#and that is a Herculean task for me most of the time

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was working at the sex shop I was pulling poverty wages. I loved my job but I was on food stamps and still barely getting by. When they hired the stores first male employee and he started at my pay rate after I’d been there for three years I quit.

I was initially really nervous when I saw the post for the mattress job. It listed a pay scale that I couldn’t even conceptualize and I appeared qualified. When I got an interview I was over the moon but also petrified. Reactions to my line of work often varied but most people were very embarrassed or skeptical. I worried about how I’d address it in the actual interview.

I lived far to the north of their headquarters and drove almost two hours to get there. When I finally arrived it was in the nicest thrift store clothes I could find, but I shrank inside to see a room full of older white men in nice suits waiting to be interviewed for the same job.

Why did I bother? I was decades younger than anyone else in the room, shabbily dressed, and I suspected I was the only afab person in the entire building. I stewed in my insecurities until I was called in.

The second I met my interviewer I was instantly put at ease. The man had the energy of a therapy dog, he was abound with positive, good natured energy. He was also incredibly beautiful. I grinned back at his welcoming smile as we said our pleasantries. But still. This very beautiful polished man seemed very innocent. How would the sex shop question go?

“I see here you worked at STORE?”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“And that was sales? Or you just rang people up.”

“No, it was sales. I’d help people find products, we were encouraged to upsell, there was sales spiffs, and most importantly we educated customers on products to help them find what they liked best.”

He grinned approvingly and asked, “Can you give me an example of a time you successfully upsold a customer?”

I paused, wringing my hands before I asked, “How vague would you like me to be…?”

“Not at all!” He assured me. “Go for it!”

“Well. A man came in looking for something to make his fingers vibrate so when he was touching his wife it would enhance that sensation. We had cheap $10 cockrings that I showed him first. But we had a rechargeable waterproof one made of nicer material, and after I showed him a demo he bought that one.”

“How much was that one?”

“$110”

“Wow! You had an upsell of 100% from what he came in looking for! That’s incredible!”

He was so truly genuinely stoked and not at all embarrassed that for the first time I saw a tiny glimmer of a future where I didn’t have ramen and peanut butter tiding me over between paychecks.

He asked me to wait then came back to tell me he liked me so much that he wanted to send me right into another interview, if that was okay. He didn’t want me to have to drive back later, it was terribly considerate and exciting. I beamed and told him it would be lovely.

I then had the second worst interview I’ve ever had. The worst goes to the time I applied to be a store manager for a pet food place years later. The district and store manager interviewing me passed notes and texted while I was speaking. When the district manager called to inform me I didn’t get the job I told him I’d never have accepted anyway because I’d never had such a disrespectful interview.

The new man sitting behind the desk radiated an aura of a brick wall. As someone with anxiety I’m highly keyed into the emotional states of people I’m talking to. To receive no feedback at all was my personal hell. After a perfunctory greeting he asked me with no inflection to sell him a pen.

I gathered the shreds of my courage and attempted the Herculean task he’d set me. Through my whole improvised spiel he resisted all attempts at engaging him, regarding me with a cold apathy as I touted the benefits of my fictitious pen.

Halfway through I broke into a cold sweat. My smile didn’t waver but it grew strained as I projected friendliness and warmth into the black hole of his heart. My thoughts scattered and my sales pitch grew redundant in the face of his nothingness. I finally concluded with a hard close and he simply nodded.

He glanced at my resume and commented, “You didn’t ask me to touch or hold it. Though I suppose I can understand from your previous line of work why you wouldn’t.” I shriveled and died inside knowing that I encouraged people to touch dildos all day long and had been too frazzled to offer him the pen.

He bid me a cool farewell. I made it to my car before I started sobbing. I had never been so rattled. I couldn’t understand what I’d done to make him so unfriendly or if my threadbare clothes were what had made him treat me like dirt. I drove an hour and a half to get home, weeping intermittently.

I was therefore taken by complete surprise to receive a call the next day inviting me on board for their five week training program. The first man who’d interviewed me gushed on the phone about how the second guy had loved me and that I was going to be fantastic.

I was in shock. When I showed up to training the second interviewer was charming my new classmates, beaming and laughing. He was an utterly different person. To my dismay I learned he was the trainer for my district and would be my point of contact if I made it through training.

He joked with me later that his interview facade was just a tactic to see how people held up under pressure and I filed him into a category of my deepest enmity. I never forgave him for how small he made me feel that day, but I never showed him the depths of my fury.

I aced every test and went on to be valedictorian of the eight people who had survived the rigorous training process to earn a sales position. When I got my first paycheck I bought myself new clothes, the first non-thrifted things I’d owned in years.

[crossingthedreams]

do better — gregory house x f!reader

a/n: I got a little carried away, per usual, and now I’m late with day 04 of the angstober challenge (still a wyp), but I plan on finishing it and posting later today. but, omg, I can’t believe I'm posting day 05 — do better on time! this is also part of @angstober‘s challenge, which I'm having a blast writing. I do love some angsty vibes. please, feel free to comment or dm me!

summary: a relationship between the boss and his employee has a million ways to go wrong. one, in particular, hurt them the most. 

word count: 2.2k

warnings: angst. House is an asshole. mentions of family death. mentions of cancer. struggles with immigration. inappropriate relationship. mentions of smut.

Let medicine be thy food. 

That's the quote, or at least you think it is. After a particularly long shift, words in English seemed to scramble together a bit, with it being your second language and all. Usually, you’re a natural, perfect, fluent speaker. There are moments, however, when understanding what your peers are saying or formulating cohesive sentences becomes a herculean task. You didn’t make yourself unintelligible, but it was a little awkward to be with a patient who clearly had no idea how globalized the world was and how many doctors in the United States were not native English speakers, and who looked at you like you had just robbed the white coat from a “proper doctor”.

Sure, dealing with people was shitty sometimes. “Doctors don’t treat people, they treat illnesses”, your boss had once said. But in your mind, people weren’t that bad. The long hours, the sleep deprivation, the lack of a social life — that was the really bad part. And there were, of course, the very short lunch breaks. 

Medicine was fun, but it had nothing on a full plate of pasta with those weird looking meatballs. What once was disgusting, now seemed appetizing as hell. Not eating once while working for the whole night could do that to a person. Medicine was not food, at least not literally.

You had taken off your sweater and your white coat a while before going to the cafeteria, where the rest of the team was. As of right now, you and Chase had spent thirty-six hours working. Cameron and Foreman had taken the long straws and gone home last night while you and the prettiest doctor around worked on some lab tests. 

That man who, right now, was not really trying to hide how he lustfully eyed you up and down, stopping on your cleavage. You didn’t blame him for looking, though. Firstly, you did spend the night working together and you mentioned that you did not have sex for the last six months, and secondly, you had nice boobs, which was both a blessing and a curse. Also, he was very much exhausted. Thinking about your coworkers in an unfashionable manner to keep awake was better than falling asleep atop of a patient during a lumbar puncture — you had done both, so you could tell, oops. 

“I’ll die if I have to do any more thinking”, the pretty doctor said, accent even more prominent, letting his head drop to the headrest of his seat behind him. 

“Yes, thinking just doesn’t come naturally to some people”, you laughingly replied, sitting down next to Foreman. He scooched over, making more room for you and your tray. There was enough pasta on your plate to feed two, not to mention the salad, the dessert, the can of Coke and the can of energy drink. 

“Damn, kid, do you not have food at home?” You eyed Foreman, a little annoyed at the comment. Why did men think they had the right to comment on women’s food choices and bodies all the damn time? “Don’t give me that look, you know that’s a lot, especially for a girl who skips lunch every other day”. 

“Not by choice” you said, taking a lot of pasta into your mouth. “Nof ba chos”, you replied, mouth full, making everyone at the table let out a tired laugh. 

It was an uneventful meal. The team was really tired, especially Chase, who almost dropped his head on his plate twice. The four of you rushed upstairs when lunch was over, after being paged by your boss. 

The man himself was pacing back and forth in the conference room, brows furrowed and looking extremely aggravated. Nothing new, then, you think, sitting down across from Cameron. 

Allison Cameron and you had been friends since med school, and getting to work together was pretty nice. Women in STEM need each other, of that you were sure. The thing is, she was in a weird place romantically, which made you feel weird about getting along with the people about whom she was confused — which hardly makes sense, but it is what it is. She had a crush on your boss for the longest time, and that didn’t work out at all. And then there was Chase, who she had slept with, but had no interest in further pursuing. 

Hanging out with Chase knowing he’d seen her naked was a little weird, but the fact they’d slept together wasn’t the problem. He liked her, and that was her problem. Your boss, well, he was everybody’s problem. 

Particularly yours, considering… you know. The one-night-that-became-every-night. The HR-nightmare. The doing-the-devil’s-tango. The seeing-each-other-scars. The kissing-and-absolutely-not-telling.

It was fairly easy sneaking around. He was inappropriate, sure, but not big on PDA. He treated you like any other dumbass employee with boobs. If anyone saw the two of you leaving the hospital together? You worked together. If you were seen going towards the same place? You’re neighbors, duh. And if anyone happened to see the two of you having breakfast together in the little café a block around his place? Well, it was a coincidence meeting him there! 

If they saw you giving him head while he tried to play the piano, well… There’s no explanation for that. 

You looked at him coming and going, and you knew his leg must be killing him. Yesterday when you left his home in the morning to pick up your stuff for the day (which turned out to be the day, the night and the next day), he was popping more pills than usual. Shit. 

“New case?”, Cameron asked, looking at the limping man with worry and care in her eyes. You liked her a lot, but she had to stop thinking about your limping man with such care. 

Sure, she liked him first. And she probably worried for him just as she would anyone else. And it was ridiculous to be annoyed at your long-time friend for caring for her boss. Still, there was a sting of jealousy that made you want to bitch-slap her. 

He finally stopped and looked at all of you. When his eyes finally met you, he looked right at your low cut top and let out a “Yowza!”. When you blushed and stood up to pick your white coat, he called your last name, and said, nonchalantly: “Nice boobs”. 

You raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of your nose as you sat down. It might seem like sexual harassment — and at first, it was a little bit —, but now it was just him being as inappropriate as always. Hiding from his feelings, keeping his distance with pathetic remarks and cold attitudes. It made you sad when you started working for him, but right now, you pinched your nose to stop you from giggling like a sixteen year old cheerleader being noticed by the boy on the football team. Or rather, the boy on the bench cursing at the stupid players.

Dr. Gregory House had a massive crush on you, and that made all the shit he did go away. 

You realized Chase started updating House on the patient you spent all night testing and monitoring. Truth is, that guy didn’t stand a chance for a normal life here on forward. At best, he had a benign hereditary chorea. Worst case scenario, it was Huntington manifesting earlier than it should, as you’d been saying from the beginning. 

“Shut up”, House said to Chase, making those blue Australian eyes widen. Poor guy, he looked beyond exhausted. “I understand how DNA testing works. I went to med school too, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was seven hundred years ago”, you let out before you could think twice. You teased House a little for being older. Scratch that, you gave him a lot of crap for being older. You just didn’t do it in front of the team, which was why they all looked at you horrified. 

Horrified, but Foreman was holding in a laugh.

The ‘old-man’ hit his cane on the desk, turning the attention back to him. “Ouch”.

You smiled, playing it off like a remark made by an exhausted overworked young woman who disliked her boss. House half-screamed some orders to all of you, even though he already knew you had clinic duty. 

The hours left to finish on the clinic were manageable, so you could finish it after you did some of the tests House asked.  

Time passed by too quickly, and as your day went by, you remembered you had to talk to Wilson as soon as possible. It wasn’t a life or death matter, but a peace of mind kind of thing. You decided to stop by his office before you It was then that you overheard something you shouldn’t have.

Well, that brought the high school memories right back. 

It was the middle of the afternoon, also known as the beginning of your third shift in a row, and you were stopping by Wilson’s office to discuss a private matter. A family member of yours had cancer, and then another one. By the time your fourth relative came down with the diagnosis, you decided to check your genetic predisposition. Although the tests came back clean, meaning you were safe for oncology purposes, you still wanted to know his opinion on how you could be even safer.

You looked cancer in the eyes many times. You didn’t want to look at it in the mirror too. 

For some godly reason, you stopped before knocking. That’s when you recognized your boss’s voice, complaining about something, per usual. 

“She’s a baby! She had never watched Grease, for crying out loud”, the voice and the footsteps made their sounds in harmony. You leaned in closer to the door, to try and listen better. 

“Well, you two barely know each other, now it’s the time to know if there’s a future in this relationship or not. And would you ever marry her?”, Wilson’s voice, and the words made you freeze. 

“Not everyone has marriage on the brain 24/7, Wilson”, House replied. Even from behind the door, you could almost hear the engines in his brain turning. “And God, no. I could never marry her. I can do better than a gullible third-world princess”.

You froze.

Of course he’d say that. Of course. Even if he didn’t mean it. 

The realization came like an electrical shock flowing through your body. You felt it, and it made the hairs on the nape of your neck rise. 

You meant nothing to him. 

As an immigrant, the feeling of never belonging is constant. You don’t belong in the place you now live, but you don’t really belong in the place you were born. 

You had felt for a fraction of a second that you could find your place here. In House's department. Perhaps, even with House. God, you were stupid. You were a device for him to finish his puzzles, and an object to finish… Well, to finish himself off. 

As you left your transe and heard the voices again, you ran as fast as you could back to the clinic, where you had a couple hours left to finish. There was something you needed to arrange with Cuddy, too. 

Hours later, you were in the department’s room reading some exams when House walked in. 

He eyed you up and down again, eyes lingering on your breasts a little longer than a boss’ eyes normally would. “So”, he took his bootle from his jacket and opened it, popping a couple of pills, “your place or mine?” 

“You suck”, you murmured, angrily, but pouting a little. He’d never admit it, but he loved seeing you a little aggravated, crossing your arms in front of your body in a way that made your already eye-catching torso irresistible. 

He smiled a little, putting the medicine back in his pocket. “No, sweetheart”, he now fully grinned, “that’s you.”

You rolled your eyes, but let your arms fall and a cold smile creeped into your face. 

“Yes, I do, actually”, you rose up from the chair and walked all the way towards him, hitting your hand towards his chest and pressing the paper you were holding against him. “I’m a full on sucker, and ass-kisser, as you like to point out. That’s why your so called mortal enemy offered me a job in New York”. 

He took the paper, blue eyes never leaving yours. 

“Consider this my two weeks notice”. It was hard to say, but it felt a little good, too. Logically, there were no downsides in this opportunity. Then, why did it hurt so much? “I guess everyone was right. I can do better”.

The double meaning was not lost on House. 

Your hand finally left his chest, and he didn’t look back as you left. 

Looking at it now, it all seems so simple. It never is, though, is it? Especially with House. And you, an intelligent, kind, talented and ambitious young woman, could definitely do better than attach yourself to a crippled, bitter, odious older man. 

You were doing better now. So, why, pray tell, why did this still hurt so much? 

[at-wicks-end]

in another life (you still would've turned my head) ; jw

vampire!john wick x reader fluff !! (lowkey a reincarnation au) ~2.5k words

notes: this fic is written for @treedaddymcpuffpuff for the keanuverse secret santa event hosted by @97keanu <333 i hope you like this!!! this is probably the longest thing i've written on this blog 😵‍💫 happy holidays🩷

John cares little for the snow. It’s not that he found it cumbersome or annoying; it’s just that when one has lived for as long as he has, shoveling the snow from the driveway becomes a little too tedious, even for one well-versed in tedious matters. Such was the nature of immortality—given enough time, even the most unique, spectacular experience becomes boring after a century. 

This task becomes herculean (or Sisyphean, John corrects himself) when said driveway was practically a third of the length of his entire estate, which was also in the middle of the woods. His eye twitches at the thought of the snow that would inevitably impede the driving of his beloved Mustang to the nearest town. With a heavy sigh, John casts one longing look at his car, as spotless and as pristine as the day he got it decades ago. He’ll wait for the winter to pass before he brings out his car for a drive. For now, he thinks reluctantly, he’ll walk. He has more than enough time anyway.

It doesn’t take long for him to get ready. All he does is put on his long coat and wrap a scarf around his neck before heading out. He has no need for it, but it’s easier to pretend to need it than to deal with the constant concerned looks from the townspeople as he walks around. It also helped him blend in with the rest of the people walking around, doing some last-minute gift shopping for loved ones at those ridiculously overpriced boutiques. John blows out the candles in the hallways as he walks to the foyer, running a mental checklist of the things he had to put out or turn off before leaving.

Dog—yes, Dog. Comments about his creativity are not welcome—approaches him with a wagging tail, the soft clicks of his claws on the hardwood floors reminding John that he had to trim them again soon. 

“Hello,” John says warmly, squatting down to pet Dog. “You can’t come with me tonight. I’ll be walking, and it’s too cold.”

Dog woofs once, as if to complain.  John chuckles to himself, ruffling his soft fur before straightening himself. “You’ll be fine. I’ve already fed you dinner, haven’t I? I’ll be back later.”

After one last brief round through the manor, John mildly regrets killing the last butler, if only so he had someone else to do the tedious tasks instead. But then again, the last butler turned out to be some vampire hunter wannabe who slipped silver oxide in his tea one night. That gave him quite the sore throat, John thinks bitterly, locking the doors behind him. The poor man was stupid enough to think that a little silver oxide would be able to take him down completely, and didn’t even bother to bring a weapon. Truthfully, it was a bit insulting.

John trudges through the snow, out of his estate and into the woods. It would take him half an hour to get to town, and by then it’ll be almost ten in the evening. The town and its warm lights strung through trees and lampposts will be winding down by then, shop lights shutting off one by one. All the better for him; the fewer humans around him, the safer it was. At almost three centuries of existence, John was already well-versed in resisting temptation, but it didn’t mean he was fond of placing himself in situations where he could potentially snap. 

Behind him, his manor fades into the darkness, looking abandoned and more dilapidated than it truly is. For a moment, John squints at one of the towers. Hm. he’ll have to take a look at the top window sometime soon; it looked to be on the verge of falling apart.

He walks through the forest in silence, with no other sound to accompany him other than the sound of crunching snow beneath his boots and the occasional birdsong. John allows his thoughts to wander, his mind flitting from events that had happened over a decade ago and wondering what he would do a week from now. The year was coming to an end, and Winston no doubt is itching to drag him to the Continental for the Winter Ball.

Yeah, right. John snorts. Invite a bunch of vampires to one place. Never ends well.

The previous year, the D’Antonio siblings caused quite a scene by bringing untrained, unmarked humans into the venue. The younger vamps could barely resist tearing the poor things apart. At the very least, it had provided enough entertainment for the rest of the evening, according to Koji, an old friend of his.

He should probably give him a call this Christmas if only to check in, John muses. And send over a gift for Akira. What does one give to a young vampling these days anyway?

He’s snapped from his reverie at the sound of grumbling. He freezes, straining his ears to understand what the voice is saying.

“...this is so stupid. Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? God. I’m gonna get eaten by wolves…”

There are no wolves in the area, John can attest to that, but this human seemed lost. And most certainly not a local, if they were out in the woods at night. He purses his lips, turning his head from the direction of the voice to the general direction of the town. He should be close by now, and the blood dealer was likely there already. John could just leave the unknown voice there to fend for themselves and potentially freeze in the dark. 

But what the hell, he thinks. It’s Christmas. This can be his good deed of the year.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he takes a sharp turn to the right and makes his way to the voice. His eyesight meant that the dark of night wasn’t truly dark to him, but he supposes that to a human, this was close to pitch black. It doesn’t take long for him to spot a figure huddled by the root of a tree in the dark, angrily poking at what looked to be their phone. Humans and their smartphones, John sighs internally.

“Hello,” he says slowly, not wanting to scare them. “Are you lost?”

The human flinches, looking up at him with wide eyes. Moonlight shines on their face just so, and John swears his undead heart would be pounding if it still could.

Oh, he thinks, breathless. It’s you.

You really shouldn’t have come here, you think mournfully. Your roommate brought you along with her for the holidays, feeling bad that you were going to be left in the apartment by yourself. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until you got to her hometown and she promptly dropped you off at the local inn and said goodbye for the week. After asking around for fun activities to do (that had nothing to do with the holidays, thank you very much), one of the younger locals suggested geocaching, now that quite a handful of people were developing an interest in it too. He told you to download an app that should explain things better, and you spent the better part of the afternoon looking things up.

This is supposed to be your third spot to check out, but the signal got worse somewhere along the way, and now your phone is dead too. Just your fucking luck. Somewhere, someone must be actively praying for your downfall because what do you mean you’re now stuck in the middle of the woods at night? You groan, angrily poking at the black screen of your phone when a voice calls out to you. 

“Hello. Are you lost?”

It’s a true testament to your strength, your bravery, your iron will, that you did not shit yourself at the sound of the voice. You look up at the tall stranger with wide eyes, noting that holy shit this man is gorgeous and you probably look like you’ve been crawling through all sorts of nooks and crannies all afternoon. Which you have been. So. 

“Hi,” you squeak. Okay. He doesn’t seem like an ax murderer, judging by his nice clothing…? Every bit of information you learned in those true crime podcasts you listen to has flown out of your brain, leaving you looking up at the stranger with your mouth parted.

The tall, dark, and handsome stranger looks at you for a moment before offering you a hand. “The town is that way,” he gestures somewhere to the left. “I’m… John.”

You mumble your name, taking his hand in a daze. Of course, you would meet an absolute Adonis on the worst day of your life (an exaggeration). You try not to swoon at his firm grip, or how he easily pulls you upright without so much as a sharp exhale. Whew. This is a man, you think dreamily, nothing like those slimy finance bros back in the city. Perhaps it’s your turn for a Hallmark movie romance. You, the city slicker with a hatred for the holidays, and this man, the local who’ll teach you the true meaning of Christmas. 

He repeats your name quietly, nodding. “I’m headed to town. We can walk together, if you want.” 

“I’d like that,” you respond, feeling breathless all of a sudden. Get ahold of yourself, you think desperately. You can’t fold for the first hot man that you see in the woods!

Your dreams of a budding romance, are crushed, however, when no further words are exchanged. Stealing glances at John’s (very handsome) side profile does nothing for your flushed cheeks, and his shy smile whenever he catches you staring makes you melt internally. The distant lights of the town coming into view make your heart sink. 

He appears to take pity for your plight and breaks the silence first. “Are you only visiting here?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. You swallow thickly, trying to play off your embarrassment. “I mean, yeah, My roommate just brought me along, so…”

“I see.” He nods. “How are you liking this place so far?”

“It’s like a Christmas village,” you say with disdain. The corners of John’s lips quirk up.

“I’m hearing some distaste in your tone.” He notes, amusement in his voice.

You scrunch your nose. “I don’t like Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“I just don’t like it,” you shrug. “You?”

John pauses, thinking for a moment. “I don’t mind it. I don’t think too much of it.”

“Pretty hard to do when it’s so… in your face,” you quip. 

“I’m good at focusing on what truly matters,” he says coolly, his gaze suddenly serious. Your cheeks feel hot again. 

“Oh. That’s nice.” You mumble, looking away, feeling strangely flustered. Are all handsome men just way too intense for their own good? “Are you a, uh, local?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, tilting his head towards you with a small smirk. “A local of the Christmas village.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” You laugh, caught off guard by his sudden teasing. “It’s just not for me, I’m sorry!”

He laughs with you, his deep voice almost melting into the cold winter breeze. Something inside you feels warm at the sight of his smile, and it’s not just because you think this man is hot. He doesn’t feel like a stranger, you think curiously. He feels strangely familiar, as if you’ve known the sound of his laughter for years. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that’s begging you to take his hand, to savor the warmth of his skin against yours and⁠—

“We’re almost there,” he states, looking straight ahead.

Oh. Right.

“Thanks,” you say softly, looking at him. “For helping me back there.”

John only shrugs, his features warmed by the light from the lamppost just straight ahead. “I have a knack for helping strays.” He smiles as if joking. “And I think you’ll find that you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. “‘Cause I met you, is that it?”

He gives you that smile again, as if he knows something you don’t. As if you should know what he’s talking about too. It should unnerve you, but it doesn’t. “Something like that.” 

The two of you eventually stop walking just in front of the stall selling mulled wine. “Well, this is me,” you say reluctantly. As charmed as you are by this man, you’ve retained enough of your common sense to not reveal just where exactly you’re staying for now. (If he wants to come up to your room for  a late night something, well… maybe you’re not totally against the idea.) “I’m gonna go walk around before I turn in for the night. You?”

“I’m meeting an acquaintance,” he replies, putting his hands in his pockets. Strange. He isn’t wearing gloves. 

“Good night, John.” You smile, reluctant to leave his side for some godforsaken reason. “I’ll see you around?”

“You will see me around the Christmas village, yes,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good night, solnishko.”

Little sun. 

How do you know that?

You wave goodbye, dazed, watching as he disappears into the crowd. Your chest aches at the sight of him leaving, but you ignore it, deciding it’s time to turn in for the night after all. It’s been a long day of gallivanting, and getting lost in the woods did no favors for your poor feet. Sighing softly, you imagine the relief of finally taking off these godforsaken boots and warming up by the fire. You’re gonna sleep so good tonight.

Giving one last longing look in the direction John went, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever see him again. It’s just because he’s hot, you tell yourself. Yes, that’s just it. Nothing to do with how his voice makes your stomach do somersaults. 

(You will see him again, one way or another. Like John said, you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time, even when you don’t remember him. John only allowed the night to slip from his grasp knowing that the universe will inevitably bring you back to him, as it has many times before.)

(As it will continue to do so, for as long as your soul remembers him even when your mind does not. For now, John is determined to make you fall in love with him all over again until you have to leave.) 

John watches you walk to the local inn from afar, hidden in the shadows. So you hate Christmas this time, he chuckles to himself. That’s alright. So long as you still like him, he can make it work.

He’ll make it work.

post-fic yap: there we go!! i have never actually experienced snow in my life so i'm sorry if it's not super accurate :')) i really wanted to add some more stuff but my health has been in the dumps so i just did my best🥲 again, happy holidays! i hope i did your prompt justice🥹

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

Honey, This Club Here Is Stuck Up - Hozier x Fem!Reader

Summary: In the midst of a particularly boring party, Andrew finds a way to entertain the two of you.

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Tags: established relationship, vaginal fingering, teasing, light praise, delay of orgasm, author has never written smut before, improper use of a jacket (God I hope that's not a thing)

Word Count: 4002

Author's Note: she's back! this was actually a request from that the ever-so-lovely @deprivedmusicaljunkie sent to me personally. bea, thank you for helping me get back into the swing of things! i really hope you enjoy this. this is also a venture into less than holy territory, if that makes you uncomfortable turn back now! you've been warned. if you're still here, enjoy, you filthy animal.

my requests are still open! if you enjoy this fic, feel free to drop a request in my asks!

fic under the cut <3

For a famous person, Andrew was a lot more introverted than most would expect. It wasn't uncommon that his social battery ran out halfway through an after-party and he came up with some excuse on the fly to leave. You had been the only girl he’d dated that actually encouraged this behavior, telling him that he could take his space if he needed to, that social events could be draining and he had every right to leave — or sometimes, not even attend — if he felt uncomfortable.

That was your mentality for most nights. Tonight happened to be the exception. He had been invited to some party hosted by his record label, and because last time he stayed for about fifteen minutes before pulling an Irish goodbye, his attendance was absolutely mandatory. You understood this, and knew it was your job to keep the resistant Andy in check

And so, you found yourself reminded that no matter how much you may love your boyfriend, God, could he be impatient. And apparently, he also didn't know how to wear a bow tie. Using the extra height your high heels gave you, you were able to reach up to him and adjust his tie as you spoke to him.

“Andy, we have to go! It's professional. Do you want your label to be even more on your ass than they already are?”

He shook his head.

“No… I guess not,” he murmured in defeat, and the pride that came from convincing him was unmatched. Andy was stubborn enough to not let you have your moment for too long, soon whispering a contradiction down at you.

“Hypothetically, what if instead of attending this snoozefest, we stayed home and had a nice night, just the two of us?”

The way he was looking at you, like you were the only person in the world he ever wanted to be in the company of, made saying no to him a Herculean task, but it needed to be done. You sighed.

“You know I want nothing more than that. But since a certain someone has a nasty habit of leaving parties early, we have to stay the whole way through.” You finished straightening his bow tie, resting your hands on his chest. You placed a kiss on his cheek, leaving a peck in the stubble on his face. Your hand reached up and cupped the side of his face, and he looked down at you with something unmistakable: adoration.

“Try to suck it up for tonight, okay?”

He flashed a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down at you.

“I’ll try. No promises, though.”

“You know what? I’ll take it.”

God, this party was boring.

You stuck by Andrew's side, as you knew virtually no one at the function but a friend of a friend named Lena, and watched as he cycled through the same few answers for the questions he was asked during small talk. Yes, he was working on a new album. No, he didn't know when it would be released yet. Maybe he would top the charts again, he wasn't sure, and that was never his intention anyways. After a few monotonous conversations, his mouth began to twitch, and you could tell he was physically restraining himself from rolling his eyes each time a record exec asked if he “knew Too Sweet would be a hit”.

You didn't want to admit it, but you had also quickly become bored with the whole ordeal. You were annoyed on his behalf by all the questions, and even more agitated that almost every attempt at entering a conversation was hit down by whoever Andy was talking to. He tried his best to insert you into the conversation as well, but as the industry tends to do, your voice in any matter was glossed over. It had been about five or six versions of the same conversation before Andy pulled you to the side, both of you leaning against a wall in an attempt to have a little privacy.

“How much longer did you say we had to be here for? An hour?” The annoyance at the situation was evident in his tone.

“We have to be here until it's over. Which is only another,” you pulled out your phone to glance at the time before looking back up at him, “Oh, god we have another three hours.”

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “Does time just drag on when you're bored out of your mind?”

You chuckled at his words, nodding as well. You were sure the party was at least halfway through, and finding out it had only been an hour since you arrived caused it to really set in that you were going to be there for another. Three. Hours.

“Listen, I’m not exactly having a blast either, but we'll make it work.”

He jutted a thumb over ta sign on your right; written in almost obnoxiously big and bright letters were the words OPEN BAR. It's like they knew drinking would be the only way to make the party tolerable.

“Can I at least have a drink? Or two. Or three. Depends on how many more people ask if I got that ride to church or not.”

“Sure. It wouldn't be right for me to keep hostage and deprive you of alcohol.”

From there on, you went your separate ways for a bit. While you attempted to fraternize with Lena, Andy lingered by the bar. You made your small talk, conversing about the weather or the newest celebrity gossip. It got to the point where you had actually become invested in your and Lena’s conversation. You were just about to find out which supposedly “taken” celebrity had just been caught lurking on Raya when you felt a hand on your shoulder. Before you had even fully processed it was Andrew, you looked up at him, a smile slowly growing on your face.

From across the room, Andrew watched as you were, almost absentmindedly, making conversation while he nursed his drink. After all, you were making Andrew's job of keeping his composure much harder than it needed to be. The outfit you had selected wasn't intended to tempt him, but he couldn't pull his eyes from you if he tried. It was nice enough that it could remain innocuous, and the kind of sexy that left you respected more than stared at — a deep red dress, with satin that hugged your body in the right places, ending just at the middle of your thighs.

It may have been the alcohol flowing through his system, or the fact that you looked absolutely ravishing, but he was finding it harder and harder to control himself.

He could only bring himself to take a few sips — he would be driving you both home, after all — but that was enough to embolden him to hop off the stool he was sitting on and walk to you, placing his hand on your shoulder to grab your attention.

“Y/N? Could I steal you for a moment, darling?”

You nodded, turning back to Lena and excusing yourself from the conversation. His fingers intertwined with yours, and he pulled you away from the main room of the venue and into the hallway. The music was loud enough that even though it was muffled behind the wall, you could hear the beat. You let him take you through the twists and turns of the hallways. You turned to look at him, still lightly jogging by his side.

“Is everything alright?”

“I’ll explain in a moment, just… come with me.”

You couldn't help but laugh at the pure confusion that had taken over you, giggling as you passed by waitstaff with equally confused expressions. He only came to a stop once you reached a bland, wooden door, one you hadn't even noticed was in the venue. Either he was much more aware of his surroundings or very desperate. Before you could put the pieces together, he opened the door and dragged you inside. From what you caught before the door closed and shut out any remnants of light with it, there were coats hanging next to you, including a fur coat you swore you just saw on an up-and-coming pop star wear.

Andrew had trapped you both in a coat closet, among the jackets of the rich and famous and with so little light you could barely see the man in front of you.

“Andy, what the hell are you-”

Your question was cut off by his lips on yours, going in for a kiss that was short, but you could sense the desire looming behind it. The sensation took over your decision making as you kissed him, but after stepping back and bumping into a coat hanger, you came to your senses, and pulled away.

“Really? Right now, we're doing this?”

“What better way to entertain ourselves? You said yourself that you’re just as miserable as I am.”

“I know, I know. But-”

“Listen. I’ve shown my face. People know that I’m present. If we leave and come back, what's the difference between this and taking a smoke break?”

“How long is a smoke break?”

“Six-ish minutes?”

“You're really going to keep me in here for six minutes?”

“You’d be surprised how much I can do with so little time.”

You paused, thinking over all the possibilities, and attempting to make out his silhouette in the dark as you did so. Your gaze trailed up to approximately where is lips were.

“Alright. But if we get caught, I’m not taking the blame,” you complied.

“Trust me, we won't get caught.”

He leaned back in again, kissing you with such a force that you stumbled back, hitting the wall of the confined space. Impatient would best describe how he kissed you; it was full of a longing that must have been bubbling inside of him since you left the house. He was also physically impatient, slipping his tongue across your bottom lip to ask for permission only a few seconds after your lips met. It had become a reflex for you to open your mouth after that, and you did so, letting his tongue sneak inside and interlock with yours. One hand of his cradled the side of your face; the other found its place right between your thighs, slightly splitting them apart in the process. It was only at this moment that he dared to pull away. With each pant he exhaled , hot air fanned your face.

“What's really been making this night so hard for me,” he started to explain, his hand trailing up your inner thigh, “is that this entire time I’ve been bored out of my mind, while you have been looking so gorgeous.” His hand had been made cold by whatever drink on the rocks he had before pulling you aside, only magnifying the shivers he was sending down your spine. His other hand trailed down from your face, dragging past your neck and your collarbone before resting on your breast, the fabric of your dress thin enough that he was still able to play with your now hardened nipple.

Meanwhile the hand on your thigh moved higher and higher, Andrew tauntingly taking his time before he reached exactly where you wanted him to be. He pulled your panties down and to the side for access, dragging a digit through your folds.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You're already so wet for me.”

His index finger landed on your clit, slowly moving in small circles. A sound of pleasure — one you had no control over — left your lips, his teasing sending a wave of arousal through you. His right hand, which had just been pinching and playing with your breast, flew upwards to cover your mouth. You couldn't care less that the noise escaped you; you were smiling beneath his hand. When Andrew spoke, however, he sounded less than happy.

“If we're going to do this, you'll have to be quiet for me, alright?”

He pulled his hand from your mouth so you could reply. You looked up at him (or where you assumed he was) with a laugh of disbelief.

“Won't the music drown me out?”

“Not with how loud I’ll be making you scream.”

“Oh, you cocky bas-” Cut off again, now from the shock of feeling Andy’s index finger enter you, you gasped sharply. As if to comply with his instructions, you covered your mouth. There were still sounds of pleasure exiting you, muffled by your hand. Andy only took these as encouragement, increasing his speed as his calloused finger slipped in and out of you. Unfortunately, he was right; the volume of the noises you were making was sinfully loud. Had your hand not been preventing you from getting louder, there was no doubt someone would have heard. Inside you, his finger curled, hitting the exact spot where you needed it to be.

“You're so beautiful when you're like this, you know that? Absolutely fucking gorgeous, no matter how you take me,” he whispered. You knew the compliment held even more merit because he couldn't see you; even in the dark he knew that the vision of you coming apart because of him would be a sight to behold. You attempted a reply: a hum, a nod, maybe even a murmur. Every try proved futile, because soon after his praise he began to place his middle finger inside you as well. The feeling of both of his long, slender fingers pulsing in and out, hitting the exact spot that sent you reeling with pleasure.

That familiar feeling continued to build up in your core, a warmth incomparable to any other, all caused just by the man’s fingers, for God’s sake. It almost angered you how fantastic he was at it, how it only had been an estimated five minutes and he had you under his control like you were putty in his hands. He hooked his fingers to hit that spot again, eliciting another wanton moan from you, and causing your breathing to shorten into quick pants. You were finally able to mutter something, though it was more a confession than anything else.

“Fuck, I’m close, Andy. So close.”

He took that word as gospel, continuing in just the right way that you could feel your climax on the horizon. And just as you were about to reach your peak, to finally feel that release that had built up so perfectly—

He stopped. What an asshole.

“Is that so?”

You hummed with disappointment, feeling his fingers slowly leave you.

“From here on out, you have two options,” he began to explain, his voice at a whisper. He took his time with each word. They were slow. Deliberate. The mere action of his lips being so close to your ear managed to give you goosebumps. “Either we stay until the end of the party, and you remain unsatisfied,” he let the offer hang in the air for a moment. In the meantime, he tilted his head down to nip at your earlobe.

“Or?” Your voice quivered as you asked. He delayed the end of his sentence, letting his mouth trail downward to the soft skin of your neck. Another whisper left him, finally finishing the second half of his offer.

“Or we leave now, and I make you come so hard you'll be seeing stars for days.”

He drove a hard bargain. You weren't proud of how desperate you had become, but it was hard not to melt from Andrew’s actions. It took you only a few seconds to make your decision, your previously strong resolve crumbling under his manipulation.

“…I suppose I could tell Lena I’m not feeling well.”

You felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin, the only way you could tell he was content with your answer.

“There we go. Let's get outta here, eh?”

You managed to nod, quickly pulling down your dress and fixing yourself to become presentable again. Andrew had the easy job of merely opening the closet door. You stepped out with shaky legs, holding on to his arm, forming your excuse in your head. After walking out and past all the locations you had just ran by, you found Lena, the only other person at the party you moderately cared about. Andrew stood behind you as you tapped her on the shoulder, interrupting her mid-questionable-dance-move. She turned around and inspected you quickly, glancing up and down.

“Y/N, you alright? You look a little… flushed.”

Behind you, Andrew muttered under his breath: “Yeah, I wonder why.” Your neck snapped up at him, being met with a shit-eating grin on his face. You gave him a light, chastising slap on his forearm before explaining to Lena that you actually were a bit flushed, and that you felt you needed to go home. Not a lie, just withholding the real truth. She still gave you both a hug goodbye, wishing that you felt better before sending you off on your way.

You were lucky enough to live so close that you could drive home — or, more accurately, Andrew drove home and you got to be the passenger princess. He kept a steady hand on your thigh as he drove, occasionally inching closer and closer to where you needed him, but being as cheeky as he was, he always pulled away just before he reached that point. This cycled for about twenty minutes, each time only frustrating you more.

You almost felt a relief wash over you as he pulled into the driveway, knowing every second was one second closer to you finally feeling that release you craved. You had become impatient. Oh, how the tables had turned.

Andrew parked the car, turning the ignition off and, much to your dismay, removing his hand from your thigh. He nodded his head outward, opening the car door on his side.

“Come on, let's get in the house.”

“No.”

You hadn't even processed you’d said anything until you saw the look on Andrew’s face. He knitted his brows, the mischievous smirk he previously had on his face fading.

“I’m sorry, my love, but I’m a bit confused.”

“No. I don't think I can wait any longer.” You gave him pleading eyes as you spoke. As if to prove your point, you reached down and rubbed at your clit through the fabric of your panties, trying to get any satisfaction that you could in the moment. You watched Andrew's eyes widen with lust at the motion, getting the message you were trying to convey. He nodded slowly.

“I think I’ve got an old jacket in the back. Give me a minute, and don't you dare stop.”

He opened the car door and sprinted — which surprised you, considering you had never seen him run before this— to open the trunk of the car. He rummaged around, eventually finding the jacket, which had been tattered and unused for a while. Now, it would be put to good use.

Slamming the door of the driver's seat closed as he sat down, he handed you the jacket, and you momentarily stopped pleasuring yourself to lay it underneath your hips, covering the car seat. He rolled up his sleeves as you did so, preparing for what was to come. You spread your legs open and lifted up the fabric of your dress, giving Andrew the access he had wanted since he first pulled you into that coat closet.

Immediately, he resumed from where you left off, pulling down your panties with such a force that he was close to ripping them off completely. One you were exposed, his two fingers thrust into you again and pumped in and out. You clenched around him as he did so, even bucking your hips upwards at the feeling. Perhaps it was the added layer of desperation that had happened between the coat closet and now, but it felt like his every movement, every small thing he did, was magnified.

He kept in perfect time with the pulse that had grown in you, knowing just when to push in and out, how to hit that one spot that made you feel almost dizzy with arousal. The knot in your stomach was building up once again, and the best part of it all was that you could now be as loud as you wanted, a fact you were sure to take advantage of.

“Fuck, baby!” You exclaimed, beginning to fall apart from his motions inside you. Upon hearing your cry, Andrew started to rub at your clit with his thumb, as if the main source of pleasure you were experiencing wasn't enough for him. The way he was working on you with his hands was enough to bring you to this point, something no other man had been able to do for you before. His pace became rapid, wanting to gave you pleasure as soon has he could. You had been so patient for him, after all.

“God, I’m close, I’m so fucking close-”

Cut off one last time, now by your own shout of pleasure as his fingers send you over the edge. This time, when he finally let you savor the pleasure you had been longing for, you relished in the feeling of your release. Your juices flowed out onto both Andy’s hand and the poor piece of fabric that was placed beneath you for impromptu cleanup. You rode out your high for a few more pumps of his fingers, until you found the strength to open your eyes again. His fingers slowly left you, and he brought them up to his mouth instead, licking them clean. The sight was close to hypnotic.

Once he had cleaned himself up, he took to caring to you: removing the jacket beneath you, whispering praise of how you had been so good for him, and giving you a chaste kiss on the lips before stepping out to retrieve you from the passenger seat. He opened the door to find you looking oddly apologetic.

“How are you, baby?” He asked.

“Andy, I’m sorry, but after that… I’m spent.”

“You have no reason to apologize, my dear. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Are you sure you don't want anything? I almost feel bad, I don't want you to feel like you got nothing out of this.”

“Knowing I was able to bring you pleasure is all I need. That knowledge gives me more satisfaction than you’ll ever know.”

You couldn't believe that even though you’d been together for so long, he was still able to give you butterflies in your stomach. He extended a hand, the image of seeing him so formal making him look like a prince in a Disney movie.

“Let's get inside.”

You nodded, unable to wipe the almost stupid grin on your face. Taking his hand, you carefully stepped out of the passenger seat, using Andy’s arm for support as you walked.

“Just for future reference,” you , said looking up at him, “next time you pull me into an enclosed space on the fly, can you make sure it's empty? We probably traumatized about a dozen jackets today.”

He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, the kind that gave you a sense of pride to be able to make him feel joy like that. That small moment alone was worth more than the rest of the night put together.

“I love you, you know that?” Your voice was soft, and you looked up at him with the same admiration in your eyes that he had looked at you with just a few hours ago.

“I do. You’re pretty cool, too, I guess,” he replied teasingly. You both burst out into laughter, a fit of giggles that lasted all the way up to your doorstep. You stopped when you reached your front door, Andy leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips before finally giving you a genuine reply.

"I love you, too."

[bambisnc]

     i guess the time has come [ft. p.hn]

-> recap : “hanniii,” iroha says, throwing an arm around your best friend’s shoulder, “i can’t believe you left your ~girlfriend~ moka here all alone… she’s been pining after you for ages now~.” you quietly slip out before you can hear her response.

GENRE : angst wbk uwu TW/CW : girl idk i tried to make it sad WC : 0.6k (chat did u notice how the no. of words keeps decreasing ...) XOXO : 🤷🤷+ [series m.list]

it’s raining. 

it’s raining and you’re still in school long after the bell signaling the end of the day; embroiled in the committee plans for the upcoming school festival. 

it’s raining when you see hanni’s lone figure walking back through the school gates. she doesn’t see you though, her eyes too busy focusing on her phone screen. 

a minute later, you hear a familiar notification from your own phone.

● hanniiee (cutest bestest most perfect bff) :3 😏 guess who’s at school rn … 

● you well. me

● hanniiee (cutest bestest most perfect bff) :3 WHAT WHERE WHY 

● you  dumbass look up

her head swoops up, and you swear you could almost count the stars upon stars in her eyes which look around in search of you.

you wave to catch her attention.

and when she waves back, for a second it’s just the two of you in the entire world.

hanni races over to meet you and you almost want to scold her because the ground is already wet – what if she slips or something? but somehow the sight of her eagerness is enough to quell all the other feelings bubbling inside you. 

“yn~? jesus did you zone out on me?” hanni teasingly asks. 

you shake your head, “i wouldn’t dare.” 

“mwah <3 that’s more like it. hey so why are you in school so late anyway?” 

before you reply, you take a moment to look at your best friend. hanni shakes the umbrella slightly to rid it of the water. 

when she looks up, she doesn’t meet your eyes. she’s looking at someone else. 

“ah-! moka, there you are! i can’t believe you’d make me come all the way here just to get you an umbrella.” 

you don’t turn around. 

“pft. why? am i not allowed to disturb the ever-too-busy-for-me pham hanni for a teeny-tiny little favor?~” 

hanni walks behind you, shoulder brushing yours ever so slightly. her clear laugh is what finally propels you to turn around and stop staring at the blank wall in front of you.

“well~ i might make an exception for you. just because you’re a cutie <3”

“my my, such an honor isn’t it? oh right! i wanted to ask your opinions on the dance my club members and i were preparing for the festival!!”

“oooh dance~? yeah you did mention that earlier … ”

?..

she and hanni go on talking about something; you’d be damned if anything actually registered in your brain. you can’t really bring yourself to interrupt them either.

but anymore of this,... you don’t think you’ll be able to handle.

“hi moka..! um also hanni my work’s already done so i’ll be leaving now-” it’s genuinely nothing less than a herculean task for you to be able to layer your words with a thick coating of nonchalance. 

it’s all you can do to act normal. at least for now. 

at least in front of her.

“already?” hanni whines, “aw can’t you stay longer? what’ll i do here without you :( ~” 

you’d do anything for her. 

“i really can’t,” you smile, “moka.. you’ll keep hanni company though, yeah?”

she looks shocked to hear you say her name. to be fair, you are too. 

“yeah i’ll- i’ll be here.”

hanni, bless her heart, immediately offers you her umbrella, “here-! take this, it’s still pouring out there.” the same umbrella which she had come all the way here to give to moka. 

“wouldn't you two need it though?” you ask.

“no.” her hand is looped through moka’s. you don’t remember since when they were standing like that. 

since when they even became a concept. 

(you know you’re overreacting but wasn’t it supposed to be the two of you against the world?)

“i think we’ll manage without, it’s fine really.” 

hanni’s smile bids you farewell.

you leave the umbrella right by the gate where hanni’s bag was kept. you couldn’t take it and leave the 2 of them umbrella-less in good conscience. 

you also can’t help thinking of another universe.. one in which she’d run after you, through the rain. like a scene from the one of those cheesy rom coms you used to binge all the time.

… looking up at the grey sky, you’re almost grateful for the rain and how it streams down your face.

𐙚 . regulars : none yet! ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k24

[sierracolorstheworldofwords]

The Witch

Sailing across a silent sky, the white barn owl perched in an old tree. He stuck out amongst the dead, withered leaves as he watched you stare at your window. Your jaw clenched at the sight of him, before your eyes traveled towards the wilting rose bush. The owl let out a recognizable call, yet you did not open the door as you usually would have. 

Instead, you turned away and placed a kettle on the stove. Usually, you would have used magic for such a menial task, but there was something comforting about the familiar hiss of flames. 

Autumn was dying, and winter crawled forward, yet you stood here to watch water boil. Steam rose from the gooseneck, and you heard the bubbles hissing inside despite your age. 

Why did you stand here, when there was so much to do yet not enough time? 

The back door slammed open, and a lilith blond stood glaring at you, white feathers scattered in his hair. 

“You saw me, wicked witch! Why did you not answer?” 

You looked towards the window and watched a petal fall like a drop of blood. 

“The roses are dying,” you replied.

“What in labyrinth’s name do your stupid flowers have to do with manners? Now, in order to atone for the grief you’ve caused, I demand you to make a love potion at once!” 

He used to be yours, once. It was when you were both younglings who didn’t know of rules– he chased you through snow coated woods, and you braided flowers into his hair. Then, magic was free. It was east to concoct love potions for whatever beauty he came to obsess over, or to make tonics for goblins and send black cats across the labyrinth for luck. Now? Oh, now. 

Now, he didn’t even ask how you were doing. 

How could you have been so foolish? 

How could you still be? 

“The roses are dying,” you repeated, “They’ll be gone before the end of autumn.” He rolled his eyes, “You cannot deny me– you’ve made such things before!” “Do you think the goblins will be alright when I’m gone?” “Gone?! Where the bloody hell are you going? You’re not stepping a foot outside of this house until I get a love potion!” 

Your lips quivered. The kettle on the stove began to shriek, and you took it off.

 It all made sense, now– why getting up most days was a herculean task, or why even simple things, such as turning a nose green, took so much energy. Why hadn’t you seen it? Had you been too vain? Or, rather, were your actions finally coming back to you? Was love killing you? 

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Love? Love that drove you to welcome him to your door even when he bared his teeth, love that drove you to harvest the bleeding hearts of nightingales underneath the full moon and now, here it lay, here it lay, with nothing but this in return. 

“You know,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, “You used to ask how I was doing.” 

“I haven’t asked you that in ages– I thought we were beyond such questions! But, I will indulge you–” 

“Forget it.” “You witches and your queer eccentricities!” he exclaimed, “Is that why you work with us? Is that why you keep welcoming my company?” 

It was love that drove you to spill your secret about the roses. Yet, he didn’t even remember. He didn’t even care.

You set down the kettle. 

“Get out.” 

“What?” You snapped towards him, “I need to get busy! I have to prepare for winter! I don’t have time for foolish love potions! Do you know what must be done? I must call my apprentice and give her my cottage. Ingredients for pie and jam and cookies need to be prepped and– I’ve wasted enough time on you and your foolish whims on another beauty!” 

You took a deep breath, only for the air in your throat to catch. Your lungs squeezed as you coughed. Your throat burned as if you breathed in smoke. Something lodged in your windpipe, thick and viscous, but you forced it down as you pushed him towards the door. 

“Come back in three days, you foolish king!” you wheezed, slamming the door behind him. 

From your lips, blood dripped onto the floor. 

The Goblin King always found it wise to listen to your advice. It was one of the reasons he let you know his name, afterall. Though, he couldn’t quite remember the last time you called it, nor, now that he thought of it, the last time he called yours.

He scoffed, and settled onto his perch, awaiting invitation. 

Usually, you opened the window for him, save for his last visit. Which was a very strange one, but you were a witch. So, he could excuse such things. Around him, dusk settled like a long thick blanket and leaves scattered in unseen breezes as black cats passed by with knowing, glowing eyes. He peered into your lit window, and you hovered above a cauldron on the stove. As always, bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and knick-knacks covered the cabinets and shelves. At the round, wooden table, a woman sobbed. 

You turned to yell at her. 

He tilted his head. 

You always comforted him when he cried. So, why on earth would you yell at your beloved apprentice? Well, you never did what you were supposed to: leaving iron near the entrances, or turning your clothes inside out, and all the ridiculous things mortals did. 

With an irritated screech, he flew to the door and opened it. 

“Have you heard of knocking?!” you snapped. 

“I couldn’t knock when you were berating a sobbing girl!” 

“Oh yes you could! You just chose not to!” you turned towards the pink haired woman and slammed your finger onto the piece of paper on the table, “You are going to sign that, do you hear me? I have to get it notarized! The roses are dying, child!” “But–” the woman whimpered, “you can’t go–” 

“What of my love potion?” Jareth asked. 

“I’ll brew you one when I’m dead!” 

The woman went silent. Her lips quivered. 

Then, she began to wail. 

You sent her a glare. 

“I’m not dead yet! Now stop that crying or I’ll come back to haunt you and I’ll tell you one thing– my teacher did that to me and it was hell!” 

The woman hiccuped and nodded, grabbing an old pen and signing her name. You grabbed a basket from the counter and pushed it into his hands. In it, lay glass bottles of various sizes. He rolled his eyes. Of course you brewed tonics.

“I asked for a love potion–” he began. 

“You wouldn’t know what love was if it hit you like an iron skillet! Come back in three days! After that– well, come back if you want to see me.” 

You glanced at the basket in his hands, and a strange look came over your eyes. Why did he wish to ask what was wrong? When was the last time he comforted you, his oldest and dearest friend? 

“Come back for conversation, for old time’s sake,” you whispered.

When was the last time he’d done that? He scoffed, rolling his eyes. He didn’t care, even as your hands, bony and frail, lingered over his gloved fingers. He didn’t care, even as he looked at your eyes, and noticed the deep crows feet there, and the gauntness of your cheeks. You pulled away with a sigh. 

“I have so much to do! Now, off with you, Goblin King! Come back in three days! I’ll have cookies for the goblins next time, and tell them to visit, while they can, and to not bother this house when I am gone.” 

He nodded and left, as silent as a ghost. 

Time was hard to keep track of, but he always managed with you. Dried, decaying rose petals surrounded him. 

You told him something about them once, when you were both young. His eyebrows furrowed. What was it? Walking through the leaf strewn garden, he went to your backdoor once more, and squinted through the tinted glass. Weren’t you going to let him in? Did he have to open the door himself? Honestly, what a terrible host you were, making him wait! Why, you were right there, leaning against the sink and staring at the rose bush as if he weren’t waiting! 

It was oddly silent. Your shoulders shook. You retched. 

Gagging, you clawed at your throat as a large lump made its way upwards. Sickening gasps left you as you choked and began to wheeze. 

“Witch?” 

A ragged gasp strangled its way free and you turned to him with glassy, frantic eyes. The lump traveled past your lips and landed in the sink. He stepped closer. Across the kitchen counter, reddish chunks dried up. Coagulated, decaying sludge dripped past your lips, and upon closer examination, he realized you coughed up a mass of dying rose petals. 

“Witch?” he asked again, like a scared babe, “Are you alright?” 

Whimpering, you wiped your lips. Blood smeared across your face. His heart pounded. There was so much. Too much. What happened? Why did you not answer? Were you not the one he once shared secrets with and once he whispered lullabies to when you couldn’t sleep? 

Once, once, he did those things. 

Quietly, you grabbed the basket from the counter and handed it to him, speaking in a raspy voice, “That’s for the goblins, there’s enough in there for a decade. I couldn’t do more. I have so much to do before I go.” 

He couldn’t look at you– his gaze wandered to the windowsill, where the plants you usually kept there lay. Instead, there were pots filled with rotten leaves. He turned towards the crystals he’d given you when he was just a foolish prince, and he turned towards the pots and pans that were far older than you both, and he lingered on the cauldron where you made him a love potion for the first time. You both fought when it didn’t work. 

Once, before that, he would’ve come in to ask how you were doing. Or for cookies. You always made those. You, just like your tacky kitchen, barely changed. 

“Wh–” he cleared the lump in his throat, “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going? You can’t go anywhere! I forbid it!” 

You glared at him, “Look at the roses, nitwit! You ungrateful, spoiled little–” you coughed, and sputtered up a stream of crimson blood. 

There was so much blood. Blood, dripping from your lips and onto the sink. Blood, staining your fingers and the counter. Clumps of petals flew from your mouth as you tried to breathe. He clutched the basket in his shaking hands. 

Once, he would’ve come in to just hear you talk. Or, to just bask in your company. Now, he only came for silly requests– cures, and ailments, but every time he swore he’d just stop in to just hear your voice, to just ask how you were. It wasn’t his fault you were– he threw the basket on the counter and ran towards the door, taking flight into the cold autumn night. 

You watched him go, and the sounds of your cries followed him. 

Usually, he was aware of time. He kept track of it. It was necessary. How else would he best humans at their games, or go to you? How else would he twist and turn it to his will? 

So, this gaunt, twig-like creature could not be you. It did not have your hair, nor your eyes, or even your smile. It didn’t know the woman next to it, bawling silently. The creature turned towards him, and its lips pulled up in the way yours always did. It’s why he befriended you, you know, that smile. You always smiled when he came. He let out a nose when you pointed towards the window and beckoned him inside. 

You couldn’t really be dying, could you?

This couldn’t be the last time you’d invite him inside, would it? 

You beckoned once more, and this time, he came inside. 

“Witch.” 

“Another love potion?” you rasped, “because so help me, Jareth–” 

“You oughtn't speak my name so freely–” 

“I’m dying, fairy.” 

He scowled at you. You grinned at him. He always hated you calling him that. With a shaky breath, you reached over and grasped his hand. Your lips warbled.

“It’s almost time for me to go,” you whispered, “Will you be alright?” 

With a scoff, he rolled his eyes. Outside, the winds blew, causing rose petals to scour your back and front yard. He turned away from you, and opted to stare at the photographs you insisted on taking when the things were first invented. Why did his heart ache at the familiarity of it, youth? 

You’d both been so young then, or at least younger, and you were the one thing that always grew but never changed. Was it because you weren’t a human, nor a goblin, but a witch? 

Or did his heart ache because you always opened the door whenever he needed it? 

Your hand reached upwards, towards his cheek. Somehow, it was still warm. 

“You know, I could never resist you.” you let out a bitter, rattling laugh, “No matter how hard you resisted me.” 

He turned towards you, away from the memories. 

Tears slid down your cheeks, “I love you, Jareth.” 

His eyes met yours. He felt something prick at them, and his vision grew misty. He was the confessor, the piner, the chaser! Yet, wasn’t it ironic, all of it? How now, you confessed, and how now, he knew what it felt like to be a runner standing at the entrance of a labyrinth, wishing to take back their words. His hand encased yours, and underneath your skin you pulse brimmed like a dying ember. Your breathing slowed, and your eyes went to the window, to where he could not follow. 

You gasped for air. You were always so stubborn. Always. 

You turned towards your apprentice,  “I think it's time to open the window, dear.”

She nodded. You sighed and closed your eyes. 

Outside, the snow fell. 

Jareth waited. Your silly apprentice cried. You did not scold her. He reached towards your hand, only to find it cold and stiff. There was nothing there. 

“Witch?” he whimpered. 

There would be no more dances underneath the winter’s moon and you would not bake cookies nor brag about how you turned a child into a toad. 

“Witch?” 

Falling to his knees, he cradled your face. He pinched your cheeks– which you always hated! Nothing. Nothing! His breathing quickened. There would be no more, no more– you would not insist on posing for a photograph with him, nor on braiding his hair, nor beg to take the goblins trick-or-treating, even if the Jack-o-lanterns scared them silly! Never, never– how could he have been so foolish, so stupid? He slapped your cheek. 

“Wake up!” he cried, shaking you, “Wake up!” 

“They’re gone,” your apprentice whispered, and reached over to close your eyes.

“(Y/n),Wake up!” 

Who sobbed now? Was it him? 

How could he forget about the rosebush? How could he forget the tale of your mother bargaining with it in order to save your life? He pressed his forehead against yours. What did those humans matter now? What did his goblins? His body wracked with sobs, and he realized that it was gone, all that time. 

Time? He blinked. 

Time! Time! Did he not have the power to do so? He rearranged it constantly! Both here and within the labyrinth. 

He closed your eyes and breathed in. His tears trailed upwards, a hand flickered in his vision and opened your eyes. The window closed, the window opened. Leaves flew back onto the trees and the sun began to follow the moon. Saplings sunk back into the ground and wishes were un-whispered, regrets forgiven. On and on, the world, bending, flowing. He flickered, you flickered, like a shadow, a fire, a flame. Out of the bed, gone into the kitchen, over and over again, yet somehow staying in place. When did he ask for that stupid potion? A fine spring day… a– why, it was the day you first turned a child into a toad! And the air smelt of flowers and wet earth! 

He stopped. He stood in your backyard now. Birds twittered, and the trees glowed like emeralds. He ran to the roses. They did not wilt. You awaited by the window, smiling. He ran. 

Slamming open the door, he smiled, “How was your day today?” 

You gasped happily, clasping your hands together, “You won’t believe what I did!” 

“What?” 

“I turned a child into a toad!” 

This time, he did not ask for a love potion. 

Instead, he sat at the kitchen table, rested his hand upon his cheek and let you regale him with your tale.

[gnocchibabie]

The Realm's Tragedy

Chapter 1 - The Porcelain Princess

aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!oc

next chapter --- masterlist --- ao3

Summary: Maevys Targaryen is born into a kingdom overshadowed by calamity. With her mother Aemma Arryn gone, King Viserys consumed by grief, and Princess Rhaenyra adrift in sorrow, young Maevys finds herself at the heart of a fractured family. As she emerges from the shadows of tragedy, she must navigate the delicate balance between the remnants of a broken lineage and the impending storm of a new era.

As the dragons dance, the princess must learn to accept an unforgiving truth: All Must Choose.

Warnings: gore and blood, graphic descriptions of violence/traumatic childbirth

Wordcount: 1.2k

112 AC – King’s Landing

The piercing screams of Queen Aemma Arryn echo through the halls of the Red Keep, filling King Viserys I Targaryen with a sickening dread as he hastily rushes to her chamber. The cries are not those of labor but are more akin of an animal in its final moments. The merriment of the tourney presumes outside the castle walls, unknowing of the chaos that swarms within. 

When Viserys finally pushes open the door, the sight of his wife – disheveled and dripping with anguish – has him rushing to her side. 

Aemma had always had great difficulty bearing children – it was a wonder Rhaenyra had even been brought into this world – but this, this was different. All color had been drained from the Queen, leaving only a layer of cool sweat covering her pale form. Hair sticking to her face, breathing labored, and grip weak on her husband’s hand, the King felt his wife drift further and further away from him.

She looked more spectral than alive.

Aemma.

Viserys looks around to the handmaidens attending to his wife, though they skillfully avoid his gaze.

“Mellos.” The king breathes out, leaving his wife to speak with the maester. 

A grim look paints the face of his most skilled healer, “My King…during a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make an impossible choice.”

Viserys blinks incredulously at the man before him as his wife continues with her agony, “Well speak it!” His heart pounds.

“To sacrifice one…or to lose them both.” Mellos replies, voice measured despite the chaos surrounding them. Viserys listens to the man describe the technique taught at The Citadel – the barbaric ritual of cutting the babe from its mother, in hopes it may be saved. The King hears his words, but finds it hard to truly listen to them.

Mello’s stern face wavers for a moment, “But the resulting blood loss-”

“Seven Hells, Mellos.” The King took a deep breath to keep his panic from setting in, from blurring his better judgment. 

The Gods punish me…They set an impossible decision before me. 

Viserys looks back at Aemma once more, seeing his wife has calmed, her pain momentarily subsiding. A handmaid dabs a damp rag to the queen’s pale forehead, and she almost looks serene. He thinks of his son, stirring within her, waiting to come out into this world. To be set forth into the realm he will one day rule. 

Expelling a shaky breath, Viserys turns his back to her, “You can save the child?”

“We must either act now, or leave it with the Gods.” Mellos replies.

It feels as though a piece of Viserys, some portion of his soul deep within, withers away at the choice before him.

All he can muster is a grim nod to his maester as he returns to his wife, one final time. 

Aemma, even despite her current torment, finds a faint smile at seeing her husband once more. Her mind is less clouded, her body less addled with pain as she properly greets her king.

“Viserys…” Her voice is faint and wispy, as though merely speaking was a herculean task. 

Tears cloud the vision of the king, though he hides them with a smile to his wife. His Aemma.

“They’re going to bring the babe out now.”

And so they did. 

Amidst the screams of his wife, a sharp steel scalpel pressed against her soft, swollen belly – blood soon pouring out from within the queen like a deep red sea, staining her linen underdress and the pristine sheets below her. Amidst her thrashing turned feeble attempts of escape. Amidst her moaning turned to fleeting breaths. 

The last thing Aemma Arryn experienced in this world was great pain, and great fear. 

A babe, quiet and still is pulled out from her at last.

“A boy, Your Grace.” Mellos replies, though any celebration from the revelation is soured. 

The infant is silent, and the room grows cold. The King holds the bloody, small thing in his arms and weeps for his wife and son.

“Maester Mellos!” a handmaiden voices, “There is another!”

The room blurs around Viserys as another babe is pulled from Aemma Arryn. With a few strong pats to the infant’s back, it’s bawling fills the room. A flicker of life is breathed into the somber scene.

“A girl, my King.” The maester announces. 

A daughter.

Viserys looks at the small, crying baby now being swaddled in soft linens. Muck and blood wiped from her as her crying continues. Tears blur his vision once more, barely able to see the small patch of white hair crested atop her head. 

For a moment, he is filled with the overwhelming desire to name his newest daughter, Aemma. After the mother she will never know in this life. Though, looking at the ghastly scene before him, he thinks better than to condemn the girl to such a fate. 

A name was a powerful thing, and Viserys was a man of many cryptic beliefs.

Aemma would not do.

“Maevys,” he breathes. A new name, a fresh start, a blank page. “Maevys…my daughter. My princess.”

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

To suddenly be an older sister was an odd thing, Rhaenyra Targaryen had thought.

To suddenly be a motherless child, an even odder one. 

The eldest princess looks down at the babe lying in her fine wooden cradle, swathed in soft cloths. Maevys had finally quieted, after hours of squawking and shrieking, as if her cries should make up for the one’s her brother never had the chance to utter. 

Her sister was small, too small for even an infant. Pale as well, as though all her strength had been drained from her from the mere attempt of being born. 

If you could call it such a thing. 

Rhaenyra was haunted by the news of what had become of her mother. Her mother, once so full of life and laughter and love – reduced to a broodmare of a woman. So much so, that it became her undoing. 

The image of her sister however, soothed the princess. Perhaps a piece of her mother still lay before her.

She had a little sister, a girl to love and cherish and tell stories of their mother to. A girl she and Alicent could parade around with and take under their wings. Is that what sisters did?

Rhaenyra leans closer to the cradle. Did I look like this once?

The infant has all the hallmark Targaryen features: silver-white hair and expressive purple eyes. Perhaps she even had the Arryn look about her, some remnants of their mother. Though, only time would tell.

Rhaenyra feared, though, that the girl would not live very long at all. The babe was a weak looking thing after all. She even heard hushed whispers amongst her mother’s handmaidens, that the maester did not expect the girl to live past a week. The nickname, “The Porcelain Princess” had already begun to circulate throughout the castle walls due to her sister’s delicate state. Though no one would dare utter the words in front of the girl’s father or older sister.

“Maevys,” Rhaenyra breathed and watched as the little girl stirred, as though she already recognized her name, “You must prove them wrong, Maevys. You must stay.” Her voice quivers at the end of her plea, a hand grasping the babe’s cradle so hard, Rhaenyra’s knuckles turn white. 

And so, Maevys did.

Author's Note: hello there! i hope you enjoyed this very depressing and grim first chapter (I promise they wont ALL be like this). this is the beginning of what will hopefully be a pretty lenghty fic, which will come to focus on the ~eventual~ relationship between maevys and aemond. this is my second aemond fic (i am not immune to his charm) and i will be updating this alongside another project that is currently ongoing. because of this, updates may be a little sporadic, but i am dedicated to both series :) i hope you all enjoy this story! i have many ideas for many characters that i cannot wait to put to page and share with you all. thank you so much for reading <3

[restricted-on-13th]

Okay, I've never seen anyone ponder over this problem and try to find a solution over it:

Shinichi being someone without relative pitch yet has perfect pitch

Disclaimer: I am in anyway not a musician and if I get anything wrong about this, I'm very sorry.

I tried to think of ways to make Shinichi be able to sing yet still retaining his original quality of being unable to produce the exact sound (I think it's being unable to do relative pitch) and still having perfect pitch.

This was low-key for several of my Kaishin Singer/Idol au's that I have half way forgotten and have never written (lmao) and I got reminded of this conundrum when I saw a reblog here in tumblr of an official Idol Shinichi art for his birthday. Yet again, disclaimer: not a musician so Tumblr music side, if you can and will try to verify this idea. Also I'll be yapping after this so be prepared cause it's long.

Why not give Shinichi a musical score for a song that he could sing?

Now don't get me wrong, I know it'll be a bitch to transition from C minor to some note for Shinichi if he doesn't have relative note. But but, hear me out, if someone crazy enough to write an overly technical musical score of a song (I'm looking at you Kaito) complete with a timing of the notes and their lyrics AND AND A SEQUENCE OF EACH INDIVIDUAL NOTES MADE TILL IT HITS THE TARGET NOTE (basically minimise the notes till the milliseconds to replicate a fucking harmony which is a group of notes that form a chord and is the progression of chords)

If someone made this (KAITO) and made it an overly technical musical score like "C" but instead it would specify "C at 440 Hz, then 440.5 Hz, then 439.8 Hz" for every fraction of a second of the damn song, breaking the oscillation into each notes that's squeezed inside a second and timbre shifts being added to the musical score and everything freaking else into a humongous, herculean task of a musical score, would Shinichi be able to sing a song?

Now, I know it will be tough for Shinichi (but it's my damn fucking Au so sing Shinichi) but the guy has a damn good memory and I'm sure he could read a score like this, reference by using his violin and be able to sing a song after memorising the monstrosity of a musical score.

So naturally, I did the thing. I went to Gemini AI (cause your bitch don't know or have musical friends and yes I have only realised that I should have asked Ai if I don't have friends who understand this, I'm sorry if I offended someone by asking AI but google wasn't giving me any answers when I researched about this)

And you know what the AI said?

"Then, a human with perfect pitch and exceptional memory, relying only on those two abilities, could technically reproduce that exact sequence of sounds with astonishing precision. They would hit every single micro-note, every peak and trough of the vibrato, exactly as written." and also that "The singing might sound clinically perfect, but potentially robotic or dispassionate, lacking the organic, fluid quality that comes from a singer's internal feeling for the music's continuous flow."

That if this person, was given a song without preparation, was asked for interpretation or needed spontaneity, they would not be able deliver a compelling song that most of the singers today use. (sorry baby Shinichi but that just means you gotta stuff multiple monstrosities of a musical score in you)

And last of all, the thing I loved the most after getting an answer from Gemini AI:

"The "Uncanny Valley" of Sound: It might fall into an "uncanny valley" of sound – technically flawless in every detail, yet lacking the warmth, human imperfection, or subtle "give" that contributes to what we perceive as emotionally resonant singing."

But here's the thing people, Uncanny Valley goes both ways. It either unnerves you or pulls you in a way that shouldn't be.

FEATURES HATSUNE MIKU

So would Shinichi be able to sing if he was given a musical score like that?

Yes, he would be able to, terrifically perfect at that that he doesn't sing like a human, and quoting Gemini AI:

"A human with perfect pitch and prodigious memory, given such an unimaginably detailed score, would be an unparalleled replicator of sound. They could produce exactly what is written, hitting every micro-pitch with incredible precision.

But "singing nicely" often implies not just hitting notes, but feeling them, understanding their relationships instinctively, and injecting that understanding with human emotion and nuance. Without relative pitch, that intuitive musical understanding would be absent. So, while it would be a technical masterpiece, its "niceness" in terms of emotional connection and organic musicality might still be compromised. They'd be a perfect sonic copy, but perhaps not a perfect musical interpreter."

Emotional Complexity? If there's one thing I've learned from Hatsune Miku, you could fake that SHIT.

So stand up Kaito, get you're damn pen and save your boyfriend's singing ability (luv u baby Kaito)

So yes people, use this for your Idol/Singer/Musician au's for Shinichi, if you want to preserve the original setting. That is all, thank you!

[fayes-fics]

I'm sad I can't create like I used to. I used to write for hours every day, sometimes through the night, words pouring from me like a compulsion. Realistically, that level of effort was never likely sustainable for long. In hindsight, it's almost surprising it lasted as long as it did. But that doesn't prevent the natural instinct to compare output then to now.

These days, the writing muse is much more fitful/fickle. I thought it might be waning interest in the act of writing itself or in the subject matter I'm writing about. But, while those are factors, I think it's actually something else - the burden of expectation. Not necessarily from others but from myself, really. A relentless need to always be better, striving for growth (even if the result doesn't bear that out, lol), especially now that I have more followers to, hopefully, entertain. The preoccupation with my writing being good enough is exhausting tbh, and I'm quite certain it is what stymies my progress on my WIPs most of the time. I'll open a document and be put off, seeing it as a herculean task to summon the requisite effort to write to this imaginary standard I have set for myself. Ridiculous, isn't it?

Anyway just to say, I'm sorry my output rate isn't what it used to be when I was new to writing. I'm not sure it will ever go back to those days, tbh. But I do hope to keep writing. I'm just being sanguine about it all.

Thanks for reading this long, indulgent rambling/musing; well done if you did. I'm sure I'll delete it when I'm feeling less philosophical, haha.

Love to all. 😁🧡

[mrs-stans]

‘THE APPRENTICE’ is One of The Favorite 2024 Films of Directors:

Caroline Fargeat (‘The Substance’): “The Apprentice,” directed by Ali Abbasi: raw cinema with a stunning performance of Sebastian Stan

Todd Field (‘Tár’): The Apprentice.” Perhaps this was due to associations with the off-putting title, not to mention the precarious political landscape we’ve occupied these too many years. Nonetheless, I feel lucky to have finally had the opportunity to see it. "Sebastian Stan takes on the herculean, and many would argue thankless, task of portraying the most imitated man (besides Elvis) in modern history, and in the process performs a miracle. Showing Trump as if for the first time; a young man with Oedipal issues who comes under the spell of a dark magician, a sorcerer in the form of Roy Cohen"

Lance Oppenheim (‘Ren Faire’)

Pascal Plante (‘Red Rooms’): I guess that’s a controversial one, and I get it: we’re all tired of the character. It’s even more depressing to watch this one now than it was pre-November… but let me just say that I think this is the best film that could be made about him. It properly pissed him off, didn’t it?

Hannah Fidell (‘The Act’) :“The Apprentice“: I saw this film right before the election, mid work day in Pasadena. My friend and I were the only ones in the theater. Somehow the film is… incredible? I was jealous of the directing. And editing. And basically everything. Of course, the subject matter felt dangerous, which made it all the more enjoyable to watch. It actually played like a horror film to me…. Sebastian Stan and Jeremy Strong are out-of-this-world good. Don’t let your politics get in the way of a great film!

Joshua Oppenheimer (‘The Act of Killing’)

[aka-indulgence]

Meteor Shower

Finally got around to writing a Ramattra thing that isn’t based on an AU in my head that requires an introduction first jfhksdjfs I want him to treat me special 😭

Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night to Ramattra’s affections. A few minutes awake wouldn’t hurt…

(Reader/Ramattra)

(Also there are suggestive themes in here so be warned! Not explicit but theres some steamy kissing scenes >//<)

—————

You were slowly drawn from your sleeping state.

You were warm. Tired. The blanket was heavy on you, and you felt the most comfortable you’ve ever been in a long time.

You slowly blinked your eyes opened, feeling like a herculean task in of itself. Something was pressing against your cheek insistently, pecking you over and over. A weight shifted over you, and you felt yourself getting squished against warm metal. It takes a few seconds of your brain booting up to realize that that pressure on your face was a mouth, kissing you over and over.

Ramattra couldn’t kiss like a human would. But every time he made contact with your cheek, your nose, your forehead, he would make a gentle smooching sound. Even when you turned to speak to him, he didn’t stop his kissing assault.

“R… Ram… mm…” you mumble as he kisses your lips over and over.

“Go back to sleep darling.” He drawls. Despite not having a throat or an organic voicebox to speak out of, he still sounded huskier than usual. He cradles the side of your head, his cable hair draped over your collarbone as he insistently presses his mouth against your cheek, like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“Hard to go to sleep… When a big omnic man keeps kissing me like this,”

“Mmm… I’m sorry, sweetness.” He purrs, sounding none too apologetic as he moves down your jaw and presses his mouth to your neck, and you moan quietly.

He pulls you more insistently to be under him as he continues to kiss you, and you feel your cheeks getting warm, when you feel a bit of his tongue come into play.

“This is… really nice Ram, but I don’t think I’m up for it right now,” you say honestly. Ramattra, despite being an omnic with no need for it, was… quite the insatiable man in bed. It was hard to get him to stop, and you really were too tired for it right now.

“I know. I just… couldn’t resist. You’re too sweet,” he chuckles into your throat, making you shudder.

You shuffle closer to him (even though you’re right against his chest), and he turns his body a bit so you aren’t crushed under him. Ramattra slows down just a little, placing a kiss on your temple, and you smile when he starts running his fingers down your hair and caressing your cheek. You reciprocate with a small kiss on his jaw, nuzzling into his hair.

“What time is it?”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping yet?”

“You know I don’t need sleep.”

You roll your eyes at him, if he even saw it. “Powered down mode. Whatever the equivalent is.”

Ramattra sighs wistfully, absent-mindedly nuzzling into your hair.

“I was going to, but I was enchanted by your sleeping visage. You look adorable with your eyes closed, with not a worry in the world… just how I like it. I meant to kiss you then go to ‘sleep’ but you mewled when I kissed you and… I couldn’t stop.”

“Clearly,” you giggle, when he ‘sniffs’ your cheek. He turns your face towards his and places his mouth against yours, and you share a gentle, sensual kiss.

You felt so soft and delicate when he had his hand behind your head like this, pressing into his kiss. You felt his omnic tongue prod at your lips, asking for entry. You opened obligingly, letting him explore your mouth and play with your tongue. It felt sweet, if a little heated. He hums, sending minute vibrations through your mouth and cheeks that felt quite pleasant. You pull back to take a breath, but Ramattra chases you, pushing his tongue back into you hungrily. You let him drink your breaths, pressing his body against you that felt desperate and needy.

He let you part after the second kiss, though he still had his hand on your cheek possessively. Your breaths were hot and you felt sensuous, even as your eyelids drooped. You tucked your head under his chin and you were about to ask him to come to sleep with you, when something catches your eye, outside the window.

“Wait, Ram… what’s that?”

Beyond the parted curtains, you see streaks of light start coming down from the sky. One at a time, then more follow. Ramattra sits up straight, looking at them.

“A meteor shower.” He announces, turning to you. “Do you want to see it?”

“Oh yes,” you respond, trying to force yourself to wake up more as you spin in bed and get into your slippers.

The air outside is cold when you step onto the balcony. You’re whipped by brisk winds that blow your hair up and you start to shudder. Wordlessly, Ramattra places his scarf over your shoulder, wrapping the ends around you like a blanket, and guides you towards the little bench. He sits with a soft ker-chunk, and pulls you into his lap. You shift until you’re comfortable, your legs hanging off to the side of his and watch the sky.

You came at a good time. The meteors were plentiful now, shooting across the sky and disappearing like a rain of light. It twinkles in your eyes, and with his scarf, now most of your body felt warm except your face. Your hand wanders until it finds his, and you absent-mindedly grasp his, your fingers interlocking with his mechanical ones.

“The sky’s so clear here.” You say, just above a whisper. He nods, his hair brushing against yours.

“It is. It is the privilege us omnics have… not having to rely on so many things that pollute our skies. Food. An excessive amount of light. I… enjoy the stars.”

The skies twinkle.

“... I like this,” Ramattra hums, “the quiet nights are nice, here. I don’t have anything planned out in the near future. Just more planning, and resting.”

He squeezes your hand.

“More time with you.”

When you turn to him, he was already looking at you. It felt natural to lean into his kiss even as the meteor shower continues.

You’re not sure how long you stayed on the balcony. It could be somewhere from a few minutes to half an hour. After the meteor shower ended and the stars took back their stage in the night sky, neither you or Ramattra had the urge to move from your position. The both of you silently looked up at the stars. Ramattra always got into an inquisitive, thoughtful mood when he looked at the stars like this. Maybe he was remembering his brother from the monastery. He still rubbed the back of your hand from time to time, interrupted by pecks to the top of your head.

It was easy to let your mind drift and your eyelids flutter, quietly slipping back into slumber.

…

It would be dawn, soon. And Ramattra hasn’t had any ‘shut-eye’. Not that he needed to, but…

Your arms have gone slack, and your head was slumped to the side. He leaned his head forward to look at your face, pulling your hair back. Just as he thought, you were already in deep sleep.

He pressed his mouth to your temples. It was hard not to, he was addicted to kissing you.

“Let’s go back inside, dear,” he whispers, carrying you with his hand under your neck and knees, bringing you back to the bed.

[lycandrophile]

recently i’ve been embarking on the next leg of my gender exploration journey, and the hardest part of it has honestly been navigating the way people see manhood as at odds with any sort of complex gender experience.

because the thing is, i’ve seen myself as a man for years now, and that hasn’t changed! i still very much consider myself trans male, even as my understanding of my gender has continued to evolve. i’ve been exploring parts of me that feel more connected to gender neutrality and androgyny and fluidity and even womanhood than i’ve previously acknowledged, and none of those things contradict the fact that i am a man! all of those different pieces of my gender coexist perfectly well and don’t cancel out the fact that i want people to recognize me first and foremost as a trans man.

but other people don’t see it that way, and i know that. if i express any sort of relationship to those other aspects of gender — especially to womanhood — i know for a fact that people will view that as me saying i’m not “really” or fully a man. they’ll assume it means i’m just partially a man (which i’m not) or masculine but not a man (which i’m also not) or just living as a man on the outside when my “real” internal gender isn’t male (which i’m definitely not).

so even acknowledging that the more complex parts of my gender even exist at all has been an uphill battle, because i know what they mean for the way people see me if i express them. it’s already a herculean task to get people to see me as a man without that!

i recently told my boyfriend about some of these experiences i’d been exploring, and even then, i was terrified. it seems silly — if there’s any single person in the entire world who would support me no matter what, it’s my boyfriend — but it still felt like i was immediately taken back to the fear of the first time i ever came out to someone. honestly, even then, i watered down a lot of my thoughts more than i wanted to because i was afraid they could be taken as implying something about my gender that i never wanted to imply.

and i don’t want to be afraid of it! i want to be able to talk about experiences like revisiting the gender neutrality i identified with when i first came out and discovering androgyny through spirituality and seeing myself in genderfluid characters and finding new bits of gender euphoria in being seen as a woman now that i’m on t, and i want to be able to do that openly without fear that it’ll be used against me, that it’ll be seen as me giving people permission to ignore the manhood that’s still the backbone of my gender experience.

i love being trans! i love being genderqueer! i love all the gender complexity and playfulness that comes with that for me! and i was never afraid to express it before i started living as a man openly because before then, i knew that i could always count on other queer people to get it even if most people didn’t. but now, i know there are a lot of queer people who wish i would be anything other than a man, who see manhood as antithetical to gender complexity and think that’s a radical view somehow, and suddenly there are a lot less people i can count on for that support.

manhood can be neutral. manhood can be androgynous. manhood can be fluid. manhood can be womanhood. manhood can be all those things at once. manhood can be any of a vast array of other things. manhood can be fucking anything because gender in general can be fucking anything, and it really seems like a lot of people have no problem acknowledging that until it’s applied to men.

restricting manhood to nothing but the most limited, simplified, binary version of it is bad. expanding our concept of what a man can be is good. playing with gender and stretching its boundaries and showing that binarism is a lie because none of these experiences actually contradict each other is good.

it’d be great if people — especially people who pride themselves on fucking with gender and smashing the binary and all that — could realize that, because i’m really getting tired of feeling like i’m being shoved back into the closet after so many years just because y’all can’t wrap your minds around the idea that some of the people with the cool weird genders are dudes.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 26: Angel

Ao3 | 3.1k Words | Angel's POV

David gets guilt tripped. Angel stays home and sketches. Asher uses the bumper guards. Quinn can, most likely, get into the house again.

TW: emotional and mental anguish, disordered eating and sleeping habits, violence, sexual violence, threats of rape, general creepy behavior, blood and injury, fire.

It had taken a lot of persuasion and a touch of guilt tripping to convince Davey that you were okay spending a few hours home alone while he went out for some much needed relaxation. It was a herculean task even at the best of times. Going anywhere without you seemed to make him deflate, shrink in a bit, and look after you as he slipped out of the door like a kicked puppy. 

These were not the best of times, and Davey seemed almost frantic in his presence around you and the others. Since the barbecue, he had bounced from place to place, dragging you along, looking over everyone like he was searching for injuries hiding in the folds of their clothes. 

If it was bad before, it was torture now. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t eating. When he sat still for too long and dozed off, he woke up screaming, calling out your name, Trouble’s name, crying out for his dad. 

You couldn’t comfort him. You tried. Nothing worked. He grew resistant and resentful of your usual tactics, as though your love and how you showed it was lulling him into a false sense of security. 

Every brush with this fucking guy set his nerves on edge. It had scared him, your little coffee date with Quinn at the end of February. You thought he hadn’t stopped being scared since. 

It was going to start frying his brain. 

“It’s only a few hours.” You said, dumping the untouched cup of tea you’d made Davey a few hours ago down the sink. It was his favorite, and made just the way he liked it. 

“So much can happen in a few hours.” Davey called from the sliding back door. He peered out into the backyard, his dark eyes dulled and lined with sleeplessness. 

“Nothing is going to happen.” You huffed. When he slung his head around to bark at you for jinxing it, superstitious firefighter that he was, you reached down to rap your knuckles against the wooden cabinet doors. 

“I’m not going.” He replied. “I already told Ash you were.” You turned and crossed your arms over your chest, staring at him staring out of the house. He was so scared. You couldn’t blame him. You should probably be more scared than you were. That was the sort of certainty and safety that Davey afforded you. Before you knew him, when it was just you and Guy, you’d been scared of a lot more things a lot more of the time. But since meeting Davey, you hadn’t had to worry about that kind of thing. There wasn’t a thing anybody on earth could do to you that they, at the very least, wouldn’t suffer for. 

Davey seemed to think that Quinn wasn’t something he could protect you from. He seemed to consider him as some sort of boogeyman, a specter that was going to slink into your walls and haunt you to death. 

Quinn Fox wasn’t a ghost. He was a man. Men could be fought. Men could be killed. Davey seemed to have forgotten. 

“You’re going.” You said sharply. “You haven’t slept in days, let alone gotten some actual relaxation in. You are going.” 

Davey opened his mouth to argue. You held up your left hand, flashing the wedding band that sat, snug on your finger. He couldn’t really argue with that. 

It had been three weeks since the barbecue, since… whatever had happened after happened. Davey told you pretty much everything, so you thought it had to be pretty horrific for him to skirt around the details like they would burn him if he got too close. You would have liked to say that you had a great respect for others’ privacy and decided to stay out of it, but that wasn’t entirely honest. You were an incessant gossip and you’d questioned Asher, but he had no more information than you did. It seemed that everybody who knew what happened that night was keeping their fucking mouths shut. 

You had been instructed, along with the rest of the 10-19, to go about your life as normal. That there was no more danger now than there had been before that barbecue, that you were safe doing what you always did so long as you stayed vigilant and called the police if you encountered anything suspicious. The way Davey was acting, though, told you that was very much not the case. 

But he was sort of falling apart at the seams. He couldn’t have a solid grasp on what was real danger and what was his mind playing tricks on him. Not when he hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night in weeks. 

Ash and Milo arrived a few hours later, both looking exhausted and stressed, but smiling. Ash tugged David towards your bedroom under the guise of getting him out of sweats and into something presentable. 

Trouble slunk in, trailing after Milo. Whatever horrible thing had happened after the barbecue made its home in their features. You could see the lines of it under their eyes, in the curve of their crooked nose, the feathering of their blown out tattoos. God, you wanted to design cover-ups for those nasty things. It felt rude to jump the gun and do it without them asking. 

“Hey,” you smiled, pulling Milo down into a hug. “How’s…” you patted your stomach softly. His eyes cut to his periphery, caught sight of Trouble before he answered.  

“Good. Healing.” He promised. “If I can get them to take it easy it’d heal a lot faster.” 

“Unlikely.” Trouble muttered from over his shoulder.

Davey emerged in jeans and a t-shirt. Ash had even managed to get one of his silver chains around Davey’s neck, a step up from his usually minimalist ensemble. You smiled as you trailed your fingers down his chest. 

“Where are you guys off to?” You asked. 

“Bowling!” Ash supplied, bouncing on the balls of his feet. You grinned. 

“Davey’s gonna kick all of your asses.” You laughed. 

“Whoa now!” Milo nudged you. “Don’t count us all out! I happen to be pretty decent at bowling!” 

“Plus,” Asher smiled, a glint of mischievousness in the lines of his sharp teeth, “Tank is freaky lucky. Betcha he’ll lose.” 

“I’m not lucky.” Trouble scoffed. Their face was blank and serious for a moment before they seemed to shake themself awake. “Besides, Gutterball, he’ll at least beat you.” 

“You don’t know my secret weapon!” Ash said. “I’m using one of those kiddy guide things and bumper guards!” 

“The dinosaur or the unicorn one?” Milo replied. 

“Unicorn, obviously, what the fuck do you take me for?” 

They were off in the next minute or so, still bickering and laughing as they stepped out of the door. David leaned back inside at the last moment, his face gone dark again. 

“Please be careful, Angel.” He said. You felt yourself softened. 

“Always.” You replied. “Enjoy yourself, Captain. I’ll be here when you get home. Maybe I’ll be naked.” 

That made him smile. 

“Don’t make a guy a promise.” 

There were three or four multi-hour video essays on YouTube you’d been saving for a quiet evening at home. You snagged a beer from the fridge, gathered your sketch pad and pencils, and picked up on your latest flash sheet. When that proved too boring to hold your attention, you pivoted. 

You sketched out the jagged word “PRECIOUS,” mimicking the curve of Trouble’s eyebrow by memory. You stared down at  the imperfect edges of it and started trying out a few options to cover it. An olive branch. A line of curling, black smoke. A scythe. 

And then the power went out. You jumped, nearly spilling your beer, as you caught your breath. You’d been jumpy since coming home, knowing that Quinn had gotten into your house before, knowing that he most likely could again. 

It was probably nothing. It was probably a tripped breaker. 

You set you down your beer and sketch pad, walking blindly into the kitchen where Davey kept a flashlight in the junk drawer. You hesitated to click it on for a moment. If you left the flashlight off, if you couldn’t see what was in the dark, it couldn’t hurt you. 

That wasn’t true, of course. Maybe you could be convinced that ignorance was bliss. 

You clicked the flashlight on. Your kitchen was empty. The house was still and silent. The breaker box was in the basement. The baseball bat you’d used to beat in the fucking head of the guy who had broken into your first apartment after leaving home was kept propped up against the coat rack. It slid into your hands like an old friend and you made your way into the pitch black basement. 

The breaker box was dusty and the door clung to its latch as you wrenched it open. You ran your eyes and then your fingers over each breaker, trying to make sure you weren’t mistaken when you found that everything was exactly as it should be. 

You should have checked out your front window before coming down here to see if the neighbors across the street had gone dark too. Maybe it was a street-wide thing. Davey would have told you if there were rolling blackouts or any scheduled maintenance. He always kept up with that sort of thing. 

And then, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end. You sucked in a breath and held it. Some prey-animal instinct must have reared its head in you, because for a moment, you went perfectly still. 

The house was still and silent. Until you heard the puffs of slow, deliberate breath in the echoey darkness around you. You dropped the flashlight and wrapped your hands firmly around the grip of your baseball bat

Movement behind you. You’d learned well enough in your time that hesitation rarely benefited you. You were small. You weren’t fast. You weren’t strong. So you had to strike first and strike decisively. Any amount of trepidation could get you killed. 

You hadn’t had to think like this in a very long time. When it was just you and Guy, when you were the only line of defense between him and hunger, him and abuse, you fought and you fought like hell. You hadn’t had to fight since you’d met Davey. But you hadn’t forgotten how to. 

Your bat connected with a solid source. You were aiming for the head, the best and most effective way to incapacitated your opponent, but he was a good foot taller than you. Instead, you made contact with his chest. You felt his mass hold for just a moment before it gave, bone crunching under your momentum. 

You didn’t wait to see him go down in the askew, barely-there illumination of your flashlight now spinning on the ground. Instead you made a mad dash for the stairs. You had to get up the stairs, through the door, out the front door. Shit, no, he would be faster than you. He would chase you down before you made it to the neighbors’. Scratch that, you had to get up the stairs, through the door, to the guest bathroom. It had a lock and you could shove the linen cupboard in front of the door. You could call Davey. No, actually, you should call the cops first. 

Your fingers just barely brushed the door handle when he caught up to you. A bruising grip wrapped around your ankle and pulled, sending you sprawling on the stairs. Your forehead connected with one of the wooden steps as you went down, stars bursting across the murky darkness of your vision. 

By the time you got your coordination back enough to start fighting, he had you pinned on the dirty concrete floor. His hips pressed into yours, one hand wrapping around both of your wrists and pinning them over your head. Davey had had you in this exact position before, and your stomach rolled at the implications. You felt something primal and ugly rear its head in you. You would not let him hurt you. Not without a fight. 

“Quiet down, little lamb,” he purred, and even in the darkness, you recognized his voice. Cloying and sickly like too sweet chocolate. You bucked against him with renewed force, but he was so much stronger than you were. Your foot connected with the flashlight, and it cast it’s beam onto Quinn. Under-lit, he took on a movie-monster image, dark shadows on translucent, colorless skin. “We’ve got plenty of fun to have yet. If you don’t stop making such a fuss, I’ll have to find another way of shutting you up.” 

“Fuck you!” You snarled, kicking up in the hopes of at least stunning him long enough to squirm out from under him. He took the hit, your bare foot digging into his back, his eyes rolling up with the sharp pain. He seemed to be enjoying it. “Let me go, you fucking freak!” 

“Or what?” He laughed, his voice high and light. “You’ll fight me? You’ll run? I’m stronger. I’m faster.” He placed his free hand against your throat, applied just the smallest amount of pressure. It wasn’t the same as when Davey choked you. His big, warm, rough hands squeezed at the sides of your neck, so small in his grasp, cutting off blood flow. With Davey, it was more of a warning than anything, a reminder of how much bigger he was than you. Quinn pressed on your windpipe, the flat of his palm applying precise force. If he pushed much harder, he could cause damage. “You and I both know that I can do what I please with you.” 

“My husband is gonna kick your ass.” You bit out, voice harsh. “He’ll fucking kill you for touching me.” It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a warning. It was the simple truth of the matter. You were Davey’s. He did not share. And he did not abide anyone hurting his people. 

That laugh again, bouncing around the basement and drilling into your pounding skull. Quinn bent forward, his hand tightening down on your throat. You snapped your head to the side, an undignified whimper escaping your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut. Quinn’s hot, wet tongue met the side of your face, flat against your cheek. He licked up your face, groaning low in his chest, his hips rutting against yours. Tears pricked your eyes. Quinn’s lips pressed into your skin. 

“He can try.” 

He didn’t rape you. That was the fact you kept repeating over and over in your mind, the thin shred of dignity you maintained. He didn’t rape you, but he did drag you up the basement stairs by your hair. He did pull you, screaming and swinging out in messy punches, to your bedroom. He let you get your bearings in the darkness, fingers threading into the thick, plush carpet, before he started laying into you. He beat you like you were a violent dog, punishing kicks and hits that tore into the meat of you. You heard more than felt when the steel toe of his fancy boots broke something in your rib cage. You gasped, wet and metallic, and clung to his leg in a pathetic bid to make it stop. 

It did stop. He left you on the ground, his laughs and taunts echoing around in the space you’d made with Davey. He had built your bed frame, reclaimed wood and rustic edges, he had made nearly every piece of furniture in the room. At the foot of the bed he’d held you in, he’d worshiped you in, the bed he’d fucked you in on your wedding night, Quinn stained your handpicked carpet with blood. He used the ropes Davey decorated your body with when the mood struck him, tying them tight enough to bruise from wrist to elbow, your fingers going cold and tingly by the time he was done. Quinn snatched your jaw up and had you thrashing again. His thin, cold fingers pressed past your lips, hooked over your molars and forced your jaw open. Your heart was in your throat, afraid of what he would force into you. It was almost a relief when it was fabric, a makeshift gag that he tied tight enough behind your head that it dug into your cheeks painfully. 

Time drifted. Your head was fuzzy, unsure. His hands wandered, threatening but never seeing anything through. His voice filled you up inside, took over every inch of room that was left in your head. You choked on it, the sound of him laughing in your ear, whispering threats in that gentle, sure tone. 

“If they find you in time,” he purred, his hand caressing your cheek like a lover would, “you tell them that it was me. You tell them that every mark on your body is on them. That your blood is on their hands.” 

You smelled smoke. You felt heat. Your body, the one that was married to a firefighter, the one that sat through his lectures about safety with rapt attention, the one that had practiced your evacuation route a hundred times to assuage his fears, refused to let you lay there and die. You had never been good at that, just letting things happen to you. You had a fight in you that you couldn’t explain, you couldn’t deny. 

It forced you up, bare feet scrambling against the carpet. Pushing your heavy, limp body as far as you could, you inched your way across the carpet, blood trailing behind you. By the time you met the dark tile of the master bathroom, you knew that the heat you felt was from the fire, not exertion. You took a moment, and only a moment, spread out on the bathroom floor, to cry. Your body ached to stop, to let go, to give in. You knew that you couldn’t, that if you did, then that was it for you, that you had no chance of surviving. You sobbed into the gag that tugged at your mouth, pulled at the ropes around your wrist, whacked your head against the tile in utter frustration and fear. 

And then you started moving again. You pushed yourself forward, your shoulder painfully crushing into the tub, and didn’t stop until you tumbled, ass over tea kettle, into it. You laid there, stared up at the shower head, and breathed. You counted to three. Then you started kicking for the faucet. 

It wasn’t until you felt cold water splashing over your face that you let yourself drift. 

Davey would know. You could feel it in your gut when something on a call went sideways, when Davey was hurt, when he was afraid. So you had to trust that he would know. He would find you. He would find you.

[pomegranate-fawn]

Weekly Update: Looking up???

I started this week with a sinking hole in my heart. I’m unsure if I’ve mentioned this on my blog as I’m very sensitive to talking about my diagnoses as I want them to be private and not define me/keep me from opportunities but I have BPD, also known as Bipolar Disorder. Somedays are better than others. Being a creative with bpd is honestly one of the worst things a person can be, there are some days where my mind is void of anything and other days there is so much going on in my head that I feel overwhelmed and want to die. Since like April I’ve been having a bad episode, there isn’t anything I can exactly do to stop it other than attempting to keep sane. Routine sometimes helps but even then it doesn’t all the time, spending time doing the things that I love can sometimes help me get out of that manic state but other times it makes it worse like one time I didn’t sleep or eat for nearly three days cause I wanted to speedrun oot and I know that sounds silly but I became obsessive and couldn’t do anything else or else I was a failure. I have no emotions yet so fucking many. It’s hard. But on Wednesday I just woke up and…that feeling was gone. Most of the time when I’m in a depressive or manic episode the only thing I can do is wait it out, I’m sure medication would help but every medication I’ve taken just makes me into a husk, instead of the occasional “no thoughts” days I become like that every day. I’d rather live my life struggling than live it as a zombie. But I do think medications can help when you struggle just…not for me. But with that feeling gone, I was able to do a lot more of what I loved this week. So…let’s get into that!

While my godmother and I celebrated my mom’s birthday with her earlier in the week, on her actual birthday she wanted to go to Korean Barbecue with me. I think she could tell I’ve been in a bad headspace since she’s been trying to get me out of the house more. When I was in high school I really struggled to go to school, even getting out of bed was a Herculean task. But she’d make me go everywhere with her, looking back on it, it was her way of trying to help. And to be fair, I was slightly less depressed at queer middle eastern coffee shops than I was in my bedroom so she was onto something. We’ve been tight on money recently due to personal circumstances but she’s still been trying to get me out of the house, even if it’s just to run errands. My mom and I don’t always get along, most days I feel like she really doesn’t understand me…but she tries in her own way to help me and care for me. I appreciate that a lot.

On Tuesday we had some errands to run but…it was raining. For those unaware, I live in SoCal, and I don’t live in Los Angeles or like even the valley. I live in a fucking desert. We rarely get rain even during the rainy season! When I lived in Vegas, summer rain and storms were very common but in my over 10+ years of living in this desert we have only had it rain in the summer maybe once or twice. We’ve also had more overcast skies this summer so far, literally insane. I love the rain but all I can think about is how the climate is changing and how that may affect our amazing wildlife, I live by a nature reserve and whenever I go I get to see so many cool creatures! Usually native birds and lizards but on the rare occasion you see a coyote or a snake or one time…I SAW A DESERT KIT FOX!!! I was so excited when I saw it and I still think about that cute little fox everyday! But the rain was beautiful even if it does worry me that we had rain in the first place. I think this was our second storm of the summer? Scary stuff.

As said in my intro, Wednesday I woke up and felt like a million bucks! Jk but having my sinking hole filled even if only temporarily truly made my week…I was able to start work on my writing again! I’ve been studying for my cbest test and I also applied to a really great library clerk assistant position and I hope I get it since it would still give me time to exist outside of work! But I’ve finally been working on my original project…a gothic novel with a heavy influence from Armenian and Iranian culture! I’m still really shy to share it on here but I promise my mutuals, I’ll try to gain the courage once I have more chapters! I finished two chapters this week and I plan to finish chapter 3 right now! My gf has been the only person to read it so far but I’m so so so happy she likes it, I was worried the main character wouldn’t be super likable since she’s a bit complicated but my gf said the opposite which has me happy!!! Oh Violet Nightingale I am so so so sorry for everything you will go through but at the very least she can wear her favorite dresses and eat all the cake she wants. Placing a cake that I think my poor daughter would devour in a second!

With all this writing and planning and studying that I’ve been doing, I’ve been drinking more and more tea again! I always try to start out my mornings with some tea but lately I’ve been neglecting tea during other parts of the day but I’ve really tried to fix that this week! I love tea and as I’ve said in the past, one of the reasons I like it is cause it’s an intentional drink. With water I can drink it at any time and it’ll taste fine, sodas won’t lose the carbonation or go flat until like five hours of a can being open. Coffee can be enjoyed hot or cold, even if your ice melts and dilutes your drink, you can always add a splash of new coffee or you can make those coffee ice cubes to literally avoid that problem. But with single use teabags and even loose leaf, once your drink is made, it’ll only be hot for a set amount of time, depending on how hot your water was or how good your mug insulates your drink. It’s a skill to drink tea and yet it’s such a leisurely task that anyone can enjoy it. Awhile ago I saw this photo on Pinterest that moved me, it was someone taking a photo of their tea mug and it had a littlest pet shop toy in front of it! I thought it was the cutest thing ever so I recreated it. I also plan to recreate it a few more times until I have one with all my favorite mugs!

Saturday my darling came over again. I wish we could live together already but I also want to be able to provide for her so until I can make a livable wage I won’t be looking for a place for us. I do hope we can visit more in general this summer but we’ll just have to see how things play out! We watched Book of Atlantic and were surprised by how…good it was? I have a very complicated history with Black Butler and my enjoyment of it, Yana Toboso is very strange and she both writes some of the most interesting and moving plots and characters I’ve ever seen…and then she also writes/draws some of the most unnecessary shit ever. I won’t get too into it cause I know Black Butler fans like to tussle, I mean so do I. But damn, when Yana locks in she locks in. I feel the same way about her writing in twst, like she did not really give a fuck when originally making book 2 but when it came time for Leona’s dream in book 7 she locked the fuck in and it was incredible. I also made us a pot roast and…it came out juicy but I over salted it, I mean it’ll be great for leftovers cause I can make tacos with it and quesadillas and sandwiches…it really needs bread to soak up a bit of that salt but my girlfriend fucking loved it so hey at least it was enjoyed. Also…we got boba again, we got the same drink, an ube yam blended smoothie. I ordered mine without boba and I was able to drink the whole thing this time without feeling sick…it tasted literally divine it was sweet and savory and incredible. I need to learn how to make this at home right now!!!



Lastly…my cat, Sasha, the adorable black cat…she has a brother. Like a litter mate. It’s not my other cat, Willow was found on the street and I took her in cause she was not feral and was most likely an abandoned pet. But Sasha was born in a litter of five, my mom’s boyfriend gave me Sasha and he kept the kitten that was always with my darling, he named the cat Turbo. He’s very anxious for the first two days when visiting cause he’s used to being alone all day and then BOOM! Now he’s around two cats and two dogs. He does really love Sasha and they seem to still recognize each other as siblings which is good but god he’s such a diva. He will see me sitting somewhere and will still walk up to me and hiss and growl. Like dude, you saw me sitting here, why the hell are you coming over if you don’t want to be around me?! I love him even if he’s like this. Also photos of Sasha and Turbo!

Onto music recs! I’ve been listening to a lot of classical music this week to better write my story, while it’s a fantasy it’s also inspired by the Victorian time period and it’s a bit hard to really get into a writing session when rock or a more modern band is playing. Like I love Duran Duran but kinda hard to write high fantasy to Lonely in your nightmare or Skin trade. But…of course, the Wolf’s Rain ost still has a big hold on me. Most of the songs I can work with, but I have been listening a lot to this beautiful track. I want this song injected into my blood stream this instant!!!

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=rGGpGGjiCcI&si=WOVmaTPA0xPNymw-

While I just said that writing to more modern sounding bands has proved to be a challenge…I have also been listening to a lot of Malice Mizer while writing. They’re very nostalgic to me! I’ve been into vkei bands since Middle school! I got into vkei through Sheena Ringo, after watching her music video for Instinct for like the millionth time, I saw a “music video” for a band called Malice Mizer. The image of the band was so fucking striking and when I watched it, I fell in love with them! I can always listen to Malice Mizer when writing as a result, though I do tend to go for specific songs still for the vibes. Anyways I wanted to share the live performance that got me into Malice Mizer!

YouTube videos…I haven’t been watching them recently or when I do, I just put one on in the background while I play cookie run or eat food…but I have been rewatching a lot of Jenny Nicholson’s videos recently, both her public and patreon content! While I do love her super long deep dive videos and I have rewatched her Evermore video too many times to count, I also rewatched her Land Before Time ranking video a few days ago! I was super into the movies as a kid but I never got to watch the sequels. My mom wanted a Disney only household and only let me watch the first land before time because I was so fucking into dinosaurs as a kid…she tried to get me into that horrible Disney movie from the 2000’s that was just called Dinosaur and halfway through the film I literally asked her why it was so boring and she finally caved and let me watch the original Land Before Time. I don’t think I’ll ever personally watch the sequels but it’s fun to see a video about something you loved as a kid that’s made by someone who also enjoyed it as a kid!

[howlingday]

(Side A)

DON'T FUCK YOUR SISTER!

SHE'S YOUR SISTER!

Now, you may discover that you, or your sister, are actually adopted. You might even be stepsiblings! Neither of you may be blood related to one another, or if you are, you are actually cousins. In these circumstances...

STILL DON'T HAVE SEX WITH HER, YOU DEGENERATE GARBAGE HUMAN BEING!

MONTY! H! OUM! WE LITERALLY JUST COVERED ALMOST A DOZEN GIRLS AND EACH OF THEM ARE A BETTER OPTION BECAUSE THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL AND NOT RELATED TO YOU! SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that you have identified your harem, you can properly plan your escape. Assuming you aren't dead or in jail, there are one of two ways this can end.

Either the system maintains equilibrium and you maintain a status quo of hijinks surrounded by girls who won't have sex with you, or you can fucking pick one and spend the rest of your life with her.

After all, everyone knows 100% of relationships in high school last forever because they are the strongest bonds anyone can ever have, never once failing in terms of romance.

It is highly advised you pursue the latter option because the longer you maintain a harem increases your chances of death by yandere.

To escape, you must pick a girl. This will be hard for you. If making up your mind wasn't difficult, you wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.

But I promise you this; realizing you have feelings for someone and then telling them how you feel IS NOT FUCKING ROCKET SCIENCE. People literally do it ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Some people even do it MULTIPLE TIMES IN ONE DAY. But their lives are complicated, and if you don't want your life to be complicated, you need to STOP WASTING EVERYONE'S FUCKING TIME AND MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND FOR ONCE! If you need help, just remember...

...the Deredere girl is usually the best girl.

Once you've accomplished your Herculean task of deciding which girl you're most attracted to, your next step is to CONFESS your feelings to her. Because if you wait for her to do it, trust me, you're going to be waiting for a while.

This will not go smoothly, so when you make your confession, you'll want to make a few backups.

WRITE DOWN YOUR FEELINGS: EXACTLY how you feel as clearly and plainly as possible in an impossible to misunderstand language.

BE CLEAR IN WHO IS FOR/FROM: SIGN YOUR NAME and explicitly state who specifically this letter is addressed to.

TAKE A PICTURE: WITH YOUR PHONE and make digital and physical copies.

GET A TATTOO: AND DOGTAGS, both with the message etched IN A PLACE WITH NO LEWD CONNOTATION AT ALL!

It might sound excessive, but it's honestly still not enough for you. When you confess, another girl will likely interrupt with or without the intention to trip you up and misinterpret your message for someone else. Thankfully, you've already slipped your note into her personal locker in the event of such an emergency, and when her locker is destroyed or launched far away, you, being prepared, have already texted the message to her as well. The image might be corrupted, which is where the dogtags come in. And... Well, I think you get the idea.

It is important to get your message delivered and understood by her without you misinterpreting her answer as a rejection. Otherwise, you could find yourself in an increasingly wacky set of hijinks as the harem system maintains the status quo for at least another 12 episodes unless you lock that down.

If you have made these attempts and still been rejected, then you clearly haven't weathered the harem system long enough. Pick a different girl and try again in another three-to-four weeks. In the meantime, while you are weathering this storm, remember your ABCDs...

Awareness, Balance, Clenched fists, and

DON'T FUCK YOUR SISTER

This message was sponsored and paid for by her holiness

POPE RUBY II

[flowercrowncrip]

I am seriously considering spending an eye watering amount of money on a super fancy shower chair and as much as it pains me to spend thousands on something I’d only be using a few hours a week, I am starting to think that it might be worth it.

The shower chair I have at the moment is the one provided by the council and I absolutely dread having to use it. It has tilt in space but the mechanism is awful. It’s super clunky which makes it almost impossible for my carers to use smoothly, and people who aren’t familiar with tilt in space mechanisms can’t control it safely at all while I’m sat in the chair. The mechanism is also in a really awkward place and digs in painfully to my shoulder blade, and something in the backrest also digs in. The head rest is impossible to position comfortably and I have to use an inflatable travel pillow to stop my head from falling behind it. The height and design of the chair also makes it difficult for my carers to clean my lower body to a standard I’m happy with, particularly for the back of my legs.

Basically it’s painful to use and bordering on unsafe. And while I might be able to convince the council to give me a chair that has a more suitable headrest, it’s likely to be basically the same design and therefore painful for me and difficult to be as clean as I would like to be after a shower. I haven’t had a relaxing shower in years and I’m unlikely to in the future unless I purchase my own chair.

Which brings me on to the chair I’m considering buying. Compared to my current chair it might as well have come from the future. It has a headrest integrated to a solid back rest so it won’t be possible for my head to fall backwards, and nothing will dig into my shoulders or spine; it even has a cushion for head, neck and back support and comfort. But most excitingly it has electric tilt in space and height adjustment. This means the mechanism is smooth and easy to operate so I won’t find myself being thrown forwards instead of backwards like sometimes happens with my current chair. The height adjustment will make it so much easier for my carers and it has a feature that lifts your legs away from the seat and will mean I’ll feel cleaner after showering and fitting my hoist sling won’t feel like a Herculean task every time.

But all that technology doesn’t come cheap at all. I haven’t had a full quote yet but it is looking like it will be around the same price as a custom manual wheelchair. I’m very aware that I am super fortunate to even be able to consider it financially but it is still not an easy decision – trying to put a monetary value on how much a safe, comfortable and relaxing shower is worth is really difficult. All I know is that I would basically consider it a luxury spa treatment to just sit and let my muscles soak in hot water knowing I would be comfortable during it. So that must be worth a lot