#and sometimes i think i'm incapable of working hard

[josie-marks]

hi umm... guys, so, I finished watching The Bear some weeks ago and I already expressed how much I loved it, how much I fell in love with Sydney and everything about her. I really interested in Syd meta or the whole show meta, but specially Syd because she's such an extremely interesting character, so, if you have any blog that talks a lot about ✨Sydney✨ please recommend me and I will be eternally grateful, thank u!

[homunculus-argument]

And speaking of scurvy, I am eternally amused by the thing where some ancient form of healing that was born in a time where people didn't know exactly how the human body works, or what causes it to stop working sometimes, that still somehow worked. Like how so many old folk medicinal plants were listed as a cure for various ailments that - from a modern view - are clearly just symptoms of scurvy, and the plant itself is rich in vitamin C.

I recall reading some story, no recollection of the exact time or place, where the king of a large empire suffered from constant horrible headaches and was incapable of falling asleep unless drugged or blackout drunk. Sick of taking temporary fixes to dull the pain and having to be sedated every night, he called up some old sage healer who was said to know how to fix things nobody else could explain, and the healer heard his symptoms and went

"Hmm. You spend too much time being a king. Your skull is packed so full of kingly thoughts that they don't all fit in there and that's why your head is in pain. You need to spend time not being a king." And prescribed him to schedule three days every month where he must go to a peasant village where nobody knows he's the king, live with a family there under a fake name and identity, work in the rice fields with them, eating the same food and sleeping on the same mats. Absolutely nobody is allowed to address him as the king, speak to him of any royal or political matters, and he himself is not allowed to think any kingly thoughts or think of himself as the king.

And naturally, this worked. Taking a regular scheduled break from a highly stressful office desk job to completely decompress, paired with physical exercise in the form of hard but simple physical labour, plain and simple food and Just Not Thinking About Your Fucking Job All The Time does help chronic stress, which here was worded as "spending too much time being a king clogs your brain."

Sometimes you do have ghosts in your blood, though I'm not entirely sure whether you should do cocaine about it.

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

Overprotective!Yandere X GN!Reader

Women in the office gawked at Theo as he walked by, shamelessly refusing to peel their eyes from the Adonis who walked among them. With dark wavy hair that framed his beauty mark speckled face and droopy emerald eyes always set into a warm smile, he was model material, yet refused to believe it. Theo was kind to everyone he spoke to, but no one could gain his full attention, and affection. That was reserved for his one and only best friend ❤️

❤️ Theo who was Reader's best friend since kindergarten

💀 Every life path Reader took, Theo took as well. They were his best friend, he just happened to have the same interests as Reader!

❤️ Besides, he didn't go to the same college as them and got into the same company in the same sales department just because he was good at numbers like Reader... he also needed to protect them!

💀 Reader was always a hard worker, they would often forget to eat meals while working overtime and would only sleep two hours a night if Theo wasn't there to gently keep them on track

❤️ And despite everyone referring to Reader as a cynical workaholic, Theo knew deep down that they were far too trusting

💀 Remember that girl in grade four who confessed to Reader at recess? Reader turned her down far too kindly! They made her think it was actually okay to be friends! Thank goodness Theo was there to threaten the kid to stay away protect his best friend from that weirdo

❤️ People often mistook the pair of besties for a couple, and that was just ridiculous!

💀 Yeah, the idea of Reader calling Theo their husband, kissing Reader's forehead each and every night, and instead of just tucking them into bed joining them in their shared bed made his heart clench in a funny way... they were just friends!

❤️ Just friends that were also roommates. The economy is terrible right now, just because they make enough money to live alone, didn't it make more sense to live together and save money?

💀 And Theo enjoyed cooking nutritional meals for his best friend! No instant ramen for Reader while Theo's around!

❤️ No, it wasn't jealousy whenever someone started hitting on Reader, he was just worried for them!

"Don't you think Jackson's a bit... creepy?" Theo asked his buddy while prepping dinner one night. Reader glanced up from their work laptop only briefly.

"Why do you say that?"

"Ah, I don't mean to sound rude! I'm sorry.. I just overheard him saying something pretty gross about Mrs. Kim.."

Jackson had asked Reader to grab a drink with him sometime just the other day, and he seemed like a genuinely kind dude. But Reader trusted Theo with their life, and wouldn't question anything he ever said, believing their best friend was simply incapable of lying. Reader grunted and went back to work, and Theo knew by that sound his bestie wasn't going out with Jackson anytime soon.

💀 Theo who could never admit to anyone, not even himself, that his relationship with Reader wasn't a healthy "friendship"

❤️ Convincing himself that his actions were completely normal things for friends to do was almost a full time job

💀 Sometimes he watched Reader sleep, admiring how their eyelashes fluttered as they dreamt ensuring that they were actually sleeping and not sneaking onto their computer

❤️ And breaking down into full blown hysterics when Reader doesn't text him back is just because he's so worried for them

💀 Reader always saw the error in their ways though, apologizing profusely when they finally came home from grocery shopping and seeing the results of forgetting to charge their phone

❤️ It was an especially hard day when Theo had to cut off his own mother. She said Theo was codependent on Reader! Reader doesn't know this though, they just heard that Theo's mother was criticizing their friendship

Reader was stopped at the front door, Theo draping his large frame over his best friend, his large eyes watering. "Please don't leave, (Reader)."

They sighed, wriggling an arm free to mess with Theo's hair. "The fridge is almost empty, dude."

"But it's raining outside!" Theo raised is voice unintentionally as he began to panic, spiraling into an anxiety attack. "What if you get sick? Please just stay home, I can order take out. Let's go shopping tomorrow!"

"Theo.."

"Please!" A sob choked out of the man as he seemingly lost his strength, collapsing against Reader as he stained their jacket with his tears. "I just want to keep you safe!"

Reader gave in, as they always did, guilt stabbing at their heart until they could calm Theo down and convince him they weren't leaving.

Even if Reader never fell in love with Theo, the man would be content just to be by Reader's side, forever being their one and only best friend. As long as he could continue protecting them, from bad dates conspiring to ruin Reader's life, from management that continuously accepted Reader's overtime volunteering, and from Reader's own silly bad choices... Theo was happy.

[pricegouge]

Picture this: Doll is selectively mute, or otherwise she’s in so much shock from her situation that she literally just cannot speak (as an autistic person sometimes I get so overwhelmed that I go partially mute). The boys think she’s just being stubborn but she’s at least trying to sign, so they know she’s not necessarily doing it on purpose.

Queue competition between the boys where they fuck her nonstop and tell her they’ll only stop if she says one of their names, and place bets on who will break her first.

Main fic

Hm. reader's too nonverbal to do much narrating so I'm gonna carry on with John's POV.

cw: noncon. multiple (forced) orgasms. anal. dp, including two in one. ghost has a jacob's ladder cause i'm incapable of imagining him any differently sorry. overstimulation. unrealistic sex. Unedited again cause I'm dropping this and running tf away

It's Simon who notices first because of course it is.

John spends all morning wasting his time trying to get a reaction out of the girl, but she just grits her teeth and bares it all without so much as a whimper. It would be impressive, if it wasn't so goddamn annoying and he tells the boys this over a meal one evening, listening as they each in turn complain about the silent treatment they've been receiving.

Not long after, Simon disappears downstairs, seeking John out in his room when he reemerges.

"She's gone non-verbal."

"You too, huh?" John sighs, pulling on his boots. "Well, I'll get that bitch to bloody scream if I have to. Let's -."

"No, cap, it's... muteness. Don't think she's doing it on purpose."

John's about to ask why the fuck he should care if she's doing it on purpose or not, but he suddenly remembers the first few years of knowing Simon, the long stretches of silence he'd fall into. At the time, John had just assumed it was Ghost being broody, but now he wonders...

"Well, how do we get her out of it?"

Simon shrugs. "Not likely to, honestly. Can be a trauma thing."

John rolls his eyes, carries on tying his boots.

"The more pain you put her through the worse she's gonna clam up."

Now that gives him pause, gears grinding to a halt until the piece of debris that clogs them is ground beneath the cogs. They spin to life again with a renewed energy after - a wind up toy cranked too far.

"Pain. Pleasure. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."

***

The game is simple enough, but the objective is harder than initially thought. Gaz gets her first, always eager to please. Soap can't even wait until the other sergeant is fully done to get his hands on her, spitting on her tits to fuck between them while Gaz pants into his mouth, the two rapidly falling into each other's pleasure more than the girl's. She keeps her mouth firmly tight, though the pinch between her brow tells John she's not immune to Garrick's pretty cock.

Simon at least understands the objective, pushing Gaz away when he's done to manhandle Soap onto the bed, putting the bird in his lap. Simon works her arse open with cold lube while Johnny moves her in his lap, spearing her down onto his cock and Simon's waiting fingers. This time when she grits her teeth she looks far less pleased, but John wouldn't care if she cried out for them to keep up or to make them stop so he says nothing, watching raptly when Simon decides she's stretched enough for him and he pushes at the bird's shoulder until her and Soap both lay flat on the bed. Soap whines, watching over her shoulder while Simon lines himself up, legs straddled wide over Soap's knees. The poor boy stands less of a chance than the girl does, whimpering the second his lieutenant starts fucking into her, his piercings probably rubbing Soap through the thin wall of the girl's cunt.

Sure enough, the sergeant breathes a soft, 'shite, LT,' and his thrusts turn weak, aborted, sporadic. He moans when he cums, combining with Gaz's, dripping down his softening cock as Ghost's movements keep the girl bouncing on him. Soap whines again, overstimulated, and John can't help reaching out, cupping the sergeant's base to keep him nestled in the girl's warm cunt. Simon chuckles when Soap wails, adjusting his grip on the girl to keep her in place and carries on, cock sliding against the younger man's with barely any barrier.

If the goal was to get the bird to sing, Soap leads by example. But while her mouth hangs open as she watches the younger man fall apart beneath her, she still does not cry out. Not even when Simon grunts in her ear, voice gravel rough and shot, symphonic as it twines with Soap's incessant crying.

Simon pants as he comes down from his high, peering down at John questioningly for a moment. John nods, not entirely sure what he's signing up for, until Simon pulls the girl up off Johnny's front, snaking his hand down her stomach to get his thick fingers on her clit. John grins, feels Soap's cock give a valiant twitch when the girl clenches around him instinctively, sending a hot glob of cum rolling down to the base of the man's cock. John can't help leaning forward to lick it off, laughing cruelly as the younger man yelps.

He's vaguely aware of Gaz straddling Soap's head, assumes he's fucking the man's mouth by the way Soap's whines have turned to soft wet noises. He's too distracted licking his way up the girl's cunt to look.

Simon adjusts to make room for him, sitting on the bed next to Johnny as he continues fingering the girl's pretty clit. John licks along the seam of where her cunt seals around Soap's hardening cock and he hears her gasp - strangled and quiet, but a genuine gasp all the same. He spreads her cheeks, makes more room for himself, and gets to work moving her along Johnny's cock again, his tongue worming its way in alongside Soap when he pulls her back to Soap's base.

They work her like that for a bit, listening as her gasps slowly lengthen, become something like proper moans. Gaz coos at her about how pretty she sounds and she wails when Simon hooks a finger in her rear.

He knows she's cum by the way the spend that coats his tongue gets thinner, tastes less bitter.

"Fuck," John grunts, mouthing at the base of Johnny's cock to make him cum quicker, eager to be in her pretty cunt next. Soap gurgles around Gaz's cock, hips flexing as he fucks up into her faster. When he cums, John laps it up eagerly, tongue flicking against the rim of the girl's cunt just because he likes how she whines.

With Soap truly spent, John drags the girl down to his lap, spearing her on his cock without much preamble. She's loose, soaked, and John rocks her shallowly on himself for a moment just to listen to the way the cum churns within her, frothing on his cock and catching in his curls.

"Shite, doll," he groans, catching her wrists when she tries to reach up over herself, gripping onto his shoulders for leverage. He draws them back down behind her back, keeping them trapped between their bodies in one hand. With his other he cups the exposed column of her throat, revels in the feel of the tendons working - words forming and dying off under his very hand.

"Wanna cum again, don't you?" He coos, mouth pressed close to her poor sunken cheek as if he's completely absorbed in her. Really, he's watching Simon pull Gaz down alongside himself, fisting both their cocks in one big hand.

"Stop that," he warns when the girl bites off another sweet sound. "You wanna cum again you gotta let me hear it."

She doesn't at first, wiggling in his grasp as if he'll let her ride him without asking first. She breaks when he squeezes her throat and his cock twitches within her.

"Please," she whispers, "wanna -."

He's about to tell her too bad when Simon nods at him, a clear 'reward her' if ever he's seen one.

"Spoiled," John chastises, but the hand on her throat moves to slap her cunt all the same, spurring her on. "Go on, then, fuck yourself. Take what you need."

She's uncoordinated, sloppy, legs too tired to ride him with any finesse. It does the trick any way, and she falls limply against his chest when her legs give out beneath her, cunt dripping clear cream and residual cum, both.

"Good girl," John coos, fingers collecting the mess, spreading it over her abused clit just to watch her twitch. "Wasn't so hard, was it?" But if he expects an answer, or for her spell to be over, he's sadly mistaken.

Well, maybe not sadly.

"You want to be done?" She nods against his shoulder, body still slumped and pliant. "Use your words," John warns and she swallows loudly, eyes drifting somewhere by his ear. "More it is, then," John sighs, mock disappointment staining his tone. He shifts, gets his toes dug in underneath himself, and then fucks up into her with the kind of abandon only earned after watching four people cum multiple times.

She yowls, tests his grip on her wrists. He lets them go in favor of keeping her hips elevated, and her fingers find his thighs, digging into the meat of him there.

"You're gonna cum again," he hisses between grit teeth, using his free hand to turn her toward where Simon grips his and Gaz's cock loosely, teasing. "And then I'm going to hand you off to the boys again. And you're gonna take them both, right here -," he illustrates what he means by dragging his hand down her front and hooking the tips of two fingers in her cunt alongside his cock. "Unless you say my name, beg me stop."

She doesn't, so John fucks her stupid, stretching her open until she whines and begs and pants and releases, cunt squeezing around everything he's given her so tight he can't help but follow, paint her poor abused insides in so much cum he's no doubt she'll be able to take the other two easy enough.

The boys drag her up between themselves, hooking her leg up over Gaz's hip. They line up and her voice is shot when she finally uses it again, reaching behind herself to push at Simon's abs.

"Can't - you -."

Simon just hums, big hand brushing along her flank. "Want it in your arse is that it?" he teases, and she squawks, alarmed, when he slides in easily there instead, cock still coated with the lube he'd used to stroke himself and Gaz off with. He grinds deep a few times, letting Gaz's head notch against the rim before pulling back completely to let Gaz dip in. The girl whines, long and loud, and Soap hums in sympathy as he slots himself behind Gaz, too fucked out to do anything more than watch raptly.

She doesn't break until Gaz asks if she can take them both, his hand on Simon's ass keeping the bigger man in place while he slots his cock up next to the other, her poor abused rim stretching threateningly.

"No, please," she cries, and Simon just laughs, pushing in further.

"You know the rules, pet."

But it's John she turns to, eyes big and pretty and watery. "John, please, make them stop."

It's Soap who snuggles her after, the two of them both so fucked out and used up that they can't do much beyond lay there limp and exhausted anyway. Simon and Gaz get each other off with tight fists and dirty kisses, then follow John up to collect on their winnings from the game, but it's John who pockets the keys of a recent vic's car, grinning when Gaz scowls at him.

"Well it was my name she called."

[randombush3]

cherry wine

jenni hermoso x reader

part one

i hate this but i'm posting it anyway LOL

also sorry if it doesn't make sense but just like don't read into it 🙂

thanks @codiemarin for part two's idea xx

i also feel like every character deserves an apology in this

p.s. not proofread soz

Jenni decides that she doesn’t mind too much. 

She is happy in Mexico, and, just like in Paris, her escape becomes a person, not a place. 

You have moved, and now you speak Spanish. She still doesn’t know where you are from. 

Your husband, however, is a lot more forthcoming. He works in oil. He owns a quarter of the club; he bought the shares without a second thought. You have no daughter but your husband wants women’s football to have a future. He isn’t a bad man, which Jenni hates. 

He is kind – filthy rich, but kind – and it makes it hard to hurt such a good person. 

Fortunately, ‘hard’ and ‘impossible’ are not synonymous. 

Motherhood brings about no thaw, but your iciness is what has always made you so enticing to Jenni. 

She memorises your address, and she is now the one who appears. The security guards open the gates for her when the time is right, and if it isn’t, they hustle her to a nearby bar and instruct her to wait. She waits obediently. She waits because you always call her back at some point. 

When you are with Jenni, cold fingertips warmed, eyes burning with desire, the tightrope she walks widens. She plants her feet with certainty, however false it may be. She looks down at the wire to avoid the world that blazes around her, and she never dares to look ahead because she knows that it is never going to be the right time to ask. 

It looks ugly, but it’s clean. 

Jenni is happy to be with you; happy here in Monterrey, just as she was happy there in Paris. 

Happy to hide and drag herself out of your bed past midnight. 

His bed. (She tries not to think about it.)

The complicating factor is the two little boys running around the mansion, chased by tired nannies who aren’t sure how to explain why their mother needs to be left alone with their favourite footballer. That’s what Jenni becomes, unluckily, because your husband is so forward-thinking that he takes the boys to see the girls. 

Although your piercing eyes can make Jenni shiver, the boys are unaffected. They run rings around everyone, but Jenni can sometimes bark out a command and get them to sit. 

Often enough, they sit an appropriate distance from your bedroom, patiently waiting for your private meeting to be over before hounding Jenni the minute she emerges. They take no notice of her tousled hair or wild eyes, and their attention flings Jenni’s tears back inside of her whenever you get a bit too harsh with her, so it’s all good. 

When her mother calls and asks why Jenni has learnt French now instead of when she played there, she tells her not to fuss. 

Jenni is removed from those who care about her, but the haze of comfort you provide blinds her to her mistakes. 

You are hers and she is yours. 

She lies in the palm of your hand and likes when your fist closes around her. She feels safe that way. 

She likes when there is blood because the blood tastes as sweet as cherry wine. Blood is proof that you are real. Your blood runs hot like tar, and she is glad to be rooted to the spot. 

Weeks go by, and Jenni’s latest medal begins to strangle her. 

You are starting to fall in love. 

It’s never happened before. 

It’s not dutiful and it’s not because you are too weak to overcome a woman’s nature; incapable of recoding the innate forces of motherhood. It’s not as taxing or exhausting, and it is certainly not the chore you thought love would be. 

Love is radiation, in a sense, and you cannot conceal it. 

Jenni is unaware that she should dress herself in lead, but suddenly everything is contaminated and, apparently, it is all her fault. 

He’s away. 

Jenni knows he is away because he said goodbye to her when he visited the team during their training session. He wished her luck for the match, he professed his faith in her to bring his club success. He is slowly losing the French accent when he speaks, he is slowly catching up to her. 

He’s away but this time she can’t shake the feeling of him in your bed. 

It’s never happened before.��

She still wants it, but her crime is flashing bright red in her mind. 

You, guilty too, flee from the lawless land you have built.

“We’re going to the Maldives for our anniversary,” you inform her, even though there is no reason for her to know. She is not this ‘we’. 

She’s actually never been included in a ‘we’. 

“And the boys?” Jenni asks with interest. She’d prefer them to tag along. It being less romantic would make her feel better. 

“The boys are staying here.” You turn around and face the window as she rises from the crumpled sheets. The blinds part enough for you to catch glimpses of laughing figures chasing each other around the poolside, shouts sounding frantically from their nanny about watching their step. “You’ll visit them while I’m away, right? They really like you.” 

“I really like them.” You smile. It reaches your eyes and Jenni sees the reflection of it in the glass. Wishing her hands could frame you, she feels encouraged to continue. “I like anything of yours. I adore you.”

Your response is as closed as a fist, but your ribs flare open and your heart is on display, thumping and thumping, and Jenni knows that she is holding the key to a rusted lock. It’s neither shiny nor new, but it is the right one this time. 

Jenni guards the key in your absence but she is going to hand it back to you. 

She does visit the boys, driving over daily, rolling her eyes when the guards remind her that you are not yet done with your holiday and punctuating her sentences curtly. They ask her about Spain. Jenni finds herself explaining lesbianism too. 

She can’t help but associate Spain with people she’d rather not think about, but the boys strike her as perfect blends of you and your husband and she is very quickly forcing those thoughts into her mind. 

She books a flight and she goes home, ensuring there is an overlap with your holiday so that you are the one who has to do the welcoming when she returns. 

“You’re not really here for work, are you?” Alexia sees right through her, amused by Jenni’s foolishness. “I have a girlfriend, Jenni.” 

“I need to forget mine,” Jenni replies quietly. 

Her attempt is futile and her desperation wanes the moment her plane lands. 

She tried. 

She can’t escape from it though; from you. 

You are still falling in love with Jenni. Distance didn’t stop it like you thought it would. 

You tried. 

Your husband grows busier and leaves more often. 

There is more time to fall in love with Jenni, and it suffocates you like some brainwashing, poisonous gas. 

You search for a cure for your illness, but there is no cure for the absence of infirmity. 

Your plan to drive her away is to echo how traumatising Paris must have been, but sleeping with Jenni furiously is infuriating. It doesn’t work! 

It doesn’t last, and, like some tired soldier, your fire is blown out and only softer, sweeter, more merciful embers remain.

There is no fight left, but you are in denial. 

The battle is lost and won, yet the victor is unclear. Is it Jenni, who is clutched closer and asked to sleep over? Is it you, with a delicious ache in your muscles and steaming blood coursing through your veins? 

“Do you love me?” 

You pale at how obvious you must have become and you don’t know how to answer. 

Jenni decides that she doesn’t mind too much. 

[bettsfic]

Venting-

When I hear people give the advice that writing is never a waste of time if you’re having fun or you should never feel like a story was a waste of time, you should enjoy the process. This advice I believe is real and true and works for some writers. But at the same time, there are writers who are very stressed when writing and feel better about their work when it’s finished. Not the “I enjoy having written.” But the “I have crippling anxiety and can only tell if my time, effort, and semi-breakdowns were worth something if I complete what I set out to do.”

Not to diminish anyone who agrees or resonates with the first statement, I admire those people a lot and wish I was calm enough to feel the same.

in my years of teaching and coaching, i've noticed there are two kinds of writers: "process" writers and "product" writers. rather, there exists a spectrum from one to the other.

on the process side, you have writers who reach a flow state fairly easily, who can become immersed in a world or idea of their own invention, and they write in large part to seek that immersive state. the end of a project seems more like a tragedy than an achievement because it marks the loss of the immersive state, and it will take energy and discipline and happenstance to find the next. i've also noticed that it becomes harder rather than easier to find that state over time; the more projects you finish, the fewer ideas appeal to you in the same way.

conversely, product writers get to feel that sense of achievement upon completing a project that process writers may lack, and that pleasure is worth the pain and turmoil of the act of creating something. product writing takes a lot of strength, patience, and discipline i think, to do something hard for the reward of having done it. it's the difference between an athlete and a surgeon. a person becomes an athlete for love of the sport, the act of playing. winning is important, but they wouldn't be able to win without first finding joy in the game. a surgeon, on the other hand, probably doesn't get into the job for the fun of operating. the fulfillment is in the operation's success; it's hard work with high risk. but the reward of saving or improving lives is worth it.

admittedly as a process writer it's always been hard for me to wrap my head around product writers. not only do i not have the patience to seek a sense of achievement, i think i'm mostly incapable of relishing any reward at all unless the reward is in the pursuit itself. looking back, i can't think of any single moment i've ever felt a sense of success. but also i've always struggled with concepts like ambition and competition. i've never had any drive to win anything, but also i've never felt much when i lose or fail. sometimes i wish those things mattered more to me, because then i would be a more driven and decisive person, and i'd be more successful in my career.

i know i'm on the extreme end of the process-product divide, and that colors a lot of my perspective of teaching and mentoring. but i think writers can shift on the spectrum depending on where they're at in their writing life or even with whatever project they're working on. i've been trying to have a more product-based mentality recently to at least develop the skill of shifting to the other side when i need to, so that i can get the patience and focus to write a novel that is not just me plopping my heart onto the page and hoping somebody out there cares. product writers have an easier time convincing other people of the value of their story, because the value of the story is a big reason why they write it. a purely product writer, like the surgeon, writes something because they feel that thing needs to exist in the world. meanwhile the only way for a purely process writer to be professionally successful is to happen by sheer coincidence to find an immersive state that also crosses with the interests of the current market. like the athlete, success involves training, hard work, and being at the right place at the right time. sure, churning out 100k words in a couple months and having a blast while doing it is great, but it comes from this wild inner place that can't really be controlled; meanwhile product writers can take that wildness and intentionally shape it into something. when you're feeling jealous of the other side, though, it's important to remember that both the meadow and the garden are equally beautiful.

[lollygaggingloser]

More VAT7K brain blerps – Hugo’s prosthetic limb Continued

I didn’t realize how much others like prosthetic limbed Hugo, so now I’m more excited to share my other ideas on it. Thanks for the validation y’all. 

After the fiasco with the thugs and Varian finds out about Hugo’s artificial limb, the alchemist is on the same curiosity level as Yong, wanting to know more about Hugo’s alterations to it. Hugo spends an entire evening talking to the two as they sit by the campfire, answering their questions on the materials he’s used, his own schematics, and each component in his prosthesis. He enjoys displaying the fruits of his labor and uses his invention to get the two’s interest and trust in him. The talk goes on late into the night and while Yong eventually ends up falling asleep, Varian stays up longer, fixated and impressed by Hugo’s work. At some point, Hugo removes the limb from his body when Varian asks to get a better look. Normally, he would just let a person get close to him to see, but when Varian leans in toward him, the closeness sends a wave of nervousness and awkwardness through his body. 

Thinking quickly, he moves away to get a better angle to unlatch the device, not certain why he felt self-conscious earlier.

Just make sure you give it back, alright, Goggles? He jokes as he removes it. Varian gently takes it into his hands and gets a closer look at the internal interlockings. As he does, Hugo goes back to boasting about his work. Impressive, right? Much better than the usual peg or hook you’ll see on others. It’s fully functional while still serving as a work of art.

Instead of rolling his eyes at Hugo or scoffing at his prideful demeanor, Varian nods, agreeing with the blonde. It’s beautiful.

Hugo is taken aback by the compliment and feels his ears burn as he realizes that Varian just called a part of his body beautiful. At that moment, Hugo is grateful that Varian is too immersed in the prosthesis to see him blushing.

During their travels, Yong asks Hugo why he keeps his limb hidden under his clothing. If I had something that cool, I’d show it off.

I don’t think people other than nerds like you two think it’s cool Hugo explains. Plus, it’s easier to get around without attracting attention.

Truthfully, Hugo hates the look of pity strangers give him when they find out he has a fake limb. Even before he got his prosthesis, he learned how to get around and function well without his arm/leg so it nerves him to be seen as something less because of it. Therefore, he keeps it hidden to avoid those looks and be treated no differently than any other person. Seeing Yong and Varian react so positively compared to the usual spiel was both refreshing and appreciated. The two never treat him like he’s incapable of handling himself, even when he can be reckless.

Sometimes Yong forgets about Hugo’s prosthesis or forgets which limb is artificial. The kid will mistakenly high five Hugos metal arm way too hard and hurt his own hand. Or, Yong accidentally drops something heavy on Hugo’s fake foot and apologizes.

I’m so sorry Hugo! Are you hurt?

I’m in terrible pain, Sparks he answers in a monotone voice. I think I lost feeling in my toes. We may need to amputate.

Once Hugo’s more comfortable making jokes with Varian and Yong, the two end up dealing with his morbid sense of humor.

Yong will wish him good luck and tell him to break a leg.

To which Hugo will respond with I'm already ahead of you!

He also definitely pulls this move on Varian when the alchemist asks him to lend a hand.

It’s amusing the first few times, but by the fourth, Varian has to control himself from not throwing the prosthesis back at him. 

He gets back at Hugo with this joke eventually. One day, Varian asks Hugo for help and the engineer tosses his arm to him as predicted. Without missing a beat, Varian takes Hugo’s mechanical arm and uses it like one of these bad boys:

To retrieve a book from a high shelf. Hugo is left both insulted and bested.

Give me that! You know what, Goggles? You just lost your Hugo arm privilege. He chastises Varian, who looks rather pleased with himself. He snatches back his prosthesis with the book still in its grasp. So insensitive! Why I’d never!

Brain Blerp part 1

[fell-contract]

I've been using this platform to vent too much recently but unfortunately y'all gotta listen to one more.

Found out I had to work the weekend of a friend's wedding next month and needed to pull out. I told her we wouldn't be able to make it and somehow it devolved into accusations of ending a friendship. A past roommate of ours who we longer speak with who is in the wedding randomly reached out to my partner to guilt him, claiming he was letting me 'end a 10 year friendship' and it was 'so disappointing'. We haven't talked to this person in three years. I defended him and it resulted in this mutual friend (who had already blocked me after I said we couldn't make it) texting my partner saying I cheat on him and they have receipts and a confession (?). For context, I spent my mid 20's in a haze of prescription meds, alcohol and aforementioned roommate's uppers. Quite frankly there are entire nights I have zero memory of, and I've told my partner anything I'm unsure of that could've happened. I know for a fact I didn't have sex with anyone else because frankly I would've felt it the next day and I had intense fear of penetrative sex for most of my 20's. These friends also know my history with sexual violence that led to this fear. Any 'evidence' would be at least five years old because I stopped prescription medication abuse with the pandemic (not really by choice but the one blessing I take from that nightmare). Basically, I've found myself back in that headspace of shame but also betrayal: these friends never tried to help me, they encouraged the substance abuse and now they're trying to blackmail me with things I apparently did but have no recollection of. I exhausted myself in the shadow of shame for years, and I'm so thankful for the grace my partner has shown me and taught me to finally show myself. We're in a place now where we're open to others in our relationship anyway, but it's the principal of thinking I'd step out on him intentionally without his knowledge that has stuck with me. I feel taken advantage of, both by people I thought were my friends and by the person I was: I had this tendency to put myself in harm's way because I thought I deserved punishment of some kind, so even if I don't remember everything I did I do know it's a small miracle there haven't been greater consequences for my recklessness at that time.

I'm about to celebrate 10 months of sobriety next week. I feel like I've made a lot of progress. It's just hard to know that I'm still that troubled man in their minds who would carry a secret or actively hurt my partner, and they likely spent these years with resentment of which I was unaware. I suppose the takeaway is that sometimes we have to leave people behind, I just hate the idea that I'm so low in someone's estimations that they would think I'm incapable of growing. I apologize for the wall of text but sometimes I just need a sounding board.

💝 Jonathan

[dreamingundone]

When The Morning Comes

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x OFC (could be read as reader-insert, no use of Y/N) Summary: Jake doesn’t do serious. He was really upfront and honest about that. So why is he he one getting really tired of saying goodbye every morning? Rating: PG-13 for swears. Words: 3K+ Author’s Note: Here I am again writing fic in the year 2023 because I haven’t stopped thinking about Jake Seresin since last summer. This is slightly Band of Brothers adjacent because I’m incapable of putting away that particular hyper-fixation but you don’t need to know anything about it to understand this. Disclaimer: I don’t own the character Jake or Top Gun: Maverick. Please don’t re-post or translate my work without my permission. There's probably some inaccuracies here though I did my best to Google a few things, but even so, please be nice.

He watches her as she works out of the corner of his eye. He tells himself that he's not seeking her out every time he wanders the corridors at the hangar, but it just happens.

She's impossible to ignore.

There's a sinking feeling in his gut as she very much doesn't make eye contact with him, and in fact, she brushes by him as she leaves the room without so much as a glance.

"All set?" He asks Rooster gruffly, who arches an eyebrow.

"Didn't think you cared so much, Hangman." He gets up from the exam table, hands brushing over the thin line of stitches near his eyebrow.

Jake rolls his eyes.

"Oh!" Rooster says suddenly, eyes lighting up. "It's not me you're here for--"

"Shut up."

Bradshaw's not lying though, which makes Jake grit his teeth even harder.

"Secret's safe with me." He says with a wink, leaving Jake standing in Sick Bay by himself, questioning basically every life decision he's made to get to this point.

.

Six months earlier

"Listen up!" Maverick calls over the din, and when he can't get anyone's attention except for Dagger Squad, Admiral Bates does the job with a sharp whistle.

The hangar goes quiet, and they sit quietly as they listen to the mission briefing. Three months of training, and then they'll be shipped out to God knows where for God knows how long.

While he's pretty used to this particular way of life by now, he sees some of the other squads he doesn't know sharing nervous looks.

There's a group standing closer to the door that he's never had the pleasure to interact with - the medical staff from Sick Bay. The doctors look bored, but there's a new medic who's caught his eye from the minute he walked into the room.

She's taking notes or something, and Jake smirks as she looks up, meeting his eyes briefly. She rolls her eyes and looks back to her notebook, which only makes him smile wider.

He introduces himself the first time he gets a chance, later at the Hard Deck.

"I'm Jake," he says, holding out a hand.

"Good for you." She says, not looking up from her phone.

"Waiting on someone?"

"Someone else, definitely."

There's something about the way she says it - there's no heat in her words really, even though he knows she's trying to put him off. Look -- everyone thinks Jake is an asshole, and he knows he can be sometimes, but he doesn't want to stick around where he's clearly not wanted, even if all he wants to do is sit here with her and learn everything there is to know about her.

"Enjoy your drink," he says, and leaves her there looking a little surprised, if the crease between her brows is any indication.

.

It's a few days later when he has an excuse to see her again, though not under the circumstances he would have wished.

He's being semi-held up between Javy and Rooster, and he's scowling. "I'm fine," he grumbles.

"Sure, tell that to the control panel you smashed your head off of." Javy says, and Jake would roll his eyes, it's just that he can't really see straight, so he thinks he'd just pass out.

Okay, so he had to emergency land. At least he didn't have to eject.

"Put him here." He hears her voice, kind but authoritative. "Lieutenant Seresin, I thought I told you the other night I wasn't interested."

Javy snorts, and Rooster bites back a grin.

"Desperate times calls for desperate measures." Jake says, groaning as he lies back on the exam table.

Then she's there, looming over him, and the irony isn't lost on him that this is the first time she's looking him directly in the eye. Well, her and her flashlight, anyway.

"Pupils a bit larger than I'd like." She mutters. He finds himself really unable to do anything other than watch her as his vision wavers. "Concussion, obviously." She says. "Is the light bothering you?"

"A little." He answers.

She hums in sympathy. "You need stitches. Give me a minute." She says, and then her warmth is gone, and the bright light overhead is all he can see, making him close his eyes.

He sighs. This really isn't the impression he wanted to make.

Dimly, he registers Javy and Rooster leaving the room, saying they needed to go tell the rest of the Daggers how he was doing. He's sure Phoenix and Bob are pacing somewhere. Mav, too.

"Stupid." He mutters.

"What?" She asks, sounding offended.

"Nothing. Not you." He says, eyes opening as she leans over him again, hissing when she wipes an antiseptic over his forehead. "A little warning would have been nice."

"Don't be a baby." She chides, face full of determination. "Stay still."

He lets her work for a few minutes before he tries again. "I meant that I felt stupid for this."

She meets his eyes quickly. "Sounded like you did what you had to do so you didn't kill yourself."

"You were listening?" He asks, surprised. He feels dumber that he didn't realize that. Of course the medics were on standby.

"It's my job." She says. She pauses for a minute, glancing at her wrist. Her wristwatch is turned the wrong way round, so the face of it is on the inside. It's very military, and it makes him smile. It's how he can spot another Navy guy a mile away.

Hers is different than his, though, the face worn and scratched.

"Is that thing even ticking?" He asks as she gets back to work.

Her tongue is between her teeth as she completes the next few stiches, the sight making him a little distracted.

"It was my great-grandfather's."

He feels like he's bothering her, so he doesn't ask any more questions, but she surprises him by continuing.

"He's the reason I wanted to get into medicine. He was an Army medic."

"And that was his service watch?"

"Made it through the drop to Normandy and back."

Jake's eyebrows rise. "A paratrooper."

She nods. "He died before I was old enough to figure out what I wanted to do, but this watch has kept on ticking. Feels like I've got him over my shoulder advising me on what to do."

"That's really nice." Jake says honestly, and again he catches a surprised look on her face.

"I'm sorry," she says, maybe seeing the way his features droop. "You can sit up," she says off-hand before continuing. "I wasn't really fair to you. I've just-- to be honest, I've heard some things. Made me think..."

Jake nods. He knows what everyone says. And to be fair, he's never given anyone other than his friends any reason to doubt the rumors about him. What's the point? He'd rather let everyone on North Island think what they want than spending time fighting his reputation. It's not worth it, especially when he leaves often for months at a time.

"Anyway. That wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, pasting on a smile he doesn't really feel. "No harm done. I don't really... I don't really do serious. So the rumors aren't far off." He doesn't know why he says it. It's the truth - he's scared of getting attached. He's no good at being someone's boyfriend and he knows it. But still -- it feels weird to say it out loud to her.

"Well. Okay then, Lieutenant. You're going to be grounded for awhile, unfortunately. Come back next week and we'll see how you're doing."

.

Over the next few weeks, they do more mission prep, which means the medical team and the Daggers are together more often than not. They'll all be together as a wing on the carrier, and it's important that everyone knows all the details of every minute of the mission.

They have enough downtime too, and that's where he really finds himself in deep trouble. All because of her.

Phoenix has taking a liking to her, and really, everyone else has too. It's hard not to like her.

He's watching her now, contemplative eyes as he tilts his beer bottle back to his lips, and his heart does a funny little flip at the sound of her laugh.

He's surprised when she makes her way over to him at the end of the night, elbowing him lightly.

"All alone, Hangman?"

He smiles wryly. "Only got room in my heart for one lucky lady, Doc."

The nickname was her great-grandfather's, and it's stuck to her too. The first time Mav called her that, she got a little misty-eyed, and Jake found it so endearing he could barely look at her.

She rolls her eyes. "You get back up in the air tomorrow."

He nods, having been cleared by the medical team earlier that day. He can't wait. He misses the adrenaline and the sound of the engines roaring underneath him.

"Thanks to you," he says, nudging her in return. She'd been like a drill sergeant the last few weeks, watching him like a hawk to make sure he stuck to paperwork and didn't overwork himself while he recovered from his concussion.

"Just doing my job." Her standard answer. He thinks it's interesting that someone so confident has a hard time accepting any praise.

"No, it's something else." He says, taking another pull from his bottle. "You were born to do this, I think. You've got a special touch."

She blinks rapidly, and for a horrifying moment, he thinks she might cry. She clears her throat. "How many of those have you had?" She gestures towards the bottle in his hand. "I said one beer, Seresin."

"Not even a full one." He assures her. "And I mean that, Doc."

The way she's looking at him sends his heart racing. Is she--? No, he's imagining it, that she looks like she's leaning in a little, her lips parted invitingly. That's impossible.

"Thank you, Jake." She says softly, and it's the first time she's ever called him by his first name. It takes everything inside of him to stop from leaning into her a little bit more, and in the end he doesn't fight it.

They sit there, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, in a comfortable silence for the rest of the night. And if her pinky brushes his just a little on the bartop, he doesn't draw attention to it. He just lets it happen, enjoying the warmth unfurling inside of him.

.

The briefing where they get their assignments for the mission is tense. This is a dangerous one. Top secret, and not even the medic team is allowed in the room with the Daggers while they get briefed.

There's some speculation that they won't even come along - that this mission is so secret, the fewer eyes on it, the better.

It makes something twist inside him, the thought that he might not see her until he comes home from deployment. He hasn't had that feeling in a really, really long time.

Afterwards, he's wandering the corridors aimlessly when he quite literally runs smack into her.

"Oh!" She says, surprised, and he grabs at her arms instinctively, holding her upright.

"Sorry, Doc."

"Are you okay?" She asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Fine. I--" He looks up, meeting her eyes. "Will you go to dinner with me?"

She swallows. "What?"

"Look, I'm not looking for anything serious. I'm starting to think you aren't either. But I also like you, and I'd like to take you to dinner. If you want." It all comes out in a rush.

"Okay." She says quietly.

"Okay?"

"Okay." She repeats.

.

They don't even make it through dinner.

He's so distracted by the sight of her in civilian clothes that he can barely form a coherent sentence all night.

It must show on his face, and he really feels like an asshole for it, but she also responds to it, so he doesn't stop himself from staring at her, not this time.

Somewhere in the middle of the dinner course, she puts down her fork. "Are you going to take me home now?"

He doesn't think he's ever scribbled his signature on a check so fast in his life.

After that it's all a blur of heated gazes, wandering hands, and finally, mouths meeting. It's all flushed skin and, for Jake, trembling hands. He tries not to examine that particular fact too much.

In the morning, she leaves before he wakes up. He feels a little weird about it, but it's also how it has to be. It's how he's always done things. And if that's good for her too, even better.

.

They go on like that for weeks. He tries not to think about how each morning it's harder and harder to watch her get dressed in the haze when she thinks he's still asleep.

He tries not to think about how she always looks back over her shoulder before she goes, something soft in her eyes.

He tries not to count down the days between now and his deployment date.

On a Friday morning, he's making no show of the fact that he's awake when she slides out from under the sheets and starts dressing.

"You could stay." He says, voice a little hoarse.

She pauses, but pulls her shirt over her head. "Don't do that." She says, voice quiet but firm.

"Just for breakfast."

"This is what you wanted, Jake. I'm just trying to make this easy for both of us."

His face twists. "And I can't change my mind?"

"Actually, no." She says, voice harsh. "Because you've said to me a hundred times that you weren't looking for anything serious. Staying longer, spending days together... that's serious. I'm just doing what you wanted."

Maybe I don't want that anymore. The thought rattles around in his brain, but he doesn't say it.

"It doesn't have to mean anything." He says without thinking, and the look she gives him is withering.

"You've been doing your best not to let any of this mean anything, Seresin."

"We're going by last names now?"

"For fuck's sake, Jake!" She hisses, tugging her pants on. "I should have trusted my instincts with you. I should have listened to my gut."

He sits up straighter now, hurt lacing his tone. "So you've just been miserable for the last few weeks, right? None of this has been pleasurable for you, and that's my fault."

"I didn't say that."

"You know what? Don't let me keep you. Must have been a moment of insanity." He says, voice hard. "You're right. Keep it simple, keep it meaningless. That's perfect."

She doesn't say anything else as she gathers the rest of her stuff and slams the door behind her.

He doesn't see her again until the final mission briefing before deployment.

They're being deployed to the same carrier. That wasn't supposed to happen. The whole reason he decided to take a chance, to finally act on these feelings that he's afraid to identify... it was spurred on by the idea that he may come back in a year to find her elsewhere.

Their eyes meet across the hangar. There's nothing friendly in them now.

He swallows hard. This is going to be a shit-show.

.

They're out in the middle of the goddamned ocean when he, yet again, has to race to Rooster's rescue. It's not nearly as terrifying as the last time it happened, but he's still furious at his friend for risking his life once again. Rooster skids into the carrier with his landing gear barely hanging on, and the rough landing has him doing his best impression of Jake himself all those months ago when he nearly smashed his face into the control panel.

He has to help Rooster get to the Sick Bay because he can't do it on his own, and no matter how much he wants to avoid seeing her, he needs to get help, and Doc is the best, there's no doubt about it.

They ignore each other, though he watches her. He can't help it. She handles Rooster like he's the most important person in the room, and it twists something inside Jake, though he knows that's what makes her invaluable.

She leaves before he can say anything to her.

"All set?" He asks Rooster gruffly, who arches an eyebrow.

"Didn't think you cared so much, Hangman." He gets up from the exam table, hands brushing over the thin line of stitches near his eyebrow.

Jake rolls his eyes.

"Oh!" Rooster says suddenly, eyes lighting up. "It's not me you're here for--"

"Shut up."

Bradshaw's not lying though, which makes Jake grit his teeth even harder.

"Secret's safe with me." He says with a wink, leaving Jake standing in Sick Bay by himself, questioning basically every life decision he's made to get to this point.

In the corridor outside Sick Bay, she's lingering. Pacing.

Jake stops. He's not sure how to get past her without speaking to her. And truthfully, he knows he owes her an apology. He owes her more than that, but he doesn't know how.

"He's going to be okay," She says. "Just so you know."

"I know. Had you fixing him up, after all."

"You sounded scared on the comms."

He shakes his head. "He's reckless."

"He's your friend. It's okay to worry." It's okay to feel things, she doesn't say, but he hears it like she shouted it.

He puts his hands on his hips. "I worry a lot, actually. I worry about a lot of things."

She's just watching him warily, and he goes on, actually unable to stop rambling.

"I worried from the second I met you that I was going to fall in love with you, and that's exactly what happened."

Her mouth falls open, and he plows on.

"I worried that if I let myself get too close, I'd never recover when inevitably you found someone better than me. I didn't think we were getting deployed together. I thought I'd never see you again, that I'd come home and you'd have found someone that deserves you. So I put a boundary there, and I never should have. Even when you respected it, I got angry with you. Because I did want more."

"Jake, what the fuck?" She breathes, and he laughs.

"I know. I'm an asshole, and I'm sorry. I just-- I couldn't stop myself. With every little thing I learned about you, I just fell a little harder. And that was never the deal. So even when you acted like... like you could've felt the same way, I didn't give you the chance." He smiles, but it's more like a wince. "Call it self preservation, I guess."

"You're so stupid, Lieutenant Seresin." Her voice is shaky. "As if I would have thought about anyone else for a year, even if we were separated."

His head snaps back up to meet her eyes. "Doc?"

"I've been falling for you this whole time too, you idiot. And the only reason I didn't want to stay that morning was because I'd worked so hard to stop myself wanting more than you were willing to give."

"I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that."

"I can keep saying it, if it helps."

She takes two quick strides in his direction while they're alone, and kisses him. Quick and hard, it sets his skin afire and his heart pounding.

"Back to work, Hangman." She says against his lips as she lowers herself down to her feet. "We'll talk about this later." Her thumb presses into the dimple on his cheek.

"If I have to, Doc." He says, and this time when he watches her walk away, he knows it's for the last time.

He's not going to let her out of his sight for a long time, if he can help it.

[kiwi-on-ice]

something nasty with miss moira PLEASEEEEE … preferably her receiving in some way .. it’s so hard to find moira fics with the reader giving to her 🙏

Moira O'Deorain x fem!reader

Summary: After a stressful day at the lab, your lover gets home in a foul mood. Luckily, you know just what to do to get her relaxing again.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: dom!Moira, cunnilingus, slight hair pulling, pet names

Notes: Hope this is okay sweetheart! Sorry it's on the short side, i've got loads of requests in my inbox. I'm kinda incapable of writing Moira anything other than quite dominant aha but you're right, we need to give the woman more fr.

The slam of the door reverberates around the apartment which can mean only one thing; Doctor O’Deorain has had a very bad day.

This wasn’t exactly unusual; she’d mentioned some deadlines she needed to meet from her new shady employer, and she was never one to shy away from late nights at the lab to run final tests for her work. But sometimes, the stress and the pressure of being one of the leading scientific minds in the world can get to her, irritation coursing through her veins.

In bed, you sit up a little and put your phone down as your lover enters the room. Immediately you can see the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders tense and her usually styled hair lay tangled on her head. You ask if she’s alright, and you’re met with a noncommittal hum as she sits on the bed. Quickly you climb from under the covers to sit at her side, not wanting to initiate any contact too soon, in case you cause her to freeze up.

“Apologies pet, I’m just…’ she starts, before sighing. She always attempts to hide the things that bother her, always a wall around her emotions and complexities that she's built after years of letdowns and hardships.

“Stressed?” You finish her sentence for her, as she nods. You hum softly, gently resting your head against her shoulder. She gently drags her nails along your back, feeling your skin through the flimsy nightdress you were wearing.

A wave of self consciousness fills you suddenly, not wanting to be dressed so skimpily while you try and comfort her, as you slightly shield yourself with your hands. This causes a tut to escape the doctor’s mouth as she moves your arms away.

“Don’t hide bunny.” She chastises.

“Sorry…it’s just you’re-“

“And you think your sweet looks don’t make me feel better?” She interrupts, her hand coming to your waist. You can’t help but flush, relief washing through you. But also a sense of pride…that only you can help her, with your body and your personality. Breaking down the doctor’s walls so you can crawl your way into her life and soul.

But you want to do more, want to really help her and soothe her ails after such a bad day…and when she teasingly grips your hip, a plan is set in motion.

“I can really make you feel better.” You suggest, looking up at her with the most faux innocent eyes you can manage.

She smirks in response, raising an eyebrow a little. “Oh can you?”

You nod, before sliding off the bed and kneeling between her legs. Glancing up, you swear you can see the older woman’s breath catch as she observes you kneeling so sweetly. She caresses your hair, causing you to let out a satisfied hum.

“Let me help you…make you feel better.” You say gently, your hands gently stroking her thighs. With a soft grunt she nods, tugging your hair tenderly.

Nimble fingers start to undo her black trousers, pulling the zip and tugging them down her slender legs. Swallowing your excitement, you gently kiss along her thighs, working your way upwards.

“Don’t tease pet.” She grunts, clearly her desperation for release getting the better of her as she tugs your hair again. You relent, not before giving a teasing kiss to her clothed cunt over her boxer briefs, licking gently and causing her breath to stutter.

Not wanting to aggravate her further, you pull down her underwear to fully reveal her to your hungry eyes. Glancing up, you keep eyecontact as you softly lick a stripe upwards. You’re rewarded with a soft noise, one unfamiliar to your ears from Moira which causes your confidence to surge. You lick a few broad strokes a few times before moaning into her.

“Fuck, you’re so good for me bunny…” she praises, her words more gentle than the usual condescending tone she usually utilises in the bedroom. “So sweet.”

You keen under her praise, your tongue circling her clit. Eyes fluttering closed, you surrender yourself to the headspace of pleasuring her, soft noises escaping your throat. Instinctively your hands go to hold her thighs, until she moves them in a silent command to have them behind your back. Knowing she likes how submissive it makes you look, you lace your fingers behind you as you devour her cunt like a woman starved.

Feeling her taste on your tongue only spurs you on more and more, making soft whimpers against her sensitive areas. Her decayed hand grips your hair, the callous skin causing a shiver to dance from your scalp down your spine. She holds you in place, your tongue flicking her clit with a precision that comes with being hers for a while now.

"That's it, don't you dare stop." she says, her shaky tone betraying how affected she is.

You wouldn't dream of stopping, moving your head from side to side to ensure you taste every bit of your lover. She holds your hair in a type of makeshift ponytail, bucking her hips into your mouth.

"Yes, coinín maith..." she lets out a soft moan, causing your own cunt to throb at her noises. Letting her use you never fails to make you horny for more, more of her. But it also never fails to make the doctor feel powerful, having such a good girl on her knees, ready to serve. It gives Moira a power rush like no other, the intense pleasure your tongue provides being a very good bonus.

Another moan escapes you as you can sense her getting close, her thighs tightening around your head. Flicking your tongue in firm, precise strokes, you almost groan in pain as her nails dig in to your scalp. But you don't pull away, don't stop. You just keep tasting her.

Finally, she finishes in your mouth with a low groan, her body relaxing. You climb up off the hard floor and join her on your bed, glancing at her as she comes down from her high. Shoulders visibly untensing, muscles relaxing, and almost a slight smile tracing her lips as she hooks an arm around you to bring you close to her chest.

"Thank you love." she whispers quietly, the term of endearment not lost on you as you feel your cheeks warm.

"Are you feeling a bit better?" you ask hopefully, shifting to look up at her; almost like a worshipper of a deity.

She answers with a curt nod, her nails still tracing your scalp. "Yes bunny, although..."

Before you can register what's going on, she has you on your back. "I think a second round may be in order."

[thevioletcaptain]

Emoji prompt! 🪼👀🎨

@carnilia Thanks for the prompt, and I'm sorry this fill took so long for me to post! I hope you enjoy the deancas ficlet & the art I ended up making to go with it :)

The Beholder

It doesn’t take long for Dean to learn that Cas is a sweet talker in the bedroom. Sometimes it’s compliments; others, it’s praise. Either way, whether they’re moving together slow beneath the sheets, or hard and fast up against a door after barely making it inside, he’s always gentle with his words.

The first time, Dean figured it was because it was the first time, and he didn’t ask. But they’re far from their first time, now.

They’ve been together almost a month, and though it’s still new in the grand scheme of things, and Dean still feels a little like he’s getting away with something every time Cas kisses him, they’ve settled far enough into something like comfort that he thinks he can bring it up.

“You called me beautiful again,” Dean murmurs against Cas’ skin, trailing the tip of his nose over his arm, and Cas hums in a questioning tone, as if to say — yes, I did, and is that alright? at the same time.

Hooking his knee over Cas’, Dean presses in closer until his belly is warm against Cas’ bare hip, and his cheek is settled against his chest, and Cas has no choice but to shift his arm to wrap around Dean’s shoulders and hold him there.

It’s easier like this. Close enough to feel secure. Close enough to get away with avoiding eye contact.

“I mean, it’s nice. It’s just…”

He trails off. It’s easier, but it’s still not easy.

“Just?” Cas asks, touching Dean’s chin until he has no choice but to tilt his face up to meet his gaze.

When he does, Cas is looking at him so patiently, so softly, that Dean is rendered weak by it. Incapable of resisting the sweetness of him, even if he is still nervous to be talking about this. He catches Cas’ hand in his own, kissing his fingertips before he settles back against his chest and lets go. Speaks.

“Just. Okay, tell me if this is— if I’m overthinking things or whatever. But it kinda… I guess I worry, y’know? That it’s one-sided.”

Underneath Dean’s cheek, Cas’ chest rumbles with a thoughtful sound as he works to understand what Dean means. Evidently, he comes up empty.

“If I didn’t know better, I might think you were saying you find me unattractive.”

Snorting a laugh, Dean shakes his head.

His fingers dance over Cas’ ribs. Smooth over his stomach. He’s so warm, and solid, and Dean’s rarely been closer to him than in moments like this, basking in the afterglow.

He’s also never felt the distance between the way they know one another quite so acutely.

“I can’t see you,” he says on a breath, like saying it quiet will make it less devastating to think about, and Cas links their fingers together on an exhale. Squeezes Dean’s hand in his own.

“Ah,” he says, and Dean’s relieved that he can tell he understands.

“And— yeah, this is your body now, and it has been for a while, and I get that, but I just… man, sometimes I really hate that I never got to see the rest of you, you know?”

“I know,” Cas tells him, and raises Dean’s hand to kiss his knuckles before lowering it back to press against his chest. “I wish I could’ve shown you, but… hm.”

Cas trails off, and Dean twists to look at him again. His brow is creased in thought.

“Hm?” Dean prompts.

“Well… I just had an idea. It’s not quite the same, but there might be a way for me to show you an approximation.”

“How?”

Cas looks down at him and smiles.

“You’ll have to be patient,” he says, which isn’t really an answer, but he pulls Dean fully on top of him as he says it, so Dean’s willing to let it slide. “It might take some time for me to get it right.”

...

It takes a few years, in the end.

More hours than Dean can count spent in a breezy, brightly lit studio next door to the Lebanon Post Office; Cas learning how to paint under the watchful eye of a woman with a seemingly endless collection of flowing, gauzy scarves, while Dean alternately reads thrifted pulp novels and hones his already halfway-decent sketching skills nearby, just because he’d rather spend this time with Cas than without, even if they’re working on independent projects.

Cas doesn’t rush ahead.

He wants to get a solid grasp of the medium, first; wants to learn to paint the physical world before he attempts the metaphysical.

Over time, the bunker fills with his paintings.

First, still life pieces that feature everything from Jack’s collection of interesting rocks, to the mixtape Dean gave him, to an assortment of produce pilfered from the vegetable drawer.

Next, pictures of Dean, of Jack and Sam and Claire, of Miracle running in the woods with her tongue lolling out of her mouth and her tail a golden blur.

Landscapes and seascapes and sprawling open skies. Insects and fish and lights on the highway.

The view from the back seat of the Impala as Dean smiles at him in the rearview mirror; the view from the passenger seat as they link hands between them.

When they eventually leave the bunker behind, handing over the keys to a younger generation and moving into a little house across town from Sam and Eileen two years after they first got together, they take most of Cas’ paintings with them, and their home above-ground becomes a gallery of his artwork.

Dean loves every single one.

He hangs them in every room, interspersed with Jack’s enthusiastic creations and dozens of photos that had, until recently, lived almost exclusively on Dean’s phone.

At Cas’ insistence, he adds a few of his own sketches to the mix. An old one he drew of Charlie — the Charlie he still thinks of as his Charlie — back when they worked that djinn case together in 2013. One of Cas standing at his easel in the studio, lips pursed in concentration. A tiny drawing of his mom not long after Amara had brought her back, scratched out on a post-it note while he’d been talking with her on the phone.

The wall over their bed has been left open, though. Cas has complained that whatever he finally produces won’t be worth such prime real estate, but Dean insists it will be by virtue of featuring the best looking guy he knows.

Cas has given up on debating the flawed logic of Dean’s argument.

It’s almost eight months after they move into the house when Cas announces that he’s ready to attempt the self portrait, and Dean can’t accompany him to the studio anymore.

“I don’t want you to see it before it’s done,” he says, uncharacteristically nervous as he twists his hands in his lap, and Dean reaches out to stop him. Weaves their fingers together.

“So I’ll stay home,” he says.

He tugs Cas’ hand when he still seems worried. Pulls him into a kiss that Cas relaxes into. Breathes into.

“Whatever you need, okay?”

After that, he comes home every day smelling of acrylics, with a kaleidoscope of color under his nails and flecked on his neckline where his smock hangs a little too low.

Some days, he spends hours at the studio, and returns frustrated and tired, and Dean pulls him into the shower to rub his shoulders and remind him that it doesn’t have to be perfect. That he should only do this if he wants to.

“I want to see you, but only if you want me to see,” he says for probably the twentieth time since Cas first offered to paint the self portrait, and just like every time before, Cas’ body goes lax under his hands. Tilts into him.

“I want you to,” he says.

The day he finally brings the painting home, loaded into the back of his truck and wrapped in a canvas sheet, he sits out in the driveway for almost fifteen minutes before Dean heads out to see what’s keeping him.

It takes almost another ten minutes of gentle pressure before Cas admits that it’s not that he’s worried he hasn’t done a good job, but that he’s halfway convinced that Dean will take one look at it — at him — and wish he’d never asked to see.

That he’s too alien. Too inhuman. Too strange.

That it will change things between them, even if Dean doesn’t want it to.

Dean doesn’t know how to comfort him; can’t find a combination of words that will convince him that Dean would love him in any form. Would love him still if he were a monster — has done, back when the Leviathan twisted him into a dark mirror of himself, and Dean had looked at him and thought we can still get through this. I just need him to be okay.

Without the words, he just shuffles across the bench seat of Cas’ truck to press his lips to Cas’ temple. Settles him. Grounds him with one hand on his thigh and the other looped around his shoulders.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he says, because even if he can’t figure out how to put a whole big speech together, he’s gotta say something, and Cas lets out a gusty breath against his neck.

“What if it’s not?”

Tapping his chin, Dean waits until Cas reluctantly turns to look at him.

“I love you,” he says, firm. He repeats it when Cas tries to look away. “Hey— I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too. I’m sorry I’m being—”

“It’s okay. I get it. But—” Dean sucks his lip between his teeth, weighing the odds that his next words will be received in the spirit they’re intended before throwing caution to the wind. “You still think I’m pretty, right?”

“You know I do.”

“Well, I’ve gotta look pretty weird to an angel, right? Four limbs, two eyes, not a feather in sight. All this pesky skin.”

“You’re forgetting that the other angels all thought I was a freak,” Cas says, though he’s starting to calm down, and Dean nudges in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Sweetheart, you know I’m a freak, too.”

Huffing a laugh, Cas tilts his head back against the driver’s side window to look at him.

“You’re really sure you won’t regret knowing?”

“I’m really sure.”

Cas pushes out a breath. Nods.

“Okay,” he says, and gives Dean a shaky smile. “Help me carry it inside?”

When Cas pulls the canvas sheet away, it takes Dean a moment to fully absorb what he’s looking at.

He’s seen old engravings of angels; spinning wheels of light and fire, wings and limbs and countless eyes. Looking at this, he can see how the descriptions came about when made by people who had no other frame of reference, but his first thought, of all things, is jellyfish.

Because Cas is glowing. Iridescent.

His feathery limbs float, tendril-like in the darkness, and all of his eyes are trained on Dean. Tender, somehow as they look at him; nude and at peace in the palm of a giant.

It cracks Dean open not only to see Cas, finally, but to instantly recognize such a familiar gaze on his otherworldly face.

This is Cas.

This is Cas.

“The scale isn’t exactly accurate,” Cas says, fidgeting in a way that Dean hasn’t seen him do since he got stoned with Eileen and had to admit to Dean that he’d eaten the last piece of cherry pie. “But I wanted to include you, and if I’d made our relative sizes true to life I would have needed to at least triple the size of the canvas to make you large enough to include enough detail, and—”

“Cas?”

Cas stops talking, swallowing roughly, and Dean drags his gaze away from the painting to look at him. His eyes are wide and blue and shining, and though there’s a world of difference between the figure in the painting and the one Dean’s reaching for and pulling close, he’s the same. He’s exactly the same.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Breathes against his skin.

Turns out Dean’s been able to see him this whole time. [written for this prompt game] [cas' self portrait is rebloggable here] [posted on ao3 as imogenbynight 💚]

[dramatic-dolphin]

Oh man, I am waaay on the other side of the "pronounce names correctly" debate. Not because I don't think you should, in general, attempt to pronounce names correctly, I do. But I'm trying to get people to stop trying to pronounce my name correctly.

I happen to have a name that's (for foreigners) Hungarian on Hard Mode. I'm talking umlauts, digraphs with y, just all the good phonemes that don't exist in most other languages. I've spent a lot of time abroad with people from various parts of the world, and I can tell you from hard empirical data: nobody can say it. And I'm cool with it! I just tell them the English equivalent and it's fine.

Mostly. Some people, especially those who are trying to be culturally sensitive, have a Really Hard Time™️ accepting that a) they are not getting it right b) continue to not get it right despite asking me to demonstrate over and over. And I appreciated it at first! How thoughtful, this attempt to engage with my culture. Cue several months of unsuccessful attempts, at the end of which they were (mostly jokingly) accusing me of faking it. Almost verbatim: "if we recorded you saying your own name and played it back to you, you would say it's incorrect".

(I get it though, the pop sci explanation that I've never bothered to fact check is that as you grow up, you're more attuned to characteristic frequencies of your mother tongue, so when another language comes along with different frequencies, you are quite literally incapable of distinguishing them. So their attempts may sound the same to them, but it sure doesn't to me. I tell them I have this with "bet" and "bat", and that sometimes puts an end to it.)

So yeah, attempt to pronounce everyone's name correctly. Unless they have asked you multiple times not to.

YES YES YES. sometimes you don't want to hear your name butchered over and over and again. like it can be funny when the entertainment is the hungarian gyöngyi and the czech přemysl trying to pronounce each other's name (actual thing that happened at an event my mom was at, everyone thought it was hilarious), but like. at some point it gets TIRING.

god do i hate those people who are like "well at the introduction i wouldn't stop trying until i could pronounce their name correctly!!" newsflash you were not pronouncing it correctly unless you also did a deepdive into the phonology of the language right there. what actually happened was that scene went on for so long and got so awkward they said "haha yeah that's correct!" to stop you from trying again. PLEASE stop. it is very awkward.

the pop sci explanation is sorrrrt of right, you're not really ever incapable of distinguishing phonemes, or phonologists would be out of a job! but your brain does become attuned to the subtleties that are important in your language and discards other phoneme differences that aren't used in your language because who even needs that. it's possible to learn to speak a language like a native and understand all the subtle differences so deeply that they come as instinct. it just takes a LOT of work.

(but- learning your native language took even more work. you're at an 8yr old's level of umderstanding in the language you're learning? well, how long do you think it took the 8yr old?)

also, relatedly, if someone - usually someone who's chinese in my experience - tells you their name, and then adds "but you can call me [english name/name in another language]!" it tends to be because they LIKE being called that name and possibly even prefer it to you butchering their name. they understand that you will butcher their name, because the language - which may or may not be chinese - is notoriously hard for outsiders.

[medievill]

okay. okay. I think I've finally figured out the worst part of the "Ed's going to be an abuser just like his dad" headcanon some of y'all have.

let's go for a ride.

abuse is cyclical, and not just in a micro sense. it's not just "I love you, you're garbage, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm the only one who loves you because you're garbage, I'm sorry, I love you," etc. I mean macro. I mean generationally.

I mean that parents teach their children how to have relationships. we show our kids how adults interact with each other, how adults interact with kids, how kids should interact with kids. we model this behavior constantly. it's one of the most nerve-wracking things about being a parent, actually: you live in a fish bowl now, and the fish bowl is your home, and your children are constantly observing your behavior and interactions, even when you don't want them to, even when you think they're not.

growing up in a home with an abusive parent doesn't just expose you to the abuse—physical, emotional, psychological, religious, whatever it is—it teaches the child that this is how relationships work. and then this kid goes out into the world, interacting with other humans all willy-nilly, and bringing all the knowledge that their parents armed them with to bear. and when the kid (hopefully) realizes that wait, actually, shouting and throwing things and hitting people isn't good, that's not the way you interact, it is solely up to that kid to fix their shit. if they're lucky, they've got someone in their life to help them with that. but even once you've recognized that there's Bad Stuff happening in your interpersonal relationships, you have to retrain your brain. you have to change your go-to reaction. because you can recarve your neural pathways, but it is fucking hard work.

I didn't grow up with a physically abusive parent; I grew up with an emotionally abusive one. every time my partner does something that annoys me, or we disagree on something, and my reaction is "well, I don't really feel like talking"—if you don't think that I don't half- to full-on panic about wait is this the silent treatment, am I doing what my dad did, you are absolutely incorrect. it is a constant fear, that my reactions are inherently abusive. I am constantly gaslighting myself into believing that everything I do in a relationship is bad, hurtful, abusive. I am constantly having to convince myself that it's okay sometimes not to want to talk, and to sometimes be annoyed, and to sometimes disagree, and that none of this is inherently abusive.

now. Ed fucking Teach. do you not think the guy's spent some time introspecting? examining his inner most self? he's smart, and he's depressed, so, yeah. I bet he has. so do you not think, you absolute monsters, that he isn't doing the same fucking thing? Ed Teach, who convinced himself that defending him and his mom against constant violence (a white man, and as if this was a random choice)—ultimately saving their lives (and no, this is not an exaggeration)—made him an unloveable, unlikeable monster. Ed Teach, who is so desperate for love and friendship that his biggest fantasy is owning an inn, where people stay because they want to.

do you really think that one of the thousand internal battles Ed my beloved is fighting isn't don't be your dad don't be your dad don't be your dad? fighting, fucking tooth and nail, to be different. (same as Stede!) this reactionary headcanon literally misses so much of the point of the whole character; it buys into the British Navy's propaganda about him, and worse. it buys into the narrative that a man of color is inherently violent, inherently incapable of change.

[oneshotnewbie]

A oneshot where B!D gets really bad anxiety whenever one of her sisters are mad at her. She’s always worried they’ll never forgive her and there relationship will be forever ruined. Even though that never happens.

ᕚ---ᕘ

The cold winter air came through the open balcony doors and slowly made the room freeze as a tense air spread between Alex and you. You, with a lump in your throat, felt the redhead's words cutting through the air like sharp daggers, ready to leave deep wounds in your heart.

Alex stood there, teeth clenched and eyes blazing with anger. "How can you be so ignorant? It's unbelievable how selfish you are!"

You, with a shiver running down your spine, tried in vain to hold back the tears. You never wanted it to turn into an argument. But Alex's words were like an uncontrollable fire that ate through your relationship, leaving you with no options to explain to her why you had taken the larger sum of money out of your shared bank account.

"Alex, let me explain. I just wanted to..." you started, but your voice was drowned in a sob. You knew you couldn't continue to defend yourself without spilling the beans about the birthday surprise. Those words wouldn't be heard anyway. Not in this frenzy of rage the redhead was currently in.

The eldest Danvers snorted and shook her head. "That's typical of you. Always ready with an excuse. You're just immature and incapable of taking responsibility for finances!"

The pain in your chest was almost unbearable. You just wanted peace again. You wanted everything to go back to how it was a few hours ago when you were laughing together and teasing each other. But this strife seemed unstoppable, a relentless storm that destroyed everything in its path.

Alex turned away abruptly, her hands balled into fists. "I can't take this anymore. I'm going to work." She spoke and you could only stand there silently, unable to act as your sister left the apartment, slamming the door behind her. Tears flowed freely down your cheeks as you stood in the silence of the deserted living room, surrounded by an endless feeling of loneliness.

A short while later, Kara flew into her apartment, her eyes wide in shock as she saw you. "What happened here? Are you okay?" she asked worriedly. You didn't say a word. Instead, you collapsed under the face of your own emotions. All you wanted was for this nightmare to end and for you to feel safe and loved again. But the pain you faced was too deep, and the wounds of the words said would take a long time to heal.

The blonde looked at her younger sister, your shaking body sitting on the floor, surrounded by a sea of tears. Her heart ached when she saw the look of despair on your face. "Come here, little one." Kara whispered softly as she knelt down and wrapped her arms around you. You sank into the embrace without resistance, clinging to Kara as if she were the only constant in a stormy sea.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you sobbed quietly, your voice barely above an audible whisper. "Why can't I control myself when there is an argument?"

Kara stroked your back soothingly and placed a few kisses on the top of your head. "It's okay, sweetie. Sometimes our emotions are overwhelming, and that's completely normal. Plus, it shows that Alex means a lot to you."

You raised your head, tears shining in your eyes. "But why does this always happen? Why can't I just be strong and overlook it?"

Kara sighed quietly. She had asked herself this question many times in the last few months about why you always reacted so emotionally to arguments, but she didn't know the answer. She carefully brushed a strand of your hair out of your face and looked deeply into your eyes. "Perhaps there are reasons that lie deeper. Reasons that you may not yet understand."

You swallowed hard, a look of realization crossing your face. "I think I'm scared. Scared that I'll lose one of you as soon as an argument arises. That eventually none of you will forgive me and that I'll ruin my relationship with you forever."

The blonde felt a pang in her own heart when she heard the words come out of your mouth. She knew your fears were deep-rooted and wouldn't just go away. But she was also determined to help you and show you that you were loved and accepted, despite some arguments. "Arguments are normal for siblings, my sweet girl," she whispered softly. "Neither of us is going to push you away or anything. I'm going to have a chat with Alex and we'll find a way to deal with it together, okay?"

You nodded at her and she pulled you up. Together you had a cozy day on the couch, where she looked after you and tried to calm you down.

A few hours later, the door opened and Alex hesitantly entered the apartment, her eyes downcast and her face marked with regret. She felt the weight of the silence filling the room and knew she had a lot of explaining to do to make things right with you.

Kara slowly got up from her spot next to you, while you were still clinging to her, and walked towards the redhead. "It's good that you're back," she said calmly, but with a stern tone. "We need to talk. Urgently."

Alex swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes meeting yours and she could see the pain in them. "I'm sorry, Kara. I'm so sorry for what I said. It was unfair and unforgivable to y/n." She spoke and the blonde took her in his arms, surprised by her openness.

"It's okay. We all make mistakes. But we need to talk about it so we can understand what happened." the person addressed hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I spoke to Lena and she told me something that finally made me understand. She's afraid that if we fight, our relationship will be ruined forever because her real parents fought all the time before they split up and put her in a children's home."

Kara sighed and nodded slowly. "Yes, y/n told me that too. It's hard for her to deal with these fears."

Alex looked at her sister seriously before biting her lip and briefly looking at you on the couch. You had now moved into a lying position, the blanket wrapped thickly around you. "We have to show her that she is wrong. That we love her and that we will always be there for her no matter what."

The blonde smiled softly and put her arm around the redhead's shoulder. "We will, Alex. We will show her that she will never be alone and that she always has a place in our family."

They walked over to you arm in arm and took you into their midst. They hugged you tightly, united in their determination to put the fight over money behind them. You all spent the next few hours talking it out, listening to each other, and reassuring each other that you would be there for each other no matter what happened.

And as night fell and you felt tired but relieved, you all knew that you had emerged from each crisis stronger, ready to walk together on a path full of love and forgiveness.

[earlgraytay]

The Author's Darling

So I follow a lot of people who post a lot about OC/self-insert positivity. And that's genuinely great. I love people's OCs and self-inserts. But occasionally, I will see someone, in an attempt to Defend The Honour of OCs and self-inserts, defend a particular kind of writing mistake. And that pisses me off, because it does everyone a disservice.

There are plenty of people who write OCs and self-inserts who do not make this writing mistake, and equating the two is unfair to every OC writer who works hard at their craft. There are also plenty of people who write canon-character-only fanfic or original fic who do make this mistake-- and that hurts both them and their potential readers.

The mistake I'm talking about? Writing a sort of character I'm going to call an Author's Darling.

I'm going to talk about what Author's Darlings are, why they're bad, how you can avoid writing one, and what an Author's Darling isn't. I put a cut in this post, because it's long.

What is an Author's Darling?

An Author's Darling is a character who cannot fail at anything that matters to the author of their story.

What this looks like in practice depends on the author-- different authors prioritize different things. Some authors think their Darling should be stone-cold badasses and never lose a fight. other authors are fine with their Darlings getting knocked out every time they try to throw a punch, but would be very upset if their Darling got rejected romantically.

Plenty of characters succeed at most things they try. Superman wins most of the fights he takes on, but he's not necessarily a Darling. But if you look at a character and you can say, "oh, this character would never lose a fight", or "everyone loves this character and would never get mad at them"? You've got an Author's Darling on your hands.

And- especially in fandom- a character can be a Darling in the hands of one author and a perfectly fine character in the hands of another. Steve Rogers/Captain America is an example of a character who gets Darling-ified a lot. Captain America is supposed to be a shining example of The Best that humanity has to offer- he's virtuous, strong, brave, and oh so pretty. It's easy to fall into the trap of making him incapable of failing at whatever you want him to do, whether that's "punching a lot of Nazis" or "supporting Bucky in his recovery". But a lot of writers manage to thread the needle and write Cap as the lovable, flawed person he's supposed to be.

Why are Author's Darlings bad?

Well, two reasons:

Writing an Author's Darling is a really good way to give yourself writer's block, especially when it comes to the plot. If your character can't fail at anything important, this means that it's really hard to build tension. If your character is going to automatically succeed at anything that's important to the plot, all you're writing is "and then they win, and then they win, and then they win". It can get pretty monotonous pretty quickly, especially if you're writing genre fiction. You can run out of ideas, or your inner critic can go "this isn't how stories work???? the FUCK???" and block your creative flow. If your character can't fail at anything- important or not- it's hard to come up with a good story for them at all. You know how sometimes you get a character rattling around your head but you can't get a plot for them at all? One of the first steps in fixing that is making sure you're not writing an Author's Darling.

Writing an Author's Darling makes people not want to read your work. Now, look. I know everyone says "you should write for yourself, and screw anyone who says otherwise!" But let's be honest here: it sucks to spend hours working on a piece of writing, post it, and then get, like, 2 hits and no kudos, or 1 tumblr like from your friend who likes everything that crosses their dash. It's incredibly demoralizing. Author's Darlings are one of the big factors that make people stop reading a story. As soon as a reader gets the sense that the protagonist can't screw up- that they're "too perfect"- the tension in the story is gone. There's no reason for them to keep reading, because they know the character's just going to Press The Win Button And Win. So they'll click out without saying anything, and you'll wonder why no one's reading your fic.

What isn't an Author's Darling?

This section is haunted by the ghost of Mary Sue. If you're reading this list and you're new to fandom/young, you might wonder why I'm calling out certain specific things; this is a fandom war you missed, don't worry about it.

An Author's Darling is not a character of any specific gender. Male, female, and nonbinary characters can all be Author's Darlings.

An Author's Darling is not necessarily an OC. In the current fandom climate, it's way more likely that a Darling will be a 35-year-old canon male character the writer calls "babygirl".

An Author's Darling is not necessarily a self-insert, but it's really easy to make a self-insert into a Darling. There's a reason people recommend that newbie writers avoid self-inserts- it can be really hard to write a character based on yourself that screws up something important. It takes a lot of vulnerability and courage to write, and it's not something you want to show everyone.

An Author's Darling is not an "overpowered" character or a "cool" character. Your character can have sixteen katanas and do air dashes and still not be a Darling- and your character can be a powerless human in a superhero setting and be the biggest Darling to ever Darling. Having "too many" powers or standing out "too much" in the setting is often a symptom of a Darling- if you don't want your character to fail at anything important, and being The Coolest Person In The Room is important to you, you're going to make your Darling overpowered and good at everything. But it's not the thing that makes an Author's Darling bad.

An Author's Darling is not a 'perfect' character, or a character without flaws. There's a lot of overlap in the Venn diagram, don't get me wrong... but you can load up a character with "flaws" that don't matter to you. A lot of dudebro male writers, for example, will make their Darlings emotionally constipated, mean, and Bad At Relationships. These genuinely are character flaws... but these writers don't give a flying fuck about the character's relationships. They're happy to let their Darling fail at this stuff to prove he's FLAWED!!!- but try and make them write a fight scene their Darling loses, and they'll break out in hives.

Why should I care? Writing is supposed to be fun, and writing characters failing is not fun for me.

Writing is a craft. It is no different from knitting a sweater, making a stop-motion film, or trimming a bonsai. There are ways to do it well, and there are ways to do it poorly.

It can be fun and rewarding to knit a shitty sock with holes in the heel where you forgot how the pattern works and weird lumps in the calf. It is more fun and rewarding to get good enough at knitting that you knit socks you can wear.

Similarly, it can be fun and rewarding to deliberately write stories about overpowered Author's Darlings that are boring to read for anyone who isn't you. But it is more fun and rewarding to get good enough at writing that you write stories other people will want to read.

And you know, maybe you don't care about that. Everyone needs a hobby that they're bad at and have no interest in getting better at; it keeps you humble. Maybe writing is yours.

But plenty of writers do care. And tarring every writer who writes OCs and self-inserts with the same brush- the brush of "this is supposed to be fun! we're writing deliberately bad things! yay!"- is an insult to anyone who writes OCs and cares about their craft.

If you want to write well, you should be aware of what an Author's Darling is, and if possible, you should try to avoid writing them. If you don't care about writing well, that's fine- but please avoid implying that every OC or self-insert character is badly written in this particular way.

[bethanydelleman]

Online Discourse, Redemption Arcs, and Jane Austen

There is a story in the Bible where Jesus is brought a woman who has cheated on her spouse. The officials ask Jesus what to do, he knows they are trying to trick him into breaking the law with mercy, so he says, "Go ahead, throw rocks at her until she dies, that's the law, BUT whoever has never done anything wrong throws the first stone." Eventually everyone leaves and Jesus forgives the woman.

This post I shared a while ago really makes me think of that story, because online commentary of characters seems to so often break into two groups:

People so unforgiving, so unwilling to allow a single misstep in a character that they would start throwing stones immediately

People who will twist themselves into knots to prove that everything the character did was justified (and since we have zero backstory for the unnamed woman in this story, it would be easy to give her a sympathetic one. She did it because of trauma!)

Let's apply this to Emma Woodhouse. At Box Hill, she mildly insults an older woman, it is a poorly timed and placed joke:

“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?” Emma could not resist. “Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be limited as to number—only three at once.”

There are basically two reactions to this insult: BURN EMMA AT THE STAKE and Eh, not that bad. Now I think with this particular insult, it really wasn't that bad and we are told about the surrounding extenuating circumstances that caused Emma to slip up. However, I'm probably wrong because Emma does feel guilty and she does make amends. While she does not directly apologize, it's clear in the novel that what she did was a relationship repair.

What makes me feel like a crazy person is how many people throw first stones! How many people are SHOCKED by what Emma said and they could NEVER imagine insulting Miss Bates in such a cruel way! Get over yourself! I feel fairly certain that every human being on earth over 25 had insulted someone to the same level as Emma has insulted Miss Bates. That doesn't mean it is excusable, Emma should apologize and so should we, but I'm left amazed by how many people feel blameless in the face of this extremely human and relatable error.

And yes, it makes me wonder about forgiveness in their real lives. There are some things that I believe could be hard and fast "never forgive" rules, like your SO should never hit you, but people make mistakes. We should have room for forgiveness, we should understand circumstances. People get tired and sick and angry and overwhelmed and sometimes they screw up. It makes me wonder if this is an online persona effect, where we never show our negative sides, or is this a true opinion. Do people forget their own mistakes?

There also seems to be this idea that once someone has done something once, it's already a pattern even if the novel is full of counter-evidence. Emma is very polite throughout the novel, she endures people that annoy her a lot, she is endlessly accommodating with her father, but a single insult to Miss Bates and people start retroactively making her worse. When she visited that poor family she must have been insulting them! (Nope) Suddenly she becomes a villain through and through, instead of a normal girl who made a few mistakes.

That's not even getting into the real "villains" of Austen's works. The amount of people who tell me that Lydia (16), Henry Crawford (probably 24), Mary Crawford (22-24), Willoughby (25), and so on and so fourth ARE INCAPABLE OF CHANGE and will never improve. Like excuse me? Have you not changed and improved since you were 16-25? How early do you give up on people? Do you really think a young adult is fully formed?

Is this how you think of people in the real world too?