy, we’ll see.” I take off my bolo tie and denim shirt, fold up the shirt and place it on top of my pack along with my black cattlemen hat. My partner does similarly and we head to the center of the clearing.

…

Blow after blow, noses and mouths bloodied, the metallic taste on our teeth fuels something deeply primal and terrifying within us as we spit and growl and scream at each other. The sweat, blood, and dirt on him fills my lungs. The smell is sickeningly sweet. He socks me square in my jaw. I roar before spitting out the blood. ‘Enough,’ I think to myself. I shove the smaller man to the ground, eyes aflame, no longer recognizing the beautiful boy I’ve bloodied, bruised, and beaten. My muscles ache, wrestling him into submission, our bodies woven together in a desperate battle for dominance. I finally pin him down on his back, straddling his hips, gripping both his wrists hard enough to bruise. He’s banging his head into the earth, thrashing his arms and legs, trying and failing to free himself from the heavy strength and weight of me. He howls out a deep, defeated, guttural scream. His teeth bared and snarling, with strings of bloody spit weaving through his hateful mouth.

I smile as he spits on my face. I look him in the eyes smug as I lick his spit off the side of my mouth.

“You’re disgusting,” he hisses through gritted teeth, knowing I’d won, knowing he wants me to dominate him and he hates me for it.

I hold him there still for a moment to take in my work. I need to see it, the hate and lust and defeat. Angry tears well up in his eyes as the blood rushes in and swells up my already leaky tcock.

I crash into his lips devouring him while he lets out little curses between each breath, he breaks my desperation with a bite to my lip. He gives me all the spite in his body until he draws blood. I smile, lip still caught between his teeth, as I grab his jaw digging my fingers into his bruised cheeks to release myself. I’m thankful for it, he just gave me a reason to pull away and strike his face hard with an open hand. I spit on his pitiful, beautiful, beaten face and strike him once more. I lap it up off his cheek along with the blood and dirt like a ravenous dog, unable to stop myself from grinding against his struggling hips. The degradation of him is burning up something hateful and angry and shameful inside me.

I move his wrists into one of my hands, keeping him pinned as I reach for my hunting knife. Savoring the fear in his eyes, I hold the blade to his throat.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.” I whisper into his ear.

Keeping him at knife point I get up and hastily kick off my boots and tear off my jeans and drawers. I know I already have him, he’ll be good and stay put for me, but I’m just too impatient, I want to defile him so badly.

I crash back down to the earth to rip off his jeans. I can hear his ragged breaths through the leaves singing in the wind. I slash through his drawers with my knife, before tracing down his stomach with the blunt side of the blade. He knows what’s coming next. I press the tip of my knife into his thigh and drag slowly, his body tenses and he whimpers. The sound sends blood rushing to my pulsing heat. I’ve marked him with another tally, another loss, permanently scarred next to seven previous defeats. I don’t know when this part of the ritual began but I fell in love with how humiliating this is, especially for him, knowing my thigh bears only three marks and his now holds eight. A tear rolls down his soiled cheek as I force open his legs, pinning up one of his thighs before holding my knife back up at his throat. I look into his eyes hazed with fear and lust, without words, I’m commanding him, not asking, yet still he nods his head. It’s more permission than I needed to mount him. Dripping and hungry, I grind my boycunt against his. His defiance and anger is melting into submission, as he begins to match my movements. We rut into each other like dogs in heat.

One of his hands claws into my forearm just barely holding the knife at bay, and the other clutches the forest floor tight as we frot. Our cum soaks the earth beneath us. He desperately grinds his hips into mine, he can’t bite back his moans anymore.

“Please,” he whimpers like a dog, “Please, use your mouth, I need your tongue,” begging through gasps. He’s mine. He knows he’s mine. I dig my nails into the soft, hairy skin of his thighs, and he winces.

“How badly do you want me?” I challenge, my voice deep and rasped with breathlessness, “Show me,” I command.

Slowly his hand releases my forearm, leaving behind bloodied crescent moons and the beginnings of bruises where his nails were once buried. My nails embedded in his thigh follow suit, and I toss away my knife.

“Please,” he whispers, beginning to prop himself up. I nod and allow him to sit up, he brings his face close to mine and kisses me gently, then pulls away. “I want you so badly” he whines.

I feel the heat of his hand radiate down my big hairy stomach as he makes his way towards my swollen heat. He lays his head on my shoulder and I clutch his shaggy brown curls forcefully. A moan escapes his lips. His fingers begin to stroke my throbbing aching cock, and I can feel the cum dripping from my boycunt. I let a moan slip out, and he hesitates.

“Don’t stop, show me how badly you want me, how badly you want me to suck you off,” I say, my breath becoming uneven, “Show me you’re my pet now.”

He glides a finger against my messy hole, tracing back up to my cock rubbing against my throbbing heat in tight circles, pulling back and forth on my foreskin with each stroke. I buck against his fingers, and start to claw deeply into his back. His hand feels so good, I asked for this but I want to draw his blood for reminding me his touch can weaken me. He slides a finger down towards my cunt.

“Enough,” I release him, and pull his hand away from my crotch before he can enter me.

I push him to the forest floor and pry apart his legs, revealing his soaked pulsing tcock and cunt. I can’t hold back anymore. I’m starving for him. I look him in his eyes, and place my hand against his cheek streaked with dirt, blood, sweat, and spit. With lips barely parted, I kiss him, I drink deep the taste of his lips, his spit, his blood. I bite his lip before I move to his cheek, his jaw, his neck, biting, kissing, licking, I take in the soft sweet skin of his neck. I savor its flavor and scent as I leave behind a mark to tell him he’s mine, to tell the world he’s mine. I rip apart his undershirt so I can devour him in his entirety, as I make my way down towards his warm, throbbing boycunt. I want to consume him whole, and stain him with my hunger. My pet yelps and whines with each marking and cries out from each ravenous bite I inflict.

I pin down his thighs as I hover over his tcock. I can feel his heat on my face. I embed my nails into the tender skin of his thighs. My hot breath lands in his dark curly pubic hair. I press my lips against his inner thigh, nipping him lightly, a few warning shots, before biting down hard. He cries out to the treetops as he squirms underneath me, but I hold him down steady. I lick the bite mark and blow cool air over the tender spot, making him shiver. A hot insatiable feeling wells up from deep within my stomach and my cock aches and throbs. Finally, I envelop his cock in my mouth, sucking and stroking his pulsating bundle of nerves with my lips and tongue, drowning in the taste of him as he ruts into my face and clutches fistfuls of my long dark curls.

I release him from my mouth before sucking and teasing the swollen lips of his cunt. I want to taste all of him. My good boy grinds into me, begging for more with his puppy whimpers. I lap up his tcock with long broad strokes before quickening my pace, swirling my tongue around his raging growth. I dip my tongue down plunging into his cunt as he slams down his hips, fucking himself on my tongue. I switch between his cock and cunt, savoring both the taste of him, and the sound of his cries echoing through the forest.

I pull myself up to meet his face, and kiss him. I want him to taste himself on my lips. He looks up at me with his brown puppy eyes, and opens his mouth for me, tongue out, panting like a dog. I spit in his mouth and he takes it, swallowing and sticking his tongue out once more. I cup his face, letting him suck my thumb. I pull out and raise my hand to strike him, he flinches and I laugh. He wears such a sweet humiliated expression.

“How pitiful, be a good boy and wait here for me,” I say, petting his cheek before getting up, “and touch yourself while I’m gone mutt.”

I retrieve and don my prosthetic from my pack, as well as another piece of my leather work, a leather collar and lead. Making my way back to my pet, I take in the sight of him panting and arching his back as he strokes himself, and heat rushes through me. Filtered sunlight speckles his body. ‘My dog has spots,’ I think to myself, chuckling. His legs are open and ready for me. ‘What a pathetic mutt.’

I kneel between his legs, moving away his ‘paw’ and grind my prosthetic on his cock.

“Lift your head and stick out your tongue,” I order, buckling on his collar and lead. “You’re my dog now, my pet, my plaything. Never once were you anything but this.”

I place a finger on his tongue and pull his lead. He needn’t be told, he takes in my finger sucking and moaning, rutting himself on my prosthetic, and coating my finger with spit.

“Stroke yourself.”

I press my finger against the slick entrance of his cunt. I don’t even press in before he’s bucking his hips, fucking himself on my finger and panting. I curl my finger upwards and slowly fuck his hole, still pulling his lead. His hips are rustling the leaves beneath us, moving against my rhythm, trying to get more from me as he strokes himself faster.

“P-pl-please,” he stutters out, “another.” I cover his mouth with my hand, the lead worn around my wrist.

‘Dogs can’t speak.’

I thrust another finger in him, massaging the tender rippled flesh inside, rough and hard. I can feel his muffled moans vibrating under my rough palm. I want to hear him. I remove my hand and glide down his body until I grasp his hip. His cunt tightens on me, pulsating, milking my fingers for all the pleasure his greedy hole can get. He cries out, and I feel his warmth spray out from him onto my stomach and thighs.

“Don’t stop!” he begs, and I tug his lead sharply. He does not command me.

I pull out, spit into my hand, and coat my prosthetic with his cum and my spit. I plunge deep into him and he screams from the stretch. I slam into his cunt thrusting slow and hard, with no rest or reprieve for him to adjust to the size. His eyes roll back into his skull. He’s losing focus. ‘What a stupid dog,’ I think as I strike him with the back of my hand.

“Don’t stop touching yourself,” I growl. His hand speeds up again.

As I tug on his lead with every thrust, breathy moans escape him. I have him hold up one of his legs for me with his free hand, and the wetness spraying from his cunt soaks the harness of my prosthetic, and my stomach. I wipe it from my belly and slap him with it to punish my pet for the mess he’s made. He’s too fucked out to even wince. He moans for me at the impact. I’ve broken in my pet nicely.

The expression on his face, the sound of his cries, the sight of his throbbing swollen cock, the smell and taste of our blood staining my senses, and the base of the prosthetic grinding on my cock with each thrust lights a fire in me. I crash down on him, wrapping my arms under his shoulders and digging my nails into him. The weight of my body is pressed into his as I mercilessly fuck into him. He claws into my back and wraps his legs around my waist driving his hips into me as we howl like wild dogs.

I kiss and bite his neck as he gasps and pants in my ear. His nails in my back sting fiercely. He’s undoubtedly drawn blood. I cry out, but my pace is unwavering. My cock throbs and aches for release with every thrust. I can’t tell if the cum running down my thighs is his or mine. I use all the strength left in my body to lift him up off the forest floor. His legs still wrap around my waist and he clutches my shoulders. My ragged breaths and grunts pour from my mouth for the whole forest to hear. Hands gripping his ass, slamming him down on my prosthetic, I’m plowing up into him as he cries out. I feel his body tense and shake, his cries getting louder and louder, until he collapses onto me. I know he’s finished but I do not stop. My body aches, but I can’t stop. Pleading and sore he grasps me tightly once more.

“Please! Stop! I came! Please!” he begs, but dogs can’t speak.

I keep slamming my prosthetic into his cunt, grinding my cock against the prosthetic desperate to finish. My core tightens as I thrust into him faster, using his cunt as I please. My blood rushes to my head and cock, my heart pounds in my ears, my vision darkens, my body shakes, until suddenly, finally, I cum.

My legs buckle but I steady myself, laying my partner gently to the ground, and kissing his forehead before collapsing to the ground beside him. We’re breathless, sweat and cum soaked, and soiled with dirt and blood, but the breeze blowing through the trees cools us. I wince, noticing the sweat rolling down my face and soaking my back stinging all of my cuts and bruises. I turn to face my lover, and pull him to me. I cup his bruised face and wipe a tear stain with my thumb.

“Are you alright? Was it too much? How bad does it hurt?” The questions spill from me too quickly. How could I do all those awful things? How could I like all those awful things? He places a finger gently up to my lips silencing me.

“Yes. No. Could be worse.” He laughs, smiling at me, “It was good. You’re good.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask. My disregard for him from before is melting away into concern and shame.

“Just lay here a spell with me, then maybe you can roll me a smoke after we fix each other up.” He reassures me. He’s taken my shame and casted it away. I press him tighter to me.

“As you wish, you did so good for me. Thank you. Thank you.” I whisper to my lover. A tear stings my busted cheek.

I press my lips to his gently. We’re both bruised and aching with lips busted, but this gentleness and tenderness for each other overwhelms all else.

I hold him to my chest, petting and kissing his head, while he strokes my chest. We listen to the trees rustling, and a faint babbling whispering from the creek, and the steadily slowing beating in our chests. I don’t think of how long it will be before I can see him in this light, and in this clearing, or how long it will be before, in these secluded moments, I can scream to heaven he’s mine, the way I wish I could scream it to the world. In this moment time stands still, and we can stay here forever.

[aggro-my-beloved]

The Grey Area (GuyxHoney)

note: welcome to day three! if you’re wondering why this is so short and unedited, my stomach issues have gotten the better of me this week. 1 reblog and silly lil comment = 1 get well soon wish for me <3

summary: *everybody views the world as black and white until soulmates meet/lock eyes and see colors for the first time* [what’s more depressing than witnessing an amusement park in black and white? realizing it may be the last time you visit one, is probably what guy would answer, as he dangles upside down on Wonderworld’s “Surge” coaster. the pretty stranger next to him isn’t the worst company, though.]

pairings: GuyxHoney (romantic)

word count: 1.1k

estimated reading time: 5-6 mins

taglist: @ther3alsweetheart @darlin-collins @professionallyyappinabtangst @elles-roses bloop

GUY DRAWS IN DEEP, LABORED BREATHS alongside the other coaster passengers, inhaling the savory stench of sweat and cotton-candy coated air. In any other instance–preferably one where he isn’t tilted one hundred and eighty degrees on his head and about to suffer a deadly impact onto the fairgrounds–he���d be less green in his gills. His stomach would be rumbling requests for another sopping chili dog, or warm pretzel glistening with yellow mustard to tide him over for the night. However, the mass of citizens gathering beneath him with frightened eyes and murmured concerns is beckoning him to yak up what could be his last meal. No, no, maybe it’s word vomit.

“Crazy, huh? How one second your friends are wagering how many corn dogs you can eat before taking a spin on Wonderworld’s Surge, and the next you’re bracing to be a splat on the ground, remembered as nothing more than a crime scene photo–a crumb of a tragedy–”

“Please stop talking.” A meek voice belonging to the passenger beside him introduces itself. Due to their stiff pose and shut eyes (and seat dividers), Guy has no vantage point to any recognizable characteristics other than dirty sneakers and tremor in their voice. Their hands keep the lap bar restraints in an unyielding choke, and for good reason. If Guy were to shift as much as a millimeter, the minecart of a coaster seat would resound with an unpleasant creak.

“My bad. Talking to myself keeps me relaxed.”

“You find narrating your final moments relaxing?” Another tremor shakes their body, but Guy credits it to the anxious laughter bubbling from their lips. It offers little comfort for either of them, but he’ll take whatever distraction he can get from the looming thought of this night being their last. The respite is short-lived, as Guy and his passenger peer down to see one of the maintenance men (who’d been tackling the coaster’s sudden malfunctions for the past fifteen minutes) wave up at them with wide, swooping arms.

“Don’t worry, help is on the way!” The wind carries his voice unevenly, making it sound warbled to Guy’s ears. What may also be to blame is the unnatural amount of blood rushing past his ears and to his head. As the night progresses, a prominent chill grows stronger each second they are suspended thousands of feet above ground. He perks up at the relieved mutter from the passenger beside him.

“Thank goodness, there’s still hope.” Guy wiggles his toes, but cannot feel them. He chooses not to mention it.

“Now look at who's talking to themselves.” His voice quakes through the tease. The lurching in Guy’s stomach persists, and he ponders if it's another threat from his gut to expel its contents, or the beautiful stranger giving him their undivided attention. Usually, nobody pays him any mind unless he is adorning his work uniform and offering samples of Max’s award winning garlic knots to passersby.

“You may be onto something about the relaxing aspect.” They try for a deep breath, and Guy notices them strain to pull the air in their lungs. He’s sure they feel the lurch now too, but for different reasons.

“So, what’s your name?” The stranger snorts, before answering.

“I like that name. I’m Guy…how old are you?” Again, they reply. A humored snort follows.

“You gonna ask me for three fun facts about myself next?” Guy smirks, and cranes his neck to view the fairgrounds. The crowd of witnesses has grown, and their cell phone flashlights are blending in with the warm bulbs of the distant Ferris wheel. No sirens. No search and rescue. Not yet.

He looks back up to take in their profile. Closed eyes. Scrunched nose. Tight lips.

“Yeah, why the hell not? Seems like we got time.”

_________________________

“Okay, is it my turn?” Asks Guy, who holds up three remaining fingers. He’s become more impressed by this stranger with each hypothetical they toss for him to mull over, and ultimately concede to as he curls another digit to meet his fist.

“No, it’s mine. Never have I ever put pineapple on my pizza.” A disgusted groan falls past Guy’s lips as he tosses his head back, or attempts to. The seat he is strapped against stops him.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned where I worked, had I known it’d be vital to your victory.” He mutters through clenched teeth, and drops another finger. Of course, he had to try all of the controversial toppings—even anchovies, though he wasn’t completely sober when the slice peppered with them went down his gullet.

“C’mon, Guy. Dig deep!” They encourage contagious titters. The amount of blood pooling in their upper body is the culprit, Guy knows, but for now he’ll wish it’s his undeniable charm and wit upholding the conversation.

“Okay.” The man gnaws on his bottom lip. Would it be uncouth to ask after just meeting? How vulnerable can a person be staring into the eyes of death and accepting their fate? They’re strangers…but could be bound by the wicked force of trauma if they manage to walk away unscathed from tonight’s events. “Uh…”

Screw it.

“Never have I ever seen colors.” For a moment, Guy swears he feels their sharp breath inflate his lungs, because the inhalations are synced.

“You mean, you’ve never met your soulmate?” They gander, to which Guy shakes his head.

“Nope. Probably never will, by the looks of it…kinda hoped my last moments wouldn’t be all black and white. Or when the time came where my life flashed before my eyes like in the movies, it would be more…lively.” The stranger beside him blinks theirs open, and keeps them afixed on the array of stars peering down.

“I’ll never even know what color my eyes are.” They scoffed, much to Guy’s surprise. It seems every beautiful stranger he crosses paths with gives him a motivational phrase to keep his eyes peeled for his other half, which is how he knows they’ve jumped the hurdle of finding theirs. “I always ask my family and friends not to tell me, so I can find out for myself.”

Guy grows tired of winking at constellations and phone cameras. He much prefers the profile of the one sitting beside him. “I’m sure whatever color they are is gorgeous.”

Whiskey or bile coats his throat—he’s too far past delusional to tell—as they turn to fully face him. And then their eyes meet.

The whooping sirens reverberate like violins and complement the symphony of cheers from the crowd below awaiting to grasp and tug their loved ones into grateful embraces. The red engines and blue cotton candy clouds perched below them—even the neon painted cart Guy is sitting in means nothing beside the revelation that his life is not flashing before his eyes. They’re sitting right in front of him, letting him study their melanin, and wind blown straggles of hair, and undoubtedly gorgeous irises.

Suddenly, the pair could stay in this spot forever.

soulmate september schedule | main masterlist | abt author