#also I have to remember she's your half too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eowynstwin · 4 hours ago

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peristalsis - i.

selkie!soap x reader. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

When your mother asks you if you’re planning to kill yourself, you have to lie to her.

To be fair to you, it’s a half-lie. You have no plans. Courage, you find, is as slippery as an eel in gloved palms—you don’t actually think you could do it if you tried. You’re deeply averse to pain of the bloody sort, and doing the deed would take a will and an energy you don’t really have.

But still. You’ve stopped looking both ways when crossing a street. You forget the stove is on, hot oil in the pan popping like the report of a handgun. The sound of shattering glass is the only thing that makes your heart sit calm in your chest, and the only thing that can make you fall asleep anymore is the notion that when you die, the earth will welcome the molecules of your body back into its folds.

So a half-lie is not the truth. You sit in the terminal, the afternoon smell of airport coffee in your nose as you swear to your mother that you’re not looking for a cliff to jump off of, or a convenient wave to pull you under. You’ve always wanted to visit Scotland, remember?

You can’t tell if she believes you. Probably not. People not planning to kill themselves don’t blow their savings on a first class ticket over the Atlantic with no scheduled return flight.

Especially not after quitting their job.

The flight over the Atlantic is uneventful. Quiet as money can buy. You sip champagne at your window seat, recline as far back as you can go, and watch the ocean, far, far below. Its depths exceed, you remember, the heights at which humanity can fly—but you can’t really tell, looking at it from so far above. It looks like nothing less than a thin veneer stretched overtop the crust of the earth. A puddle that could barely cover the soles of your feet.

There’s not a single murmur of turbulence across the fifteen hours you’re in the air. Much that you might’ve welcomed it.

Your connecting trip to the Hebrides is much shorter. The massive sprawl of Glasgow shrinks and recedes as you leave it behind, replaced not long after by a spit of an island chain that, from a distance, hardly looks worth populating.

You land on Barra, on a sandy stretch of beach still wet and compact from the receding tide. There’s a cottage here with your name on the rental agreement for the next month, and your mind is already there ahead of you, thinking about arranging your toothbrush and toothpaste on the bathroom counter and sitting and listening to nothing but cold island wind in the grass. The cottage’s owner has graciously agreed to drive you there.

When you step off the plane, you miss him at first. You’re expecting someone completely different—an older man in cable knit, perhaps more mustache than face, and the morose demeanor of someone for whom sunlight is as common on the island as veins of gold. So your eyes skip over the younger man, even despite the sign he’s holding with your name on it.

But then you look again. Because with a man like him, you can’t not look again.

He’s wearing a sweater, sure. But he also looks like a rugby team maverick—burly and tall, rugged, tattooed, flaunting a dumb haircut because he’s handsome enough to get away with it.

He stands out from the few people in the airport as if the whole world has adjusted its lens to bring him into focus, sharpening his image such that anything in his periphery is too blurry to notice. He does not in the slightest look like he rents out an old fisher’s croft in the least popular place in Scotland.

But then you catch your name. Do a double take. Clutch your suitcase handle a little tighter, because when you approach, the man’s eyes widen, look you up and down, and then crease with a too-confident smile.

“Bonnie!” he exclaims when you introduce yourself. He has a deep, rough voice, burred and low. More still, he’s kilted, plaid hanging at muscular knees, with an odd speckled pelt slung around his hips.

You’ve never seen that before—maybe it’s an islander thing.

“You must be Mr. John MacTavish,” you say. Up close, there’s a weathered look to him, as if buffeted by the salt in the wind.

“Johnny’s fine,” he says, winking. His eyes are a lively, vibrant blue. The color of the ocean in some place much nicer than this one. “Welcome to Scotland!”

Then, incredibly, “Johnny” pulls you into a hug before you even realize what’s happening, brawny arms closing around you like the noose of a snare. You go rigid—what the hell?—but this man, whom you have met only just now, doesn’t seem to notice, compressing you against the blazing pillar of his body in an embrace that flattens your lungs behind your ribs.

“Um,” you manage. He smells like axe body spray and diesel fuel, and cold ocean wind. It wipes the forefront of your mind blank, like sweeping an arm across drawings etched in sand.

After at least five whiplashed beats of your heart, Johnny pats your back several times and lets you go, grinning.

“Sorry, bonnie. Scots are huggers.”

Then without warning, he reaches for the handle of your suitcase, warm hand nudging aside your own. “Let’s get you down there ‘fore the tide comes in. Canny wait t’show you the place, I fixed it up m’self.”

You let him take your luggage and follow; he sets off at an energetic clip that you struggle to keep up with. He gestures with his free hand as he talks, motions rising and falling with the tenor of his voice.

“You know you’re m’first guest? Was startin’ to wonder if I was gonna have to sell the place, no one seemed all that interested. Guess I can see why, no internet, barely any signal. Me, I think that’s a good thing, people spend too much time on their phones, y’know?”

You make a noncommittal noise.

Were you this cold before he let go of you?

“But it’s a great little place to get away, I promise you, nice and quiet, and I updated everything m’self. Radiator in the bedroom and everything!”

Another noise from you.

Thankfully, you reach his car—a small truck, older than the both of you, with only one row of seats and what looks like large spools of rope in the bed. Johnny pauses briefly to secure your suitcase beside them with a couple of bungee cords, and then opens the passenger side door for you to get in.

“It’s not too far from town too,” he continues as he slides into the driver’s seat. You attach your seat belt. He does not. “You got your essentials there. A supermarket—think you call ‘em grocery stores? There’s that and a cafe and a pub. No bank though, so let’s get cash now if you need it.”

“I have some.” You’d exchanged for a few hundred pounds in Glasgow.

“Good! You want to stop by the store? Took the liberty of filling up the fridge too, but if there’s somethin’ you want—”

“No,” you say.

“Alrigh,’” says Johnny.

You feel his eyes on you—when you look at him, he’s smiling again. You are not pleased to find, through the benefit of close proximity, that he has dimples.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothin,’” he says.

Johnny drives you across the causeway from Barra to Vatersay, the latter of which, he helpfully informs you, is populated by less than a hundred people.

“More wildlife than anything,” he comments, as the ocean outside the window passes by. The water is dull and gray, hidden from the sun by an overcast sky. “That’s what the tourists come for. You here to see the seals?”

“Seals?” you ask.

“Aye,” Johnny says, grinning. “They come here for breeding season.”

You ignore the quirk of his eyebrows.

The cottage stands alone, a ways out from the island’s main village at the top of a modest hillock. Island grasses sway along the dirt road as Johnny directs the truck upwards, coming to a stop a few meters away from the house proper.

It’s quaint. Thatch roof, cobbled walls. A generator hooked up on one side. There are flower boxes flanking the front door, although nothing’s in bloom; it’s the wrong season for it. The window frames are unpainted, and the glass panes, despite looking recently cleaned, are crusted with salt at the corners.

And it’s smaller than it looked in the pictures online. Even close up to it, the blue-grey sky overhead, swimming with dun-colored clouds, swallows it up.

You exit the truck into a cold breeze that tugs at the collar of your fleecy sweater. You’d read online that this time of year was the last gasp of summer into the autumn months in the Hebrides—it hardly feels that way, with the chill that drags its fingers across your hairline.

“It’s on a septic tank so y’ve got alright plumbing,” Johnny goes on, hefting your suitcase over one brawny shoulder. “Canny say much for the water pressure in the shower, but other than tha’ it’s alright. Matters more that it’s hot, ‘f you ask me—and it is! Come on, I’ll give y’the tour.”

The cottage is not big enough to warrant one. Johnny shows you the four rooms—kitchen, sitting room, bathroom, and bedroom—in under five minutes. It ends with him leaned up against the counter, arms folded genially across his plush chest, grinning at you like he knows some embarrassing secret of yours.

“Was thinkin,’” he says, scratching the stubble on his jaw with one thumbnail, “this’d be kind of a honeymoon thing, y’know? That woman with the time travel show, lots a’folks been comin’ here lately ‘cause a’her.”

“Is there anything else to do here besides look at seals?” you ask.

Soap gazes at you through half-lidded eyes, smirking. “I dinnae think you leave the bedroom much on a honeymoon, do you?”

You flush. “I never really thought about it.”

“So you’re no’ married, then?”

“No. Not—not interested.”

Johnny lifts one brow. “In marriage?”

“In anything.”

He keeps fucking smiling. You have a barely controllable urge to smack him; you settle for wringing the hem of your sweater, imagining it could be his neck.

“So what brings y’here, then?” he asks, tilting his head like a cat playing with its food. “If no’ a honeymoon?”

You frown.

The truth is, of course, that nothing brought you here. Vatersay, nor the Hebrides, nor Scotland itself were actually of any consequence. You’re ambivalent about the ocean, and you certainly don’t care about seals.

You just hadn’t been able to think of anything you wanted when you asked yourself that perennial question. You wanted nothing.

You wanted nothing.

So you found as much nothing as you could and bought the soonest first class ticket heading toward it.

Your only stipulation had been no language barrier—so here you are now, cursing the lack of such, because it means this man, who belongs on this island no more than you do, is bothering to try and talk to you.

“Just wanted some peace and quiet,” is what you decide to say.

“Needed a change, aye?” Johnny nods sagely, as if understanding. “I did too, when I came here. Was in the army. Special forces.”

“O-okay,” you say, because you hadn’t asked.

“Didnae plan to stay,” he continues.

He turns his head to look out the kitchen window; on one temple is the ghost of a scar. A starburst-ripple in the shaved side of his dark hair—nothing more.

But something about it suggests that the wound it closed around was a horror to behold.

Then he turns back to you, the corners of his mouth quirked. “But somethin’ about this place is hard to leave.” The quirk turns into another smarmy grin “Bet when your month’s up, you’ll know what I mean.”

It seems rude to say probably not. “Maybe.”

The radiator in the kitchen breathes a swell of warm air through the room, blooming with Johnny’s diesel-and-ocean scent. There’s very little space between you, him against the counter, you across from him at the sink. Johnny’s bulk claims what little room there is to maneuver, and if you tried to move away, it would require first moving closer.

“So,” you begin.

“Here,” he intercedes. “Wanna show you somethin.’”

The only reason you comply is because he leads you outside, which is a step closer to him finally leaving you alone. Johnny circles around the cottage, revealing a footpath that leads down the hill. The ground transitions from soil to sand as you both walk; the wind picks up as the sound of waves grows. Eventually you reach what turns out to be a small cove, hidden by the curve of the island, flanked on both sides by cliffs of only middling height.

The tide is only now making its way in; probably why you hadn’t realized it was here earlier. You think you’ll be able to hear the waves when you go to sleep tonight.

“Oh,” you say, unable to hide that it’s impressed you.

“Yeah,” Johnny replies, smug. “All yours. Come down whenever you like. Dinna recommend skinny dippin’ this time a’year, though.”

You look at him, intending some sort of flat response, but what you see stops your words up in the chamber of your throat.

There’s something…different about him. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. A dangerous cant to the angle of his grin. He suddenly feels very real to you—

Like standing in front of a wild animal.

Realizing, at the same time it does, that there is no barrier between it and you.

He looks you up and down. He doesn’t even try to hide it; too-blue eyes jaunt from yours down to your throat, the span of your shoulders, lingering on your chest before drifting down your stomach and hips. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, shoulders lifting as his chest expands, and you get the strange sense that he’s trying to smell you.

The ice that slithers through your veins, drips down the rigid column of your spine, wars with the spike of heat that breaks across your face. You feel here. You feel very present, your heart pumping wet in your chest, electrical wisps zipping to every nerve ending and back up your cerebellum to remind your brain of every part of your existing body.

Suddenly you are in Scotland, thousands of miles away from home, freezing fucking cold, only half of all the money you have in the world left in your bank account. Tomorrow stretching out in front of you. The next day after it.

Panic, which you thought buried, turns over in your belly, grave-dirt too light to keep it down. Hard earth is beneath your feet. A light drizzle is starting overhead. You begin to shiver, your nervous system’s effort to warm your hairless mammal body up, to save you from the cold and the wet and the fucking predator standing two paces away from you while gazing at you like it can’t wait to break your bones open for the marrow inside.

“Okay,” you finally snap, though you’re unable to keep your voice from quivering. “I really appreciate you driving me, Johnny, but—”

His eyes flash. The ocean-depths of them shift with an awareness beyond your ken, the dark edges deepening, the vivid blue swirling. The expression on his face transmutes into something unknowable—like the difference between the look on a pet dog’s face and a wolf’s.

Something isn’t there that should be, and what is in its place is entirely unfamiliar.

What is in its place is something your species evolved long past being able to understand.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the flash is gone. Johnny is human again, as if he had always been in the first place. The thin crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle, as he gives you what he probably thinks is a sympathetic smile.

He doesn’t seem able, or perhaps willing to hide how amused he is, though.

“Long flight, I know,” he croons, meeting your gaze again. “Dinna worry, bonnie, I’ll let you get your rest.”

Whatever you were about to say dies. Your mouth hangs open. Johnny backs away from you, hands casually in his pockets.

“I’ll take you to see the seals tomorrow!” he calls to you before he turns away. A sudden gust ruffles the pelt hanging around his hips. “I know all the best spots.”

He throws you a casual wave, and then disappears over the rise.

You do hear the waves that evening, when you lay down to sleep. The covers are soft over you, cozy and warm even as the ocean wind hums outside.

You can’t stop shivering.

a/n: last fic of the year (probably)! i'm so into this one tbh. i figured out the ending a while ago and i'm so dang excited to get to it.

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #how the hell is his last name even spelled #mwritessoap #madi writes

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maniwannadiezz · 3 days ago

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How to properly create a readable reference… !

Using old pilot reference as an example, I’m here to expand on this to make a turn around sheet that will be more helpful to someone who would be looking at this while animating the design….

1st, get rid of the posing, it’s stretching anatomy and complicating the image, how will we be able to see how her shoulders rest if we can’t see her arms down at her sides? Leave poses for a separate page for exaggerated expressions

2nd, giving her a neutral expression can not only help us better balance the thickness of her lashes but also make the eye shape clearer- and where her features should rest naturally when she is calm. Giving the animator a consistent anchor after an especially exaggerated movement of the face. We always must have a proper clear default.

3rd, proper side angle, her arms pinned back slightly to expose her side, showing the animator how the shirt ends at the side or how the lapels connect to the back and wrap around the neck- which can be shown at the back angle too.

4th, proper back angle, you can see I have two set here one where her hair is out of the way and exposing her back while one had the hair fell down, showing us not only how the back of her shirt looks but as well as how her hair would fall- leaving nothing to imagination and guess which could have contributed to animation consistencies to the pilot art style. Preferably we would also have a straight on shot as well, but for space sake I left that out for now.

5th, all are in the same pose and all body parts match up, none of the hand on hip or out in an awkward position. We have to know in animation the BASICS then from there the animator is free to bend it in practical ways but will always know what the rules may be. It’s exactly why so many shows have animation bibles. The more information you feed your animators the more streamlined your project will be. Don’t make the animators work any harder then they already do by guessing what the hell you were going for…

6th, add ons, what is the inside of her mouth look? What about a place we can’t see such as her top lid (while also getting a view of what her lashes look like down at half lidded) or the underside of her foot? Leave no place left untold! Remember animation can help give your characters the illusion of living in a 3d environment. They can and will see the underside of them or behind them- work thoroughly.

Whether you are making animation or even a comic, a proper reference is crucial to character consistency as well as a perfect place to add additional information one might not see at first but grow incredibly vital in later drawings.

#hazbin hotel critical #helluva boss critical #spindlehorse critical #Turnarounds are crucial

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holylulusworld · 2 days ago

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Gap Filler (2)

Summary: Lack of communication leads to fallout.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, Walter being a douche, break-up, mentions of break-ups, amends, angry reader, unplanned pregnancy

A/N: A short drabble to the miniseries.

Gap Filler (1)

Walter feels like he’s losing his mind. He’s pacing the room, driving the lab assistant crazy. She huffs and shakes her head. Not only does Walter ask for an unauthorized analysis, but he also gets on her nerves.

“Sir, the results won’t come faster if you keep on walking holes into the ground. It will take as long as it takes.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour and need the results by then,” he huffs and turns to leave. “I know you’re not happy that I called in a favor. This is an important, life-changing event. So please, hurry up. I need to be sure if I bring something for the baby too.”

She furrows her brows but says nothing. Three years ago, Walter did her a favor without asking questions. She will do the same for him to pay him back and to be even with the grumpy detective.

“Half an hour,” she nods. “Got it.”

“…and?” Walter expectantly looks at the lab assistant. He never felt so much pressure on him before. Not even while on the hunt for a killer. “Please tell me you have the result for me.”

“Here.” She hands Walter the results. “Now we are even. Never ask me to do something like this ever again. I could lose my job.”

“If you forget about the test and the results, we are even.” He looks at the results. His heart jumped for a second before he remembered what he said to you only a few days ago.

“Detective.” She nods and turns back toward her equipment. “You shouldn’t waste more time. She’s on the way to start a new life far away from you.”

Walter huffs. The last thing he needs is someone telling him that he fucked up big time. He already knows there’s no way you’ll forgive him.

“Can I help you, sir?” The clerk at the shop asks. She’s looking at Walter standing in front of a shelf. He looks left and right, unsure what to buy. “Sir?”

“Hmm…” Walter dips his head to look at her. He has his arms crossed over his chest as he tries to decide on a gift hamper. “I need a gift for…” He sniffs and looks back at the shelf. “…my pregnant girlfriend. It should say, I’m sorry and happy to become a dad at the same time.”

She frowns. “You want to apologize with a baby gift hamper? Sir, I don’t know your girlfriend well, but that’s not the best gift for an angry pregnant woman.”

“How do you wanna know?” He cocks his head to watch her look at the shelf herself. “I want her to know that I’m happy about the baby and that I’m sorry for saying all those stupid things.”

She huffs now. “You are always sorry, aren’t you? Men are all the same. Do you believe a half-hearted apology and a random gift will make things up to her? How dare you come back to her to do it all over again!”

“Whoa, I didn’t ask for your opinion or help. If you’d excuse me now,” Walter angrily says. He glares at the clerk, pissed at her cocky attitude. “Whatever crawled up your ass is not my fault or problem. Nice customer service.”

He’s too angry to focus on buying anything at the shop. Walter storms out of the shop, squaring his jaw. The young woman at the shop wasn’t wrong. Walter hurt you beyond repair, and this can’t be fixed with a fucking gift hamper.

“I’ll take two, no, three of these.” Walter points at the flower baskets. “No, this is stupid. Give me your prettiest bouquet of peonies. She loves them.”

He looks around the flower shop, frowning deeply. There’s a beautiful orchid and a large cactus next to it. Walter shakes his head and laughs. “An impossible match,” he murmurs before pointing at the plants. “I changed my mind. I’ll take these two.”

Packing up your things to move out of your home feels wrong. You learned to love your apartment and turned it into a cozy home for you.

Not so long ago, you had hoped Walter would move in with you one day.

All your hope got shattered the day he told you Rachel is back and that he wants to try again. Your heart broke, and you mourned the life you could’ve had if only Walter felt the same.

Now you’re going to raise the life growing inside of you alone, far away from the friends you made and your beloved home.

“Well, this can’t be helped,” you murmur while rubbing your belly. There’s no swelling yet, but soon enough people will know you’re expecting. “We are going to do this all on our own, bean. Don’t worry. Your mommy is going to give you all the love you’ll need.”

For a few moments, you allow yourself to be sad about the breakup. You cry, you scream, and then you get up to pack up a few more things.

Walter is a nervous wreck. He paces in front of your apartment, the cactus, orchid, and a baby gift hamper in his arms.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Walter curses himself for being a fool. If only he knew that you never wanted to leave him for a better position.

How could he be so blind? How could he not see that your feelings for him were true?

His instinct should’ve told him you are not going to leave him. Instead, he ignored his instinct and listened to the nagging voice in the back of his mind.

“FUCK!” One last time, he takes a deep breath before knocking at your door, using his right elbow.

“Hello, what can I—” You stiffen when your eyes meet Walter’s blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same!” He huffs. “I told you so often to not open the door before checking who’s on the other side.”

You huff. “This is how you want to start this conversation? Really, Walter?” He smirks when you put your hands on your hips to glare at him. “What brings you here? Do you want to make sure I’m leaving? Maybe Rachel needs a new apartment, and you want mine.”

“Baby,” he hesitantly says. “Rachel is not, and never will be, a part of my life. She wanted to return for a few months, but we didn’t stay in touch. I lied, believing you want to leave me too. I was hurt and believed hurting you would make me feel better.”

You narrow your eyes. “For a smart detective, you are dumb as a brick.” Slamming the door in his face, you huff. “FUCK YOU!”

“Baby? Uh—will you at least let me explain things? Please?” He knocks at your door again, using his foot this time. “Y/N, please open the door. The cactus is poking my chest, and the orchid looks like it's scared of me.”

You’re tempted to open the door, almost giving in as he keeps talking. “No.”

“Please, at least take the plants. You see, the pretty one is you, soft and sweet. The large, ugly beast is me, rough and grumpy. Even though they are so different, he loves the pretty orchid.” He sighs deeply. “And he hopes that the pretty flower loves him too…”

Walter listens closely. He sucks in a breath when you curse behind the door.

“Baby, I know about the baby,” Walter continues. “I know what I did and said was unforgivable, but please talk to me…”

#walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall x you #walter marshall x y/n #x reader #Gap Filler (2)

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officialnighttime · 2 days ago

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I have 7 cats. Jacqueline, Smudge, Hank, Daisy, Nala, Sammy and Lil Boo Thang.

All except smudge, Jacque and Hank came from shelters. Hank was given to me after mums friend moved to a rental that didn't allow pets. Jacque and Smudge are actually half siblings and I took in their mother as a stray. Blossom passed away last year but her babies are well and happy, Obi is another of her last litter and lives with my mothers son's ex girlfriend. She's lovely and taking great care of him and sends me regular updates.

I love them all. But having seven is a bit much I have to admit. One cat is great and you don't need a second to keep it company. I just take in strays cause hey I have the room and the money for the food so why not.

I'd reccomend before you get one, take a look at the videos of 'do's and don'ts' cause they are helpful and I watched some after having my cats for a while and it was stuff I'd learned along the way that would have been good at the very beginning.

I can't remember if it's true but I believe wet food has more nutrition than dry food. I give mine some kibble in the morning and wet food as dinner.

Toys. Toys are important. it might seem like they don't play with them but they will eventually and they're only a few dollars for some balls and jingly things for them to chase. All of my seven have at some point lost interest in toys. so I'd get two lots and rotate some out every now and again so it's like they're new.

Get them used to a harness. I put each one in a harnness for 10 min a day until they were able to walk comfortably in it to get them used to it. If I need to I can get them into a harness and then into the carrier far easier. makes for smoother vet trips and such.

Mine are indoor outdoor so I don't leash walk much. But a couple of them do enjoy coming with me to the shops and chilling outside while I grab some things. Cats walk a set route and mark it as their territory so they don't walk as far as the shops and it's a good novelty for them. Also since walking them I don't worry too much about them getting spooked and lost because they know the outer area of their territory better. If your cat will be indoor, it's still a good idea to leash train and walk them so if they get out, they know where to go and it's good exercise for you both.

Training them in general is good. It's just good bonding and creates better relationships. Clicker training them is just cool. I don't have a clicker but I'm autistic and the click noise I make with my tongue works just fine (yes I figured this out cause I was stress stimming and my cats knew the flurry of clicks was not happy and I was burried under a mountain of fur and purrs. daisy even ran out and came back with Hank lol). But clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth makes a good enough noise. I use one to signal stay, two for sit, one and a twirling finger to get them to spin.

and if you work from home or use your computer a lot, it's worth investing in one of those cardboard cat laptops. They bother you cause they want to mimic you. It's a form of bonding for them. So the cardboard one they can play with themselves is a good way for them to do that without pissing you off

Ngl I am biased towards getting cats from a shelter. especially if you've never had one, cause often you can find 3 - 5 year old cats whose owners just didn't want to/couldn't care for them any longer and a kitten is not something I'd recommend starting with.

Anyways, I'm done infodumping about cat care. I hope you get a kitty you love that loves you <3

Do you like cats? Do want one/have one?

I DOOOOOOOOO like cats!

but I specifically like taking care of ONE cat.

I babysat two cats recently, it's a big NOOO for me (they weren't even bad cats, I just don't think I am meant to have two cats).

But I want one cat (I don't have one/have never had a pet. The closest I got to a pet was a goldfish I won at a church fair....that died the next day.😬)

And before somebody asks, yes between cat vs, dog, I choose cats HANDS DOWN!

Historically, dogs and I have not gotten along. This person in my neighborhood has had the same iteration of a small gray dog for 18 years now and it HAS jumped the fence, it IS aggressive, and it BARKS AT EVERYTHINGGGGGGGGG

Also generally in my neighborhood it seems people don't like to keep their dogs inside or on leashes...

I've been getting better at liking dogs (tolerating them) but my history with them has led me to love cats more.

Cats leave me alone or cuddle up when they want to.

I respect that.

🙌🏾 may the cat distribution system find me 🙌🏾

-🔒🐱

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low-budget-korra · 1 day ago

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Let's talk about Caitlyn Kiramman from Arcane (again)

Tons to talk about her so, here we go

1. Is she privileged? Yes. Is she a bad person because of it? No.

In fact, from the beginning, Caitlyn always wanted to do what's right and that's the reason she became an enforcer(in her life experience until then, as Piltie, the enforcers were there to keep the peace and help the city and it's people). She wanted to help people and was one of the few Top Siders who viewed Zaun people as people and not monsters or trash.

2. Did she get blind by revenge and make some bad stuff? Yes.

But let's be fr, if my mom was murdered like that and by the same people I tried to help, I would do the same or even worse and probably so are you Caitlyn haters. And that's okay, we are emotional beings and rage truly is something that blinds people.

Not to be that person but half of Caitlyn's hate posts just scream "i never lost someone important in my life and I don't know how grief works" Cuz unfortunately I did and even tho it wasn't nowhere near the violent way Cassandra died, I still had to struggle with the anger phase. And I say this bc people act Caitlyn was just pulling a tantrum, overacting or smt

Sure, her pain ain't bigger than Jinx's or Vi's, but it's still hurts and the only true difference is that Cassandra had the privilege of an honorable funeral, while Felicia and many others from Zaun, didn't have. But don't be here all condescendingly try to disqualify Caitlyn pain just bc she is rich

Anyway, she was so blind by revenge that she released the toxic gas on Zaun, and it is said and shown that she only used to clean the streets before search operations and against the baroons. Still fucked up bc there's no way innocents weren't harmed but still, it ain't like she release the gas on everyone just for funzies as some people comments

Ambessa played her cards pretty well bc it's easier to do something like that if you dehumanize your enemy. And those Zaun thugs were dumb enough to fall for the Ambessa trap in the ceremony and the whole Zaun suffered because of that.

And if we can learn something from this is not to be too quick to violence bc you may be played and in the end, you and your people will suffer with the oppressors now ""justified"" actions. Yes, violence can help but we need to know how and when to use it.

3. Caitlyn is possibly the most complex and misunderstood character from season 2. Mostly bc even tho we had lots of micro expressions and subtext that explain her actions, there were things that maybe needed to be said. This would save the character from being so misunderstood

Like a scene with her saying something like "Vi...I'm sorry if I hurt you" and then Vi would respond like "if?" and then silence after. Could even be in that scene in act3 when Vi just wakes up from the coma. Idk, I know it sounds dumb but again, it would save the character from being misunderstood and hated over them

"But Caitlyn changing sides was too plot convenient and came outta nowhere". No? Lmao in fact you can see in her face how she regrets hitting on Vi and how she kinda of doesn't want to be there when Ambessa is making the speech in the end of act1

But then again, Ambessa plays her cards and calls out Caitlyn into a position where she simply can't say no. Remember that they were already thinking that someone from the Top may have helped the attack and Caitlyn was seen hanging around with a Zaun criminal and sister of the terrorist, if she refused what Ambessa was offering, people would assume she is a traitor and that could mean death to her.

Months go by and when we see act2 Caitlyn she is already more calm, her initial rage and wishes of vengeance kinda of ran out, and she is already realizing all the shit she did and disagreeing with Ambessa's ideas. In simple terms: She just wanted a way out.

Oh and let's not forget how Caitlyn was alone during all that. Her father was also grieving, Jace was gone, Mel was gone, Vi was gone...she was all alone and emotionally vulnerable, which makes it so much easier for Ambessa to manipulate her

So when she reunited with Vi and Vi called her Cupcake, it's like "wait, you not hate me after what I did to you?" moment , it was when she realized she wasn't alone anymore. And after hearing that Vi was helping her father, Caitlyn immediately wanted to help - maybe as a way of saying sorry, to redeem herself from the bad shit she did during those 6 months.

And when she got to see Jinx happily and chill, just hugging her dad...it was the moment she remembered Jinx wasn't a monster, that little moment is when she starts humanize Jinx and we can see in her eyes.

"then why did she arrest Jinx" Because Jinx surrendered and she had no choice, Jinx didn't kill just her mom. But she waits for Vi to wake up, to decide what to do and I bet while this happened, people were pressuring her to execute Jinx already or something.

That conversation she had with Jinx kind of seal the deal. Probably the first proper conversation they had and seeing Jinx so weak and vulnerable...it totally makes her destroy the image she previously had of her. There's no way back, she didn't forgive Jinx and I don't think she ever will, but she stopped hating her. Which is a start.

And knowing Vi would never allow Jinx to stay in jail, Caitlyn just say "fuck it" and let Vi release her sister. This was an act of love, especially bc Cait knew Vi could just run away with Jinx and she may never see her again.

"the CaitVi sex scene was unnecessary" I didn't see any of these when it was Jayce and Mel tho 🤷

It is both sad and funny how a huge part of the Caitlyn haters also loved and forgave Silco. This just proves that if a woman will be judged harder, a lesbian will be judged 2x more harder cuz the amount of lesbophobic comments I've seen...

#arcane #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn arcane #caitvi #vi arcane #jinx arcane #cassandra kiramman #jayce arcane #mel medarda #ambessa medarda

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firefly--bright · 3 days ago

Text

sound//waves

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u.

summary ; each sound has its own shape, something tangible for you to feel. jean's shapes are weightless but important, and you find the importance of your own shapes through him. warnings ; reader being self-conscious of her voice :') idk what the trope is here. pining idiots who don't realise they're both in the same boat, also brief alcohol consumption a/n ; hehe,,, this fic was a pretty long time coming i think? but its for @/samepictureofjeankirsteverday on instagrams celebration for hitting 1k days!! so congratulations!! its also inspired by her own fic, quietude on ao3 :) pls give it a read its SO CUTE and i loved it sm <333 congratulations again :33 ALSO i have never done karaoke before so im sorry for any,,, errors. i genuinely dont know how they work and ive watched only like 2 animes with a very vague karaoke scene </3 just pretend that every inaccuracy is For The Plot taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy

masterlist is in pinned post ✿ enter my taglist ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿ playlist to listen to while reading! (it has a couple karaoke songs wink wink) ✿

right tile art credits ; @ppushable on tumblr!

you'd always been conscious of how loud your voice could get.

a little annoying, you thought, because whenever you got excited about something, your voice would jump through octaves, creating an exponential curve on a graph. when you were with friends who knew how to make you laugh, your throat would make a weird sound - stuck between a guffaw and a choke of self-conscious laughter - if it was particularly funny. and your voice was always stuck between the contrasting spaces of either being too loud or too quiet, never really being able to gauge what was required when.

you'd rather listen than talk. your voice would work around the right people, your mouth having a mind of its own, spilling contents you didn't agree to, but you'd regret the sound of it later. secrets would lie, open, barren, self-aware, in a disgusting pile of weird decibels on your table, in the space between you and whoever had to bear witness to it. you always cringed at the sound of your own voice after hearing it back in video, wherever it was captured.

you grew up quiet, never growing used to using your voice until you were a late teenager. not knowing the importance of words until they were said, until after the reactions were met.

and then you met jean. loud, boisterous laughter filled the room as he shouted the rules of the game, clearly drunk, at a party you couldn't remember the importance of, and you were next to your equally as loud and agreeing friend who shouted cheers and another one, her other half, she had loudly exclaimed, her twin, really, and you could hear the resemblance in the way they both chanted a cheer of “jean! jean! jean! jean!” continuously as the guy wearing a button-up shirt that was now soaked with wine with a bottle of the liquid held a considerable height away from him, drinking with twitching lips and shut eyes. He stopped with a spluttering cough, unashamed still, a large, cocky grin plastered over his lips - plump and red with the tint of the wine. Then he let out a loud whoop and you wondered how he didnt feel the guilt of being loud weighing down on him. Maybe it was the alcohol, you assumed, taking a cautious, controlled sip of your own. Sasha and connie soon joined him, and along with their arm came yours, linked in between sasha’s tight grip.

Introductions were made, voices inclining louder to be heard over the music. “Sash told us about you,” jean shouted, a surprisingly inviting smile on his intimidating face, and you joked around, “yeah shes in love with me!” jean all but nodded with an approving smile, and the rest of the evening by pounding music that you could feel your heartbeat on, and you don't hear jean’s presence until about two weeks after it all.

He was quiet then. Suddenly his face went back to being intimidating, and his voice was heard through a groan the first time you heard it after the boisterous party. “Marc, can you please-”

Marco continues about his day, and then you add on with your unfamiliar voice shrinking under the sounds of the cafeteria that was quickly filling in with tangible shapes of voices. The rest of them have to lean in a little closer to you to listen, and your voice shakes against your chest at the bearable effort just to talk about your mundane and frankly low-grade joke about stagnant coffee that you couldnt even remember after you said it, but somehow made them laugh.

“Oh hey!” marco spoke from beside him after he spotted your head approaching them from a distance, his voice a happy, upbeat version of it’s usual quiet and important self. You waved to them with a smile, not uttering a word until you were at their table. With sasha beside you, you let her do the talking at first. Consonants loud, slight country accent clear as the day above you, she spoke about the “boooorrriinnggg” lecture she just had to attend, her back slumping against the seat. Your face rested consciously on your palm, an unintentional look shared between you and jean that said mostly nothing but quiet and secret amusement. His eyes were pretty, speaking a thousand, weighted words against his lids, all of which were heard clearly by you. Hes a stranger, really, nothing more than a name and a scruffy but pretty face, but that didnt stop the bounds of familiarity working their way through the shared space between you. Marco snorts from beside him, and pushes his remaining fries to the brunette. Sasha hums approvingly, comforting, the waves travelling to you safely. Undisturbed, just how youd prefer them to be, and her voice floats above your body, letting it settle there, with you looking at it’s gentle remnants.

“Ackerman’s classes are always a terror-shock,” jean spoke, now, directly to you, eyes on yours, and you had to stop yourself from being consumed by the tidal waves of sound - his voice, low, warm, joking, natural as if your presence was just enough for him to find comfort in.

You laugh along with him and your voice - a hungry animal of itself - involuntarily, becomes more itself than you’ve ever found it to be. Which is a shock, but then sasha rests her head on your shoulder, asking you, “when’s your next class?” her voice vibrating on your shoulder, travelling through your bones. Your voice - the hungry animal - or whatever it gently became, replies with a, “in a couple minutes.”

“What block?” jean asks, and marco checks his phone for his own calendar.

You hum even if you don't have to think, “block-b. Just a bit of a walk.”

“I have class the same way. I can walk you,” he says, casually, picking his back up from the ground beside him, his knee knocking into yours for a moment. He doesn't apologize. You get up next, picking up the remnants of the trash left on your table and follow him.

His voice is a constant after that. Surprisingly, his voice becomes something you reach out to, the tendrils of waves asking you to stay a bit longer, to shed your coat, to give him your bag to hold. Gentle commands that all but fuel your hungry voice, lungs soaking into whatever has become of his laughter mixed with yours.

“Karaoke night!” sasha shouts, entering the apartment with no remorse of her voice being louder than the howling dogs at night. You exchange a natural, knowing glance with jean who stands next to you in the kitchen, handing you a spoon. Connie follows her in, and his presence is just as loud, the shape being a little sharp against your palm, just enough to remind you that this is your friend. His bag flops against the table and he groans with each joint that moves in him.

“Im going to sing the best songs-” he starts, but jean is quick to cut his voice off, as usual, “-you’re going to sing CPR by Cuppcake you crazy bastard, im going to hit you-” “im not going to sing that! I have taste and dignity and-” “-you have a will to make us suffer.” jean states, and the two of them go back and forth while you hand marco’s cup to him in the living room. “Thanks,” he says, whispered among the background, his lips pursed with an attempt of hiding his laughter.

You smile back at him, but your laugh isnt hidden. You turn around, hands on your hips, exclaiming, “okay! Karaoke night in three hours. Then we go to mitras’ and eat something good.”

Sasha agreed with a mouthful of food and a muffled voice, and you reeled from the fact that you could project your own voice into the apartment with such force. You’ve always been loud, and your mouth always ended up working by itself, spilling contents you didn't agree to be spilt, and you grew quiet again with the consciousness of it all. You never knew how to strike the right balance between quiet and loud.

But then you met jean, who was looking at you, his mouth drawn between half smirk and half amusement, brows raised only slightly, enough to keep you questioning.

“What?” you asked him. Cornered him, really, and your voice was meant to be sharp but ended up being soft around it’s edges, a happy smile accompanying it, and jean’s smirk widened, just by a bit. He shrugged. “Nuffin,” he said, voice half-hidden and half-proud under the food he was chewing.

Chips. Barbeque, the ones you bought especially for him, the one sasha was hoarding. You narrowed your eyes at him in faux suspicion, but let it go only a bit after, turning your back to him as his voice travels to you without hinderance. “Sash, stop eating th3e damn-” “i’ll do whatever i want to!” she says, turning her back on him as well, facing the marble countertop of the kitchen with jean’s - now her - bag of chips, crinkling under her fingers as she dug through them, feeding one to you.

Karaoke was set. Three hours timing, as you said - a little too loud, unconscious of it being that way - and your shoes squeak over the floor. There had been a significant wait, but connie’s rambling had done you good. “For once,” jean said, voice barely heard over the sound of all the other occupied rooms, “he’s useful.” “that’s not what you said last night.” connie says, but his voice is octaves higher than jean’s and impossible to ignore. You open the door to the room with a smile, and marco groans. “Guys, keep it in your pants for one night.” “im not the one-!” jean starts, but sasha clamps his mouth shut with her hand. “If you're not going to sing, i don't want to hear your stupid, neighing voice complaining,” she said, a murderous tilt in the sound, something you didn't want to mess with.

Sasha in a bad mood wasn't sasha at all - a learned fact that had been taught very unfortunately to you - and you tried your best to get her moods up with whatever means necessary, hopping next to the big screen and detangling the wire of the microphone as marco scrolled through the song options, humming under his breath. A round of lemon sodas was immediately ordered, and jean left a seat for you in the corner of the couch facing the screen, an unsaid determination to get you to sit closer to him. Connie slung his arm around marco’s shoulders and, like the demon on the former’s shoulder, guided him to choose Copacabana by barry manillow.

“Wanna duet, beautiful?” he asked you, hand flat open for you to hand him the mic. You raised your brows with a smile, “you cant handle me, springer.” even if in reality, it was you who couldnt handle him, his voice ten times louder and unashamed than yours, something you admired.

“sash! Connie’s challenging you!” you say instead, smile poisoning your sentence, making it irregular. “hey! I never said-” he starts, but sasha bounces off her seat to your voice, hugging your arm, taking up the challenge and squinting at connie with vitriol. “You're on, baldie.”

Connie’s not a competitive person. He’d never cared about grades, about being first in class, about races, in board games - it was all just that to him. A game, something to have fun about; an admirable trait if went unpaired with the rest of his jokes. But he liked doing things out of spite - a revenge that flowed so deep that he had to do something drastic.

Even before the music turned on, before their cue, they'd started their serenading, making marco wince with an adoring smile as he grabbed sasha’s outstretched, inviting hand.

You made your way back to jean, as you always found yourself doing, licking your lips against the cold of the AC blasting in the room, the floors shaking under the weight of your beating heart to the thumps of the song, rhythmic and out of tune. Marco sang well, you knew this, but his voice got lost under the competitiveness of sasha and connie, shouting over each other and clambering over the lyrics as they ran away from the screen, still getting the words wrong.

You laugh, sitting down, stealing a chip from the bowl jean held in his lap as he flipped through the book of remarks strangers before you had written in the same room, their handwritings messy and intoxicated with the extensive - and expensive - cocktail menu, hearts littered under the praises of their time.

“I wonder if they added it,” you said, almost shouting as he leaned in as well, head ducking near your mouth to hold your words in his heart. Impossibly close, his cologne masking the smell of the leathery couch and the stinge of cold air, and he lifts his head, a curious glint in his eye only enhanced by the rotating, artificial, lights that played their colours on the wall along with the trapped soundwaves. “Wanna check?” his lips upturned into a smirk, a pink light bouncing off his hair, then green, then a blue, the same colours in the same order projecting onto you and the adoring afflictions of his voice were not lost on you.

Jean chuckled, the sound hiding under the unbearable symphonies, pointing his finger at one of the notes. “Someone wrote-” you had to lean in close to hear him, afraid that you wouldn't catch the waves woven so delicately and carefully for you, that you'd miss them, somehow, “-that they are sad that… oh shit, thats connie.” the note, scrawled with a blue ballpoint pen, complained about how there was a lack of the sonic movie soundtrack on the machine. You laughed, your shoulders shaking under the now weightless time, a physical proof of your smile. Jean held it in his heart, woven carefully, as if it would slip away somehow.

Something to do. Together, like a secret, because really, how else would he say it if not like this? Like the shape carved itself just for you, smooth and soft. How else would he say something unimportant so close to you, his hand encircling your shoulders, arm resting on the back of the couch, voice the only thing you hear even if the loudness of the setting is all too present and all too distracting. Because that’s what this was, even with the distracting and present and loudness of the setting, he asks you, and his words form their own shape and fall into your lap, a gentle, warm question with round edges, easy to hold in your open palms that eagerly closed over it to not let it go.

Your heart beats to the thumps of the song. Your teeth ache with the sweetness of his voice as you nod with the same glint in your eye, and the unsaid but well-heard command is enough to get him standing up and walking to the machine, checking and flipping over the songs that offered themselves, his white shirt tinted against the moody lighting, the old bracelet you made him hanging over his wrist with a poorly tied knot that somehow withstood the test of time and weather and temperatures of his warm body. His hand scratched the back of his neck, and the present song was almost coming to an end, not that you were paying attention to it, but it was hard to not remind yourself of the moment you were in when the moment included him, the same ground he stood on being the same ground your feet rested on, the same room his voice held and clung onto also being the same room your own voice was in, floating to his, something you found it doing a little too often.

Your name was spoken on the microphone, brightly, with a wide smile, something you hadn't been used to until you met sasha. Your eyes met hers, crinkled at the ends with a smile wider than her heart, as she pointed at you, “your turn! jean-boy, choose something!” met with another shared and important - because all of them were important - glance with jean, eyebrows raised, affection rippling over his features, and you relented, hopping up to the microphone as she handed it to you.

“Oh, but when i asked you to, you didn't sing? I see how it is," Connie said, teasing smile on his lips. Marco shook his head with a smile as you shrugged. “You dont pay the rent,” you said simply, and the opening to cant take my eyes off of you by frankie vallie clung to your clothes, spreading a wide and knowing smile over your face, glancing at jean again. Again.

Sasha watches. Seeing it play out - not rehearsed, a little clunky, your shoes creaking under your weight as you hop to the beat, looking at jean who, in turn, looks at you, and sasha watches. Your voice hums out the tune before you sing it, before the lyrics start rolling in, impatience staining your tongue because of excitement, and she watches. Connie gulps down his drink from the corner of the room and tries getting up, but marco pushes him back down with a gentle and forceful hand, “dont,” his voice says, lost again, and connie doesnt ask why. Sasha hands her microphone to jean, clunky and unrehearsed, and he takes it without reluctance because he could never refuse being near you.

Your shoulders shake without effort or thinking, and the usual hesitance that comes to jean so easily, like habit, almost disappears, finding solace in god knows where but he’s just glad its not there right now, with you. Brilliant smile, voice usually small and a little uneasy now grows with the swell of the song and he cant help but not sing. His voice is nothing but background and really, all he’s doing is humming into the mic just as you were moments before, and he sees everything. Your voice makes it hard not to notice you, stark against the background of the four walled-room, head bopping to the beat. It's hard not to notice when something so tangible and breathing and beautiful is in front of him, singing, smiling towards him, looking at him like you do with your eyes all shiny and almost sparkling under the shitty lights, he thinks, how can someone make a karaoke room feel like a shrine?

He's not poetic. He knows this - out of the two of you, you find more of the metaphors, the small but noteworthy variables with the phrases and words - but he’d turn into a poet just to make one of the songs you like to sing so much. Humming under your breath, kept there until future and important use while making coffee, lost lyrics that you couldn't remember building up at the back of your throat as your hand flew across the your computer’s keyboard but even then he’d choose your inexperienced and unpracticed voice over a well made concert.

Your lips shine with the light, and he forgets how to breathe. His mic floats somewhere near his mouth, he’s sure of that much, but everything else is lost to him. Your voice becomes his guide, wavering a little at the higher pitches, careful of the lyrics. You mess up once, laugh it off, shrugging your shoulders, and your smile is etched onto the speakers, making their way across the room and into his ears and, god, he can feel it. The beat doesn't matter to him, his heart finds the way of your voice and beats to it. As soft, as careful, unhesitant and unrestrained until the three minutes and twenty-four seconds of the song are over. And all he did was blink.

You turn, handing the mic back to sasha, connie’s standing applause met with a wide, unbashful grin and a little bow, faux pride in your posture.

Jean all but follows your footsteps only a little ways from sasha, as she chooses another song of her liking, and his eyes are on you, adjusting the sleeve of your shirt that had folded up. You look at him, lips moving under his gaze, sound travelling and only a little delayed because jean thinks about your lips for too long. “You have a good voice,” you remark, smiling, and he blinks. Thank god the place is only dimly lit because his face feels red, heart pumping dangerously close to his chest.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs confirmation. Really, he just wants to hear your voice again.

You hum. He leans in to hear it as if it's something more important. It is, to him, every molecule that's disturbed by your voice to reach to his ear is something that he needs to be accounted for. He’ll make a home there, he thinks, where your voice lives in between the atoms, the shape it makes mid-air, just for him to hear.

“HORSEBOY THIS ONES FOR YOU,” connie shouts in the already loud speaker, making jean wince, connie pointing his finger between jean’s brows, a scowl on the latter’s features. The starting notes of “my heart will go on” start playing, and jean groans, head tilting upwards, catching the way you laugh softly, and turning to you incredulously.

“Y’know your bald head is shining like a disco ball right now?” he says in retaliation to the now belting-his-heart-out connie, his hand making a fist over his heart, eyes screwed shut, pinch between his eyebrows, knees bending at an almost-painful angle that will most surely make them hurt later, with marco doing the background vocals, eyes closed, and… was that a tear?

“Jesus, and then? what did he say?” sasha’s voice loudly asked, uncaring for any sleeping neighbours that would surely be jolted awake by her, coercing you to tell her more about the terrible group project you had just gotten out of last week. “He said he’d just give the work to someone who owed him a favour.” you said with mild but mostly dissipated annoyance.

Marco winced from in front of you, legs crossing two steps at a time. Jean scowled, turning his face to yours from where he climbed beside marco, “what the fuck?” to which you could only shrug with pursed lips. Sasha’s arm was around your shoulders, her fingers tracing comfortable shapes on the cup of your shoulder.

“Wait, who owed him a favour?” connie asked from behind you, two steps under yours. You spared him a glance and shrugged again, “no idea. And then, of course, he told me, last minute, that they couldn't do it and he didn't have the skills,” you put air quotations around the last word, clearing your throat for dramatic effect, “to complete it himself.”

“What the fuck does that even mean-” “what a fucking dick,” “god, im so sorry,” jeans voice was the first one you heard, followed by sasha’s, and then marco’s. “I wish we could still guillotine people.” connie spoke up just after you crossed the last step, marco’s shoes squeaking to a halt before your door. You fished your keys out of your pocket, opening the door to its jingle.

“Guillotines are for rich people, dumbass,” jean said, rolling his shoulders back as if the sentence itself burdened him.

“of course you’d say that, you french fuck.” connie spoke, wiggling out of his coat the second he stepped through your door. Sasha went headfirst for the couch, collapsing into the cushions without any plan to remove her own coat. Her soft snores soon filled the apartment - a trait both her and jean shared. The two could fall asleep anywhere and anytime, state of their body be damned. Jean had told you, after a long nap, his voice a low hum, that he had insomnia as a kid. He didn't know how he grew out of it, but it ended up with him on the opposite side of the sleep spectrum - unable to wake up unless shaken very violently. He asked you to slap him awake once, and when you hesitated, connie stepped in with a loud smack to jean’s cheek.

Marco stretched out his arms while walking to sasha’s room. “Im taking her bed.” he says, a tired yawn stretching out at the end of his sentence. Connie groans, “where will i sleep?” he asks, looking at you with a smirk, “if only a beautiful girl with a pretty voice tells me i can use her room…oh, if only,” he sighs, placing the back of his hand on his forehead.

“Yeah. if only, you bitchless moron.” jean says, and you shake your head with a smile.

“Do you think women are bitches, jean?” connie asks, the hand on his forehead finding itself on his chest, gasping. sasha ‘s snores break through his sentence.

“No! I.. i love women. I mean, im not like, im not… like a slut or anything, but-” “sounds like something a slut would say. Fuckboy.” “I respect women!”

“Ladies, ladies. Stop fighting over me.” you say, walking towards your room without sparing either of them a glance, expecting jean to follow you. “Cuddle with marco, con, I know you want to.”

Connie groans, again, a little too dramatically to be taken seriously in the first place. There’s no malice hidden in his voice, none of the usual complains you would've found, “fine. If you say so. See, jean? This is how you respect women.”

“Youre only saying that because she’s pretty.” jean says. You try not to let it get in your head as you enter your room, your door creaking open. “Night, marco!” you whisper-yell across the hall, even though sasha’s eyes wouldn't open even a peek with any amount of sound. “Goodnight!” he whisper-yells back from across the hall, only a couple steps away from the door of your room.

Jean and connie’s voices are still arguing about something, but you're too tired to make their words out, all of it becoming gibberish. You clear your throat - a sound that’s enough to get them to stop. “Goodnight.”

“Hey, wait-” jean speaks, and connie snickers from behind him.

Your room is silent, save from the irregular sounds of the cars passing downstairs, gravel under their rubbery tires. Everythings been said and done; teeth brushed, face washed, pillows fluffed (by jean’s persistence). You collapsed onto bed, leaving enough room for jean to squish into, the sound of ruffling blankets and the plush, squishy pillow under your ear. He lays on his back for a moment, before facing his body towards you, the deliberate motion creating squeaks of spring from the mattress. Everything has its own sound. Jean’s hands tuck under his head, and you resist the urge to laugh at his position. He sees right through you.

“Whats so funny?” he asks, whispers, really. You're not sure why. Maybe it's the overwhelming silence, the inability of breaking the warmth that crosses across both of your bodies, sharing the same blanket.

“You look funny tucked in like that,” you say, imitating his hushed voice. Maybe it is too important, you think, to talk about things that are funny in the moment for no reason but to keep your heart steady against the faraway but present sound of his - just one of those sounds that didn't need to be heard to know it was there for you.

His sigh turns into a laugh. You're both laughing at nothing, soft puffs of air, carbon dioxide overlapping carbon dioxide. Sounds are science, right? This felt a lot like poetry. Maybe they all merge together, and Jean speaks up before you can think more about it, “do you think Connie is spooning Marco right now?”

You laugh a little more. “Are you jealous?” “that we’re not…cuddling?” he asks, a little unsure, but with a small smile anyway. He's hesitating. You know him enough to know the way his voice - though soft and pliable right now, gaseous against your palms, shape unreadable - sounds when he's unsure. You shrug. “Are you?” you don't know if the whispering is making you bolder or if you're just tired. You’ve always been a little conscious of your voice, a little too in your head about needing to be soft, uncaring if your sentence goes unheard. It doesn't matter as long as youre peaceful, as long as your voice doesn't disrupt disrupt disrupt.

His cheeks go a little red. It's how you know you’ve got him. Your smile turns softer, a little more understanding. “I…okay,” he says. You're both not sure what he means by it, but you can't help but marking it as important, just as everything he’s said to you.

“Your voice is…really pretty, by the way.” jean states, eyes not meeting yours. His lips form a thin line after saying it, as if he’d been wanting to keep it a secret, as if the fact that it somehow got out was a fault. You don't have much to say to that, though, so the sentence lays there, between the space of the pillows, between the blankets. It’s weighed, careful but untamed, and it lingers there for a moment, soft and pliable and unconscious.

“I mean… like everytime i hear your voice its… its nice. Not just when you're singing. I like that too.” he rambles, voice still a hush, words still soft and pliable - putty-like, shapeless but you catch them and you don't let them go, let them seep into your skin and against your bones and into your bloodstream. “When you pick up the phone, or when you're humming something. I know it's… i know you think it's not meant to be heard. But I hear you. And i… I like hearing you.” he says. He likes hearing you. He likes hearing you. The words don't have shape. They wave over you, not tidal, not forceful, but like the same warmth of the blanket that rests over your shoulders, crinkled at the edges, a little worn out as if he’s been saying it to himself before giving it to you.

God, and youve always been conscious of your voice. So when you speak next, its a surprise to you when its not the same whisper he was speaking in, instead only a bit higher than it, enough to contain only bits of your voice, the carvings on the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat and behind your teeth have no use hiding, now, because your voice projects forward just enough. Just enough because he thinks your voice is pretty.

“I… i like yours.” you say. Your eyes slip a little shut, and you feel more than hear him shift towards you, his arm crossing over your waist. “Its beautiful. Peaceful. Even when you're…insulting eren.” you sigh into his chest. His breathing holds you just as his arms, and his warm chest stutters a bit as if he’s taking a deep breath, something that tickles the parts of your hair that are near his nose. Every sound has its feeling, every sound creates waves and its on you to make them twice more meaningful as they are despite the words they hold, and even as jean gives you wordless reactions to your senseless but meaningful words, they're all accounted for. They're all just as important, just as held as everything else he’s said because its him.

“Thank you. For speaking to me. For letting me hear you.” you say with finality, no room for argument. As if he’d argue you. His lips press to the top of your head, unmoving. His palm covers your ear, making the soft sounds of his breathing muffled, but his thumb traces shapes of his sound against your ear.

It tickles a little, but you hear the movement clearly.

Sound waves, importance given to them. By you and by him.

✿

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #aot #jean kirstein x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #marco bodt #connie springer #sasha braus #modern au #attack on titan modern au #shingeki no kyojin modern au

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quinnverse · 2 days ago

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"Really? Could've fooled me." She retorted with a breathy laugh. "You seemed hellbent on marrying me from the start." Biting at the inside of her cheek, Emma smirked. "I don't remember challenging you beyond the mundane and predictable. I do remember kissing you, though." Her cheeks flared red as Emma tried not to imagine that night in too much detail. Failing at her attempt, she let out a soft shudder. "And tasting you. Touching you. And wanting you to touch me."

You're not mine to love. At his words, her brows furrowed and Emma tried to make sense of his expression.

"I'm not asking you to love me. Not yet, anyway." Gently, she reached out and rested her hand on his cheek. The feeling of his hand on her hip made her heart flutter and she was afraid what sort of sappy, feminine nonsense might spill from her lips if she allowed herself to relish in the emotions.

She wasn't immune to the girlish fantasies of falling in love and being whisked away by a charming gentleman, but she also wasn't foolish enough to think such things came without a price. She wasn't asking him to love her, but that didn't mean she didn't hope he would. Emma wasn't sure that what she felt towards him was purely love, but she knew it was no longer hatred and that had to account for something.

"But," She cut herself off with a nervous smile. "We don't have to talking about any of that tonight. We don't have to talk about anything tonight." With a coy smile, she allowed her gaze to fall to his lips. "I'm perfectly content just... enjoying the view. And maybe some more kissing."

Without realizing what she was doing, Emma fumbled with her hand to find the hem of his shirt, tugging upwards just slightly so that her fingers could graze his skin. She needed to touch him, to feel him, closer before she exploded. Her movements were careful, her palm resting against the warmth of his side. She nearly shuddered at the feeling, like a fiend getting a taste of the thing craved most.

"What do you mean, though... by I'm not yours to love?" The softness in her tone lessened as she stared at him, expectantly. If this was his way of trying to protect her, Emma wasn't going to tolerate it. She had already bared enough of her soul to him, and she wouldn't allow him to insult her intelligence by using some half-assed excuse. She wasn't quixotic in her desires, she knew that asking a man to love could be an impossible task, but she hadn't taken him for a fool--at least, not in this sense. "And don't you dare utter some chivalric bollocks like you're not good enough or that I deserve better, or any of those other asinine excuses men use. Because if you do, I might have to slap you again."

Virile pig farmer?

Benjamin laughed at that, though the sound came out as a low, raspy chuckle, a touch wobbly with nerves. "I don't know," he admitted. "Which version would earn more of your favor?"

Emma's hand splayed over his shirt, and on impulse, he anchored her there against his heart, gently squeezing. This should not feel natural -- this should not be his very first instinct, and yet with her hand on his chest, and her breath sweetly warming his mouth, it was the most natural feeling in all the world.

“I’ve thought of nothing else but you," Emma whispered. The confession struck across Benjamin's heart like a clap of lightning. "And it’s been maddening.”

Mouth dry, Benjamin peered back at her from across their shared pillow, his pulse tattooing frantically in his throat as he swallowed. This was wrong. He hadn't expected her to reciprocate -- Emma Dunster, the woman who could scarcely be ruffled in any given situation, had finally presented to him the chink in her armor, and it was unsettling. As much as he resented her at times, he'd also grown to respect her; and above all, he did not wish to break her heart.

"Emma..." His voice came out as a pleading rasp. "Emma, don't do this."

Her mouth found his through the dark, soft, and lacking the savage passion, the ardent bite of all their past entanglements. Fumblingly, his fingers curled through her hair and he partook of her lips, his selfish need searing in a guilty throb as the kiss deepened. But then she was pulling away from him again, collapsing down against her pillow and squeezing her eyes shut.

“I don’t know what I want anymore. Nothing makes sense when you’re around.”

Benjamin's laughter turned taut and uneasy. "You can't actually expect me to not feel the same way, can you? I haven't known what I want since the moment you walked away that first night...when you challenged me beyond the mundane and predictable."

Hesitant, he curled his hand over top of her hip and splayed his fingers along her side, far too afraid to reach up and touch, rather than hold. "I want you, Emma, but you're not mine to love," he whispered.

A Tory and a patriot could never, ever find common footing, and least especially in the name of espionage. Benjamin knew all too well that she would deem him a blackguard, a coward, and that any affection she felt at present would promptly turn to ash.

#honorhearted #my writing is always rusty TT #emma dunster ( interactions ).#queuely beloved

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now-im-picturing-you · 16 hours ago

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I want to have silly sex with my girl Nat :(

I love this silly girl and I know she would be all giggly and funny during sex<3 like she would just come up with some random topic while you finger her or laugh at something nonsensical before stopping because now she is so close to cumming that she doesn't even remember what she was saying a second ago.

She's also a cutie who loves to hide her face in the crook of your neck during sex because it makes her feel all warm and safe inside, plus she likes to smell you and knows you like it when she moans in your ear. This all reminds me of her and Travis' sex scene where she actually has her face half hidden in his neck... all that for Travis😭

Go soft, goofy Nat is my fave. Especially when it comes to sex idk it's just so yummy to me.

Like I know she tries so hard to be suave with one night stands or early in relationships but she's genuinely so silly it's sickening.

Giggling when you kiss down her body because she's so ticklish. Even better, play fighting with her before yall even fuck and playing dirty by tickling her. By the time you actually start kissing she's already breathless and glassy-eyed.

She's absolutely be the type to try to tell you a funny story while actively being finger-fucked. She's fine, fine, fine, fine- then all of a sudden, the story cuts off and she's whimpering and whining as she comes. As soon as she recovers, though, she picks up right where she left off and you find it so, so funny.

Constantly burying her face into your neck, too. Giggling, whining, moaning. Doesn't matter. She just wants to be close to you. It's like she can't get enough. She'll even bite if she's feeling especially overwhelmed. But she literally just loves having her nose pressed up against your pulse. Sex, no sex, she wants it more than anything.

#yellowjackets #18+ mdni #natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio thoughts 💭

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dollieseo · 2 days ago

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02. PAINT IT BLACK ⸻ JANUARY 4TH, 2018

now playing. paint it black (epic trailer version) by hidden citizens

chapter summary. you once again find yourself unsettled by winter’s presence when she shows up to your penthouse. as the night goes on, the tension between to two of you weakens and the silence becomes a little less uncomfortable. and you’re unsure of what this shift means for your apprehensive relationship.

chapter warnings. none

word count. 2.4k

masterlist.

you really don’t anticipate seeing winter again. her words—“you can’t just stay on the sidelines in a world that your father created,” have echoed in your mind for weeks now, surfacing during your sleepless nights. you don’t really know what to make of it. you don’t really know what to make of her.

your father gave you your own apartment for new years. not just any apartment—a penthouse. just one building away from his own. you couldn’t really complain. it was spacious, brand-new. and far enough away from him. you never could stand being in the same room as him. he knew it, of course. for once, you're grateful for his intuition.

the day you moved in, you started counting the days. how long could you go without seeing him? so far, you’re four and a half days in. he’s called you a few times, but you never pick up. you send a quick text instead: busy with homework. it’s a complete lie, but what’s he gonna do about it? you’re not scared of him. you aren’t a victim.

you sit at your kitchen island, watching the rain fall softly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. a warm mug of cocoa sits in front of you, barely touched. though your hand sits wrapped around the mug to feel its warmth. you let the quiet wrap around you, imagining you’re in some cheesy hallmark movie—something you saw once on tv. you let yourself pretend this moment is yours alone, untouched by the outside world. you can’t remember the last time you felt this peaceful.

then, a knock at the door.

you freeze, the moment is over. who the hell could it be? the only person who knows you live here is your father, and he hasn’t contacted you today. the knocks come again, more forceful now. a third set, followed by a voice.

“i know you’re in there, princess. open up.”

your nerves wash away as quickly as they appeared, replaced by a sudden, almost annoyed recognition.

you exhale, groaning in frustration before you stand. you’d know that voice anywhere—sharp, confident, the sort of voice that makes anyone look twice. you make your way to the door, steps deliberate and soft, reminding yourself of something you know all too well: you’re the daughter of a mob boss. that kind of life doesn’t leave you unmarked, doesn’t let you forget you’re a target.

the knocking persists, louder this time.

you reach the door, and sure enough, there she is. winter—kim minjeong, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like she’s been waiting for hours.

“you know, if i didn’t recognize your voice, i’d think you were here to kill me,” you say dryly, mirroring her posture, arms crossed.

“maybe i am,” she grins.

you suppress a laugh, knowing she’d never lay a finger on you. not unless your father said so, and even then, she’d probably just kill someone else just for you—under your orders.

“what do you want?” you ask, annoyance creeping into your voice.

“boss asked me to check on you,” she says, her tone light but with that teasing edge you can never quite ignore. “seems like daddy’s worried about you.”

you raise an eyebrow, studying her with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “and it seems like you listen to everything daddy says, huh?” you cock your head to the side while pouting, watching her expression drop for a split second.

winter’s eyes narrow. for a moment, you wonder if she might actually kill you after all, but the thought fades almost as quickly as it came.

you don’t fear her, not the way most people do. being his daughter has its perks. confidence is one of them. you’re protected as much as you’re a target. it’s also a curse. because it means you can’t really trust anyone, not even someone like minjeong.

you drop the act, your face hardening into its usual deadpan. “well, you’ve checked on me, and i’m fine. you can go now.” you reach for the door, intending to shut it.

but she stops you. physically.

her hand wedges between the door and its frame, and for a moment, you struggle to close it, her strength easily overpowering yours.

“wait, but it’s raining!” she protests. “you’re just gonna leave me out here?”

you shrug indifferently, gaze flicking over to the downpour outside your window. “it’s been raining for three hours. you got here in the rain; you can leave in the rain.”

winter’s eyes narrow, and for a split second, you see something like… hurt flicker in her expression. but you quickly brush it off.

is it possible to betray someone you’ve barely spoken to twice? because if it is, that’s exactly what winter feels right now. betrayed by your coldness, even though she’s displayed worse. but she hides it well, covering it with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

you’re about to turn away and slam the door in her face when something pulls at you. a sudden change in heart. it’s just for tonight, she can leave in the morning and you’ll go back to being out of each others way.

you roll your eyes, sighing heavily, and step aside, allowing her to enter. she practically skips inside like she’s just been invited to a party. you don’t watch as she begins to roam your space, instead turning back to the window, resuming your moment of peace over the rain.

you’re confused, for the most part. you didn’t know what she thought of you the first time you two met and now she wants to stay at your house? you knew why she came but her job was done. what the hell does she want now?

“nice place,” winter’s voice breaks through your thoughts, her tone light but almost… judgmental. “your decorations are nice.”

your decorations are minimal. the beauty of the space is dominated by the paint job: a bold black paired with soft baby pink. your father chose the colors, but you don’t want to change them. the subtle accents you’ve added enhance the color scheme, giving the apartment a cohesive, polished feel without overwhelming it. every piece feels intentional, fitting effortlessly into the overall aesthetic, as if the room itself was designed to reflect the balance between the two of you.

you glance over at her, blinking. “um, thanks?” it comes out more like a question, but she only smiles wider. her eyes remain locked on your face, making you feel uneasy.

you turn back to the window, hoping she’ll leave you alone for a while, but there’s something unsettling about her gaze. like she’s studying you. trying to figure you out, to peel back the layers and see what’s hidden underneath. the same way she did when you first met. winter observes. you aren’t sure if its more than she talks.

she surveys the space like she’s taking notes. her gaze lingers a little too long on the details, as if she’s trying to understand what this room says about you. you feel like you’re being examined under a microscope.

"your decorations..." winter continues, her voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “it’s like the room itself was designed to reflect both your style and his.”

you don’t know what to make of that. is she complimenting or criticizing? you almost feel exposed, as if she’s seen right through the carefully curated walls you’ve put up. you glance at her again, your lips pressing into a thin line. "thanks, i guess."

her smile widens, but it’s not reassuring. something in her eyes stays sharp, focused. she’s watching you—too closely.

you can’t shake the feeling that she’s seeing more than just the apartment, that she’s not looking at the room at all. she’s reading you. not just the surface, but something deeper. something you’re not ready to reveal.

you pull your gaze away from her, pretending the rain outside is suddenly more interesting. but winter’s not done yet. she crosses the room, each step measured, deliberate. the sound of her footsteps grows louder, closer, and you’re painfully aware of how quiet everything has become. it’s just the two of you now.

she stops beside you, standing just a little too close. you feel the heat of her body radiating through the cool air, and it makes you shiver with discomfort.

"you know," she begins, her voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, "you’re not like i thought you'd be."

what’s that supposed to mean?

you don’t react right away. you watch her faint reflection through the window, raising an eyebrow, keeping your expression neutral. "and how did you think i’d be?"

winter shrugs casually, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes. curiosity. maybe even a little fascination. "i don’t know. more... like him, i guess.” you wish she’d elaborate, but she doesn’t. “but you’re not. you’re not like your father."

that statement catches you off guard. you didn’t expect her to say anything like that. It’s not just a casual comment—it feels like she’s touching on something you’ve spent so long trying to avoid. you’re not like him, but why is she the first one to tell you that? you glance at winter sharply, unsure if you should feel insulted or intrigued.

"is that a good thing or a bad thing to you?" you ask, your voice quieter now, almost to yourself.

winter looks at you for a long moment, her gaze softening. “it doesn’t matter to me.” she decides. the air between you two shifts, the sharp tension fading just a little bit.

you’re still not sure what she’s looking for. why she’s still standing there, so close, her presence almost consuming.

there’s an odd, uncomfortable quiet that settles over the room as you both stand there—unsure, yet oddly connected in a way that feels too real. the rain taps against the windows like a constant reminder that things are always changing, always shifting.

and just like the rain, you have the feeling that winter isn’t going to go away so easily.

winter doesn't seem to have any intention of leaving, though she’s no longer as brash or playful as she was when she first arrived. her posture has softened and her demeanor has shifted, like she’s no longer performing for you.

you try to focus on the rain again, watching the way the drops race down the glass, as if that will give you some clarity. but your mind is still tangled in the mess of thoughts she’s stirred up. winter, sitting there so casually, like she’s always belonged in this space—like she has a right to be here, like she’s not just another part of your father’s world.

you glance at her, just out of the corner of your eye. she’s now stretched out on your couch, her jacket and boots off, one leg slung over the side, her back against the cushions. there’s an odd vulnerability in her stillness. you weren’t expecting that. you thought she’d be alert, sharp, you know, sleep with one eye open. but her breathing has slowed, her expression softening, her eyes fluttering closed.

it feels strange to watch her like this—like you aren’t supposed to. you don’t see the confident, sarcastic, sharp-tongued winter you’ve come to know in two times you’ve met, but someone else entirely. someone who needs rest, like everyone else. you can’t help but stare for a moment, fascinated by how different she looks when she isn’t on edge.

you glance down at your phone to check the time. it’s nearly midnight. you never intended to spend this much time in her presence. yet here she is, asleep in your penthouse, curled up like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

you catch a flash of something in the reflection of the window: winter’s hand loosely gripping the hem of her shirt as she sleeps, a tiny detail that feels more intimate than anything you’ve seen from her before. there’s something almost... endearing about the way she lets herself go, even just for a moment. and in your presence, of all people.

your eyes flicker back to her face. her lips are parted slightly as she exhales, her chest rising and falling with a rhythmic ease. for the first time, you see her as someone who isn’t just a weapon, someone who doesn’t belong solely to your father’s world. right now, she’s just a sixteen year old girl trying to sleep through the noise of the world. just as you try to do everyday.

you don’t mean to, but your thoughts drift. you’ve been so consumed by this cold shell you've built around yourself, trying to escape what you were born into, forced into, and yet here winter is, a reminder that you’re not the only one playing a part.

her role is just as defined as yours—just as entangled with power and bloodlines. maybe that’s why she acts as if she’s untouchable, so removed from the rest of the world. you can almost feel the layers of tension in her even as she sleeps. you can imagine what’s beneath the surface—the same mess of expectations, manipulation, and loss. probably even more than that. she’s not immune to it, either.

you snap out of your daze and stand, careful not to disturb her, moving towards the kitchen to make yourself another cup of cocoa. she’s not going anywhere tonight. it’s not like she’s a threat, and it’s not like you have anything better to do. for the first time with winter, the silence is almost comforting now.

her soft breathing fills the space as you pour the steaming milk into the mug. the cocoa powder stirs easily into the liquid, the scent of chocolate curling up into the air, filling the kitchen with a warmth that contrasts with the coldness outside. you take a sip, watching winter from the corner of your eye, still oblivious in her peaceful slumber.

you sit back down at the island, keeping your distance. there's something softer in the atmosphere. something unspoken that hangs between you two, like the room itself is trying to bridge the gap.

the minutes stretch on, and the longer you watch winter asleep, the more you feel like you're seeing her for who she really is. a person who can get lost in a moment, just like anyone else, despite the chaos that always surrounds her.

you wonder how long she’ll stay here, if she'll leave in the morning without saying goodbye, or if she’ll stay longer, pushing against the walls you’ve built up. you wonder if you’ll ever let her leave at all.

but for now, you let her rest. you let her sleep in the warmth of your home, and you keep the silence between you comfortable, for the moment.

#aespa x reader #aespa #winter x reader #aespa imagines #girl group x reader #gxg #aespa scenarios #aespa winter #kpop imagines #wlw #kim minjeong #minjeong x reader #kpop x reader

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flootzavut · 2 days ago

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WIP folder game

I was tagged by @panur and @underthebluerain

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Tag as many people as you have wips. People send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

... all the WIPs? Okay I'm making an executive decision to make it all the somewhat active WIPs or we'll be here all day 😅 I feel like a fair number of these will actually be familiar to the people reading those fics, at least, 'cause I named the chapters/files sensibly for my own sanity.

consideration

Jack bumping into Jadzia in Garak's shop, her teasing him.

off leash 11

encore 3

where they met is where they lie

Vesp: You know what would really piss Jaskier off? If I got to fuck you before he did

TWN vignettes

Vespula teasing Yen because she obviously wants to sleep with Jaskier, and Jaskier being like No I Don't.

jadlian julzia

killing game

marry me a little

Post mountain, alternate Jask and Yen POVs of watching their soul marks from Geralt

Voyager returning from her unplanned trip into the Gamma Quadrant is news all over the Federation.

Meatball Psychiatry

Through the Looking Glass

Offensive

The first time Aziraphale touches Crawly there, they're still in the Garden.

"You won't break me, Sam."

Okay yeah I'm stopping before this gets ridiculous and I end up not remembering which files to look in if people ask 🤣 I have... too many WIPs, this is likely not even half, but it's (most of) the ones I've had a serious poke at in '24. Eep.

I'm terrible at remembering URLs 😬 so this will be a little random; if you're like "aww hell no" then feel free to ignore 😂 but also if you're like "but why didn't floot tag me" then please consider this tagging you, yes you personally, I'm preemptively tagging you 😘

@harplings-nest @brevityis @elysianholly @stiney @alleyesonthehindenburg @agentkalgibbs @naumaxia-art @karolincki @janjan-the-ninth @whatkindofnameisvolta @onekisstotakewithme @froginabogg @gavilansblog @remyfire @agirlwithachakram @vanillatumbleweedscoffee @swords-n-spindles @blvckwidow

#tag game #wip game #wip folder game #my wips #my fic #writing #I didn't go back too far #or I'd lose my mind

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sabu123098 · 14 hours ago

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Now that I am free, let me put forth my thoughts on this.

I have been thinking about this since forever so we have two categories of theories with certain sub categories:

1. Assuming Rebecca knows what she is doing:

Now now, Rebecca herself is a person so it's natural for her to make mistakes, especially in her first fantasy series. Assuming that is NOT the case, these are my theories:

A. Remember when Xaden had said that the second year strips your humanity? This is an inclination or a reference to that. Whatever humanity Violet has left, she is losing it. We also know that she is going to go to any lengths to save her loved one, so we have that.

B. The sudden change in Violet's personality from Irom Flame to Onyx Storm wouldn't have made any sense. She is going to wreak havoc (hopefully) and will definitely cross limits in Onyx Storm, but such a huge change has to be gradual. Or else not only Violet but Rebecca and the fans will lose their minds.

C. She is not used to standing up for her loved ones. Can you imagine little Violet standing up for Mira, Brennan, Dain, or anyone for that matter?

Violet has constantly been called weak and fragile in her life that she does not care abt what anyone says. This kind of correlates to the Sorrengail siblings' upbringing in general. They don't stop to give two shits to anyone.

D. She knew Cat was doing this to get a reaction out of her and she'll be damned if she reacts to it. Cat's main target was always Violet, not her sister. By pulling this stunt she wanted to get Violet hated on by majority (many already do Cat, you're a bit too late) because of her family member's actions. The same thing had happened with Imogen who tried to convince Xaden to kill Violet because she was a Sorrengail.

E. Violet being called as empathetic was never by herself. It was always a third person.

Staying in the Rider's Quadrant, people learn to value small gestures. That is what Violet does. Her small gestures never form into a big act because she only does it for her loved ones. That's why she is said to be empathetic. And to be honest, deep down she is.

2. Assuming Rebecca left a loophole:

A. Rebecca is a romance writer. @ann7av and I had a discussion about it and long story short, Rebecca's main concern is Violet and Xaden. Everyone else is just a side character.

This stands so true considering the fact that we only have the squad throughout the stroy in both books, however some characters appear in the first or the second half.

B. Rebecca's main concern was Violet's annoyance. She showed it. And Catriona is not that big of a deal anymore. So why give her more screen time and waste paper for her?

3. Editor sucks. Rebecca wrote this scene but the editor got it removed because it was slowing the story.

Idk about you but an issue I have with IF is that Violet doesn’t really think that hard about any criticism directed at her family.

Cat asks if Violet wants to talk about the heinous atrocities her family committed after Vi accuses her of being a shallow Pick Me, but this is never really explored. She posts a list of every flier Mira killed and it’s mentioned in such an offhand flippant way, it makes me wonder if Violet actually cares about her sister being a war criminal. I was hoping she’d have a talk with Brennan about his feelings on being “sacrificed” for basically nothing because it’s a sentiment I’ve seen some veterans express irl but they never actually talk on screen and it’s so frustrating.

What are your thoughts on this?

Oh my friend I'm so happy you asked because I have a lot to say about this.

(This is a list of scattered thoughts, please let me know if it makes sense and please know this is a critique of RY's writing and not Violet's moral compass as a character, I love my girl very much)

I had this issue from way back in FW when Lilith pushed Violet into the riders, It would be natural for a child to try and understand why their parent suddenly decided to risk their life in a war college but alas she never thinks about it and we are left with this gigantic "this makes no sense" feeling that progressively gets worse as the story goes.

Then there's rain when she crosses Parapet and yet... no thought on it, Vi? Your mother controls storms? Why aren't you thinking about this?

Lilith asking about her father's research while Aetos asks if Andarna could be used as a study subject and Vi doesn't stop to think WHY would they need it and HOW does it fit with her mother's previous actions?

The GODDAM NOTE inside the book of fables? That later on is revealed to be true? Brennan says he doesn't believe their father knew about Navarre's corruption and Violet never thinks about it or considers it? HOW?

My girl just found out her mother executed a bunch of people who were trying to help another kingdom and she doesn't feel conflicted about it? I was waiting for them to have a screaming match after Athebyne

Cat puts up a list of the fliers Mira killed and I was expecting a line like "It's not like my sister knew she was fighting for the wrong side at the time, she was doing what she was trained to do" but NO.

What also throws me off about this is that, up until this point, Violet is shown being a very empathetic person who really cares about people in general, but she doesn't stop to consider those were Cat's people who died, it was the flier's school that fell and it is their kingdom being attacked (maybe she got desensitized but that feels an easy way out of developing the story)

I could be happy with Violet trying to justify her family's actions to herself because at least it would feel like a natural reaction to have but you're right, the lack of reaction feels like she doesn't care.

She also never stops to have an actual conversation with Mira about any of this for some reason (she barely talks to her sister at all actually), and besides that one talk with Brennan at the beginning of IF there's nothing else that stands out enough for me to remember, which wouldn't be a problem if she had some inner dialogue every now and then, not only about her family and the war crimes but how she feels bout them too.

There are many times when we (the readers) ask questions to try and understand these characters and how they interact with each other, so when those very natural questions like "how do you feel about this?" or "but why would they do that?" are not answered, the entire thing just feels off, and that's not an issue only with the Sorrengails but with most of Violet's relationships.

In FW that's not as big a problem, she has her issues with Dain and is getting to know her squad (Liam specifically) but in IF I was questioning if Xaden dying was that bad of a thing if it meant she would think about literally anything else

To summarize: Violet's family drama could've been a Keeping Up with the Sorrengails level of drama if RY actually did the work to flesh out the dynamic but she didn't bother and chose to rewrite the same Xaden/Violet argument five times

#prev tags #i honestly have no words #fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #mira sorrengail #i honestly love diving deep into this thanks @ann7av for the opportunity #rebecca yarros #no but really #she should focus on other characters as well

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