#and the banner is maybe halfway done?

[osaemu]

good night tumblr dot com

[summervale]

「Merriment」

Third-person reader insert! Y/N is the younger sister of King Robert Baratheon. Her house sigil is a stag, yes, but it seems she has a particular fondness for hounds.

Contains: Reluctant pining, kissing, mature situations Words:  2,311

UNFINISHED WORK: This was supposed to be a long, multi-part piece which is why it takes so long setting up! This was part one and is about halfway finished. Figured there's a lot of Sandor fans that might enjoy a small something cute <3

No husband and no responsibilities made for a very happy woman indeed. Small wonder she was all smiles and riddles and gayeties; she must, the commonfolk thought, be the happiest woman in all the seven kingdoms.

This was likely true.

She was forever laughing. There was a smile on her face always, it seemed, and everywhere she went she took merriment with her. Her ladyship took great pleasure in riddles and games and shows of mummers and fools, and King’s Landing had not hosted a tourney that did not have her there in the pavilions in many a year. She was a friend to all regardless of birth or station or reputation (within reason), and for this she was quite loved, but also quite resented. The resentment was paid little mind—turning a blind eye and smiling was much more fun, as it was often irksome to those who were loth to favor her.

Y/N Baratheon. Lady of Storm’s End, younger sister to Stannis and Robert, older sister to Renly. She possessed the same appetite for amity as Robert coupled with the mirth and grandeur of Renly. Of Stannis, it was said, they shared only a name. Still she insisted she adored all her brothers equally, “even the gloomy one.”

Much was afoot in King’s Landing.

King Robert had named Lord Eddard Stark new hand of the king, and Stark had arrived with a host of his own and his two daughters in tow. This was cause for celebration, and celebration was cause for a tourney, and where there was a tourney (or a celebration), Lady Y/N was to be found.

And she was found in King’s Landing quite a lot, of recent.

There was a rumor, often dubbed a vicious and untrue one, that though her house sigil may be the King's own stag, Y/N had a particular fondness for hounds.

The sun was two hours from setting when a host of black and yellow arrived at The King's Gate. In came banners that bore stags, and a spate of wagons bringing wines and cheeses and polished pears from Storm’s End. An impatient rider rode ahead of the rest, leaving behind a cry of protest as she thundered away, alone, up the streets of King’s Landing.

She arrived with a well-lathered horse and a swirl of her cloak. A party had time to gather in the yard of the Red Keep; a paltry welcoming committee with little time to prepare.

But the King was there—of course the King was there.

Had she not already been grinning, she would have grinned. “There’s my favorite brother,” said Y/N, dismounting and already forgetting her palfrey.

The look on Robert’s face was strange, though, and uncharacteristic of the Robert she knew and loved. The years had not been kind to him (as was made most evident by his growing waistline), and his face was stern, drawn into a scowl, his brow furrowed.

Is he not happy to see me? she thought even through her smiles and excitement. Gods, he looks as grim as Stannis, maybe twice as much. When she made to throw her arms about his neck, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length instead.

“That’s your grace to you, woman. I am the King, or have you forgotten?”

The King’s sister opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, which was done dumbly and not unlike a fish.

The ruse was short-lived.

Robert Baratheon—King Robert Baratheon—broke into a roar of laughter like that of a bear made human. Still holding his dearest sister by the shoulders, he gave her a hearty shake. “Your face!” he boomed. “You should have seen it!”

Her smile returned, then her laughter. “You’re a fool if ever there was one, Robert!”  She threw her arms around his neck even as he shook her, and the big king lifted his little sister in his arms and hugged her so tightly, so fiercely, that the now-arriving party feared the king may crush their lady.

Robert didn’t crush Y/N, though. No, they were both used to it. “You’re crushing me, Robert,” she huffed at last, prompting the king to drop her back down onto the ground.

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right then, let’s get inside. We have much and more to catch up on, and there’s a flagon of wine calling my name.”

“Every flagon of wine calls your name, your grace.”

The King was laughing again, then, and the King’s sister was smiling.

That, as far as the two Baratheons were concerned, was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be, until one buried the other.

Meeting the King’s party was a grand ordeal, though Y/N had already met most of the partygoers in attendance on at least one occasion. Of course she knew the Lannisters, her brother’s family by law, and she’d met Lord Eddard Stark once before. Lord Eddard’s daughters were new to her, however, and a few of the faces at court as well. Having been taught well, she recognized most of the family names and colors, smiling and shaking hands and doing all the formalities a lady should do.

The occupants of the Red Keep’s great hall that night came from houses big and small, known and unknown, and saw the attendance of lords and ladies, knights, hedge knights, bards, poets and singers, fools in their motley and mummers with their painted faces. There were cards being shuffled and dice being thrown. Serving girls brought plate after plate of selections from the kitchens: stuffed capons, wine-glazed lamb, honeyed figs, dark breads with thick crusts, sweet lemon cakes still-warm from the ovens. The courses seemed never-ending and the wine never stopped flowing.

“Never was there such a party before, brother,” declared Y/N. She lifted a gilded goblet with a flourish, and rich, purple wine splashed over the rim and down her hand. She was the picture of effortless joy.

And she knew it, too.

If she hadn’t known it, the guests would have reminded her; the way they flocked to her in throngs and yammered on and on whenever she should happen to lend an ear—which was often. Round and round she circled the crowd as the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, searching the room for a familiar face—a face that would stand out even in the most crowded of rooms.

Her gaze passed the lords and ladies, passed the knights in their polished armor, until at last she found her mark.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stood near the far wall, obscured halfway in the shadows. His face was grim, as it usually was, pulled tightly into a scowl that had long since worn its lines permanently into his features. The burn scars that marred half his face were highlighted by the flickering torchlight, giving him an even more fearsome appearance.

She knew Sandor was not like the other knights, not like the men who fawned over ladies with flowery words and grand gestures. He was rough, blunt, and often downright rude.

He was the perfect change of pace.

Oft she sought him when at last she could take the rinse-and-repeat of perfumed nobility no longer. She wove through the crowd with ease, exchanging smiles and nods as she passed, until she finally stood before Sandor.

"Sandor," she greeted him plainly. “It’s been too long.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For an overly long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he inclined his head slightly. "My lady," he replied, his voice as rough as the gravel on the King���s Road.

Y/N smiled up at him, unfazed by his gruffness. "Why do you stand here all alone?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Surely even hounds deserve a bit of merriment."

Sandor huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. "Merriment’s for fools," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Forgive me, then, for it seems I’ve forgotten my motley.”

“So it seems.”

She knew he was not a man of many words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But she also knew that, for reasons she could not fully explain, she had become someone he tolerated more than most.

Perhaps it was a royal decree by Robert unbeknownst to her. And what a royal decree that would be! The thought made her laugh aloud, which only earned her a raised eyebrow in response.

He indicated the floor from which she’d just come. "Motely or not, you should jingle along with the other fools,” he said, though his tone was less stern than usual.

"And you should be out there with your fellow dogs," said she, “but here we are."

Sandor's lips twitched as if they might have remembered how to smile for half a moment. “Surprised you’re not dancing again. It went well for you last time.”

With one sentence he had broken the façade she wore so well. Her look of smug mirth disappeared from her face in an instant and was replaced instead by one of flustered surprise.

It had been a celebration much like this one and she was deep in her cups by the time the sun had set and the dancing had begun. Y/N had been at the heart of it, twirling and dancing with little care, passing hand from one lord to another, from knight to knight, breathless and flushed and shoes long forgotten.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling, and a moment later, toppling entirely. The ground rose up to meet her with an unpleasant wack!, and the pain in her cheek was overshadowed only by a pain in her ankle. She’d gotten too carried away and twisted something, it seemed, and hadn’t even felt it until she was picking herself back up off the ground.

Or, well, trying to pick herself back up off the ground. The usual cloud of courtiers buzzed around her in an attempt to see her upright again, but the pain in her ankle swelled red hot and angry.

A shadow passed, then, and she had looked up, her vision slightly blurred from the wine, to see Sandor Clegane’s gruff face above her. There had been no mocking grin or cold stare, just a look that might have been concern on a more expressive man. “You’re alright.”

Without another word, he had scooped her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Y/N had gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!" she had protested, though she hadn’t made any real effort to leave his arms.

 "Not on that ankle you can’t.”

And so she had let him carry her, through the bustling hall and up the winding stairs of the Red Keep, all the way to her chambers. It had been awkward, but it had also been…

More.

“You’re quite strong,” she said to him, which earned only a grunt of acknowledgement.

Something—something—fluttered inside of her when she saw him so close; the burned skin unevenly healed, the scruff that dusted his face, the muscle of his neck that disappeared beneath his armor where her prying eyes could not follow—but her imagination could. 

When they reached her chambers, he had set her down gently on the edge of her bed. She had looked up at him, her heart pounding in a way that had little to do with the wine. As he made to release her, she caught the back of his neck with her hand and held him there, inches from her face.

She’d expected him to break free, to pull away, to do anything else. But he stayed.

He stayed there like that, his lips inches from hers.

He had hesitated, his expression torn between wanting to leave and the pull of something deeper that they both felt there between them. They both smelled of wine and honeyed mead, lips sweet.

She didn’t know who kissed who, but in half a heartbeat they were entangled.

Sandor’s breath came ragged against her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his lip and he growled. It was fast, animal, raw want.

And a longtime coming.

When he pulled away, she pulled him back in again, and he didn’t fight her. Breathless, she’d pulled herself up by his shoulders and onto her knees, the pain in her ankle unfelt and forgotten. Her hands cupped his face and she pulled him in, in, in, until her chest was flush with his and she could feel every rise and fall of his on hers.

At last he’d taken her by the elbows and pushed her away, and it ended as suddenly as it had started.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he told her.

“But I haven’t had enough of you.”

“You’ve had your fill of that, too,” he said, turning cloak and leaving.

“I’m quite certain I haven’t had my fill of you.”

He paused mid-step and looked at her over his shoulder. “You don’t want that,” he assured her. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something sharp as steel and burning hot.

Y/N leaned back on the bed. “I know what I want,” she said, wishing she could stand and go to him, to pull him by his cloak and his armor and whatever else she could get her hands on—something lower than his beltline. “I’ve known for years and years.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sandor crossed the room again, silhouetted against the warm torchlight that poured in through the still-open door. “Trust me,” he said, towering over her, leaning in close. “You might want to get your fill of me, but you don’t want me to get my fill of you.”

Her breath left her body in a shuddering shiver.

Again he had turned, then, and didn’t stop to look back at her that time.

[ipleadbritney]

afterglow foretold

osctober day 30: afterglow

sebmark, landoscar, winter break

Oscar has always known Mark sees more than Lando-and-Oscar. He sees Seb-and-Mark. He sees the young rocket whose name is synonymous with their team, whose career is connected to the number 4, who the media loves to hate and hates to love, who really is so far removed from Lando, but Oscar and Mark aren't.

It didn't have to be Lando. It's everyone who'll drive next to Oscar. It didn't help though, that it's Lando. Oscar's dreams looked a lot like Lando back then.

Mark tells him to be careful, traces old tricks over new tracks for Oscar. When Seb and I crashed, Seb used to, Seb did this, Seb would, Seb.

Oscar doesn't know if Mark realizes it's always Seb, never Sebastian nor Vettel nor any of the horrible names they used to call each other.

At the end of his second year in F1, Oscar witnessed Seb and I firsthand.

Mark pulls Oscar out of his lazy winter break routine, sends him the pin for a random area in Melbourne. He instructs Oscar to wear “inconspicuous” clothes. Lando has always judged Oscar's style for being boring, which means Oscar doesn't think much when he throws together a plain shirt and black shorts. He leaves his favorite McLaren hat behind.

When Oscar shows up, Mark promptly shoves a pair of sunglasses on his head and tells him to blend in. Easy, actually, because there's a crowd in hats and shades, waiting for the bike race to end.

Mark's disguise, by the way, is worse.

“It's winter break,” Oscar deadpans. Even he's had enough of racing. He hasn't returned any texts from the drivers. Alex learns he's no longer in Monaco from Twitter.

Mark points at the banner. “It's for charity.”

Correction: it's for Seb.

They watch Seb cross the line, head tilted back and laughing. The sun is behind him, and he is glowing.

Mark never showed this side of his life to Oscar before. He knows what people say, all the lessons they expect Oscar has learned at this point. It's partly true, but there's still a whole other part Oscar has never seen. Until now.

Maybe Mark's able to show Oscar more of it— more of him and Seb —because Oscar now understands. He's got Lando.

Oscar finds himself smiling, finds himself calling Lando halfway across the world.

It's early morning wherever Lando is, and his nose is covered in glitter.

“I'll drop by next week,” Lando says. His voice is scratchy and real.

“Will you?”

“Sure. ‘Course. If you'll have me, Osc.”

They've done this dance before, ran this joke down to the ground. Oscar still laughs.

Lando's with his crew. He'll visit Daniel first. He's out partying with both Maxes, and he ran into Charles somewhere up in the mountains. But alright, Oscar will take it for what it is.

The call lasts three minutes. Lando's signal is horrible, and Oscar doesn't need Mark explaining to him the delicate balance of teammate dynamics.

Oscar misses Lando more afterwards.

When Mark coaches Oscar, making sure no clause in his contract will fuck him over, pulling apart rules of engagement, Oscar wonders who Seb is and who Mark is in Lando-and-Oscar. Who Mark sees him as, who he expects him to be, who he wants him to be.

Some years in the future, they'll be fine. Like Seb and Mark. They're taking a picture now, Seb's medal in between them.

It also means that first things first, Lando and Oscar are barrelling towards something that will ruin them. They already have, sort of.

But there's the after— and the after is worth it. Mark tells him that, too.

[prettykittycastle]

Why Me?

Summary: The last thing Bruce expected to happen to him was getting a blowjob in the lab.

(The reader uses she/her pronouns and is 18+. The ethnicity/race is preferably black.)

(Content Warning: blowjob, oral sex, male receiving, slight dirty talk, slight sub-Bruce)

"You should relax, Dr. Banner."

"You're always so tense, doctor. I can help with that."

"Maybe the Hulk wants you to have some fun."

At the feel of your warm tongue running over the head of his cock, Bruce thought over the things you had said to him before this night. Of course at the time, he didn't realize you were constantly making suggestions to him, his focus always on his lab work. But now, lightly shuddering at feeling the tip of your tongue run against the slit in his tip, he felt incredibly stupid to not notice them sooner.

"Mmmm," you hummed, sliding his member into your mouth, instantly the salty taste of him on your tongue made your mouth water.

"Oh God," he moaned, closing his eyes and laying his head back against his lab chair, his legs shaking.

"How ya feeling, Doctor? Still tense?" you slipped him out of your mouth and asked him. You wrapped your hand around him and held him firmly, grinning up at the sight of the anxious scientist before you.

For a while you had been trying to get his attention, wanting so badly to have him writhing in pleasure and finally have him be able to relax. Tonight was gonna be your last night of trying to catch his attention and if he didn't catch on yet, you were planning on moving on, but it seems that the universe had finally decided to do you a favor, and Bruce finally noticed you.

Now looking at him, you just wanted to rip all his clothes off and ride the fuck out of him. His lab coat was spread open, the first couple buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned and some of the hair on his chest was showing, his glasses askew upon his face, and his pants were pulled down around his knees. Be patient, you told yourself, wanting so badly to hear him moan your name.

"Y-yeah,...n-no," he quickly changed his answer, trying to keep control of his mind and his urge to thrust into your hand. "Uh, (Y/N)-"

"Bruuuce," you cooed at him, beginning to slowly jerk him off, the saliva from your mouth making it easy. "Just relax for me, sweetie."

Easier said than done, he thought, closing his eyes tighter at the feel of your hand jerking him off. He knew that agreeing to this was risky, worrying that the big guy would appear at any moment, but he couldn't turn down the opportunity to have you, of all people, on your knees, ready to have his dick in your mouth.

"Please," he begged. He didn't have to say what he was begging for because you already knew and by the time, he opened his mouth, ready to say something else, your lips were wrapped around his member again.

"Mmm," you moaned around him, loving the salty taste of him on your tongue. Lowering your head, you relaxed your jaw and throat to take him deep into your mouth till your lips stopped halfway down his cock. When you felt that you couldn't fit anymore of him in, you let the saliva from your mouth run down his length before wrapping both of your hands around the rest of him. Bobbing your head and stroking him, you couldn't control the moans escaping your mouth and traveling to him. You had been fantasizing about this for so long and now you couldn't be happier to feel the heaviness of his cock on your tongue.

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. Bruce tried to remind himself this as he tried and failed to keep his lower half from lifting itself up from the chair and attempting to fuck your sweet mouth. He could feel his heart rate picking up and he worried that the other guy might make an appearance at the worst time.

"Shit, (Y/N)," Bruce groaned, letting his head fall back onto his lab chair while clenching the armrests tightly. "S-Slow down, please."

Your response to this request from him was simply bobbing your head faster, swallowing as much of him as you could, letting drool run out of your mouth and down his cock, helping you stroke him faster.

You didn't need to look up to know that the skin on his knuckles were probably turning green by how tightly he was holding the armrests and you wondered how long they would last before they completely broke off from the chair.

It's been so long. I'm not gonna last. He realized. The last time he had any type of sexual interaction was years, before the appearance of Hulk. After him, he never thought he'd ever get a chance to touch another person this way again.

"Bruuuce," you said, pulling your mouth away from him, but still stroking him. You looked up at him and couldn't help the smirk that grew on your face at seeing his head laid all the way back, holding onto the armrests for dear life.

"(Y/N)," he moaned your name again, hearing you call his name and forcing his eyes to open, and when they finally did, he instantly regretted it. The sight below him almost made him cum right then and there, but thanks to his years of perfecting control over the big guy, he held himself back from cumming too early. Seeing your (E/C) eyes look up at him, hazy and full of lust, your mouth and chin shining from the saliva on his dick, and the string of it hanging loosely from your bottom lip and his tip was almost too much for the poor scientist who had thought he would be living a life of celibacy because of his condition.

"How ya feel, Dr. Banner? You relaxed yet?" Your smirk grew wider, feeling his dick grow harder in your hands at you taunting him.

"Y-yes, yes, I am," he replied back, his eyes barely open as he tried to hold himself off from cumming, but your words were too much. "Please, (Y/N)."

"What is it," you asked, your voice changing to a lighter, more innocent tone despite what you were currently doing. "Bruce, what is it?"

"Aah," He moaned loudly, straining to control himself, his mind almost completely lost to lust. "I'm-I'm close t-to-"

"Close to cumming," you finished his statement, slightly tightening your grip and quickening your strokes. You could practically feel the cum waiting to burst from him. "You wanna cum?"

He couldn't find it in himself to open his mouth to speak, and simply nodded his head.

"Tell me. You wanna bust a nut on my face or in my mouth?"

"Oh God," he whimpered, lifting his hips to fuck your hands, his desperation evident.

"I'm fine with either one," you told him before lowering your head down to swallow his dick again, moaning at his hardness, and wiggling your tongue against the underside of him.

At that moment, Bruce couldn't handle it anymore, and before he knew it, his cum came spurting out of him in long, white, salty ropes down your throat to which you gladly accepted swallowing as much of it as you could.

If seeing you on your knees for him was already too much, watching you through half open eyes, gobbling and swallowing his cum was too overwhelming and he had to force his hand to let go of his armrest and use it to lightly push your head away.

"Shit, shit. Stop." He could feel himself becoming overstimulated, and knew without a doubt that if he got anymore stimulated, the big guy would definitely show up.

You didn't move at first, happily slurping up everything he offered and more, before deciding he had enough. You lifted your head from him and took a breath, wiping some of the spit from your face and gathering any cum that escaped from your mouth onto your fingers.

"Why," he asked, trying to catch his breath, and attempt to lower his heart rate back down. "Why...me?"

"What do you mean 'why you'," you asked, putting your cum-covered fingers in your mouth and sucking it off.

Seeing you do this, he had to take a second to calm himself down, before responding. "I mean...why out of all the guys in this building, you chose me? Why not Tony, Steve, Sam, Thor? Why me?"

The way he asked that made your heart almost break and suddenly the urge to fuck him grew tremendously stronger, wanting to give this man as much pleasure as you could.

"I don't want Tony or Steve or any of the others. Just you, Bruce. I like you. I think you're hot."

"Yeah, but," he sat up in the chair and straightened himself, his usual shyness coming back over him. "But why me? Why do you like me? The guy that has a big green rage monster in him."

"Because I think it's hot how smart, sweet, caring, and shy you are, Bruce." As you told him this, you stood up from the lab floor, wincing at the small ache in your knees and climbed into his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulder. "I've liked you for a while. And if you just want this to be a one time thing, I'm cool with that. But I also want us to be something." You knew that one of the reasons the scientist tended to distance himself from the others was not just because of his shy nature, but also because of his worry of how he, the team, and others viewed him and his second half. He saw his second half as a monstrous nuisance and thought that the team might as well, but you knew that was wrong and you want to show him that you view him as more than the Hulk, and as Bruce Banner.

"I can control him most times, but every now and then, he wants out and it's hard to put him back in," he warned you, placing his hands on your hips.

"That's fine. We'll handle it together." You laid a gentle kiss upon his lips, aware that he still has to calm his heart down from your blowjob. He didn't say anything else and kissed you back with a surprising amount of vigor that seemed to make the fire in between your legs burn stronger.

"You know we have to be careful in the future when it comes to...this," he pulled away and warned you.

"We will and we will have a lot of fun, too," you told him, going back to kissing him. Even though, you two had just made it official, you were already thinking of the many things you wanted to do to this man, and unbeknownst to you, Bruce was thinking of the many positions he could put you in by the end of the night, how to not risk the big guy coming out while doing so.

[encasedinobsidian]

Hi and welcome to my island! Peep my recent/ongoing works..

ain't shit sweeter ♡ father-in-law Javier Peña

In the late 1990’s, Javier Peña transfers to the DEA field office in Chicago, finally given a long-awaited opportunity to spend more time with his son while he adjusts to life post-Colombia. But in the midst of it all, he falls in love with the woman who resents his very presence in her life; his own daughter-in-law.

didn't cha know ♡ Joel + Tommy Miller

I fell in love with him. That much should be obvious by now. I can’t imagine that my recall of the last few months is anything more than a lackluster attempt at hiding the obvious truth of the matter — plunging into the depths of immorality and lying and cheating while I played house with his brother.

finally dawn ♡ original characters, seeking what is desirable spinoff

That abyss he circled, dipped his toes in, bathed in, drowned in — it’s not so dark now, not a bottomless pit of darkness for him to fall back into or get drawn into by claws scratching at his skin. Someone gave him a lantern somewhere along the line, lit up the space around him so that he could see what rock bottom really was. And he was there alone, don’t get it twisted — he sat with his arms around his knees and looked around to see that there was nobody there but him. And he still sits there sometimes. Every dark evening when Mia is asleep under his covers and he’s leaning over the kitchen island, eating the marshmallow-less Lucky Charms while the wind rustles in the trees of his backyard and he thinks back on a year ago. His chest tightens at the thought of being back there, in the house that didn’t feel like it belonged to him or his ex-wife.

seeking what is desirable ♡ Joel Miller

extras: lasagna I taralli I time away

Naomi is married, Joel is married, and they can't stay away from each other.

lovesick/evergreen ♡ PNW cop Javier Peña

Life seems to oscillate between underwhelming and overwhelming these days - the light pitter patter of rain on the window and the vibrating thumps of bass, the dark of the bedroom curtains and the flashing lights (pink, red, blue, purple, neon writing, blinking arrows), fuzzy police radio chatter and a hollering crowd. Most days it’s an empty coffee mug in the sink, two plates, the low ticking of the wall clock. It’s dad and then it’s Chief Peña, Officer Peña. Usually just Peña. Sometimes it’s Javi. He likes it when it’s just Javi.

amicus curiae ♡ sleazy lawyer Joel Miller

"In a pickle? Call J. Miller, at law.” J. Miller Law Office, it says in large, gold writing against a black banner above the single floor. There’s a dry cleaner on one side and an adult video store on the other, with a buzzing neon sign spelling XXX in bright red on the frosted window. Not once has it failed him to forge his own path. Self-made is what he is, the king on top of an empire forged brick by brick, one laid on top of the other, day after day, night after night.

Sympathy for the Devil ♡ swimming instructor Frankie Morales

“Who am I in your eyes?” Frankie asks, taking a step towards Hailey and circling her waist with his hands, pushing her over the threshold of his territory, into his space. “Some kind of Antichrist? The devil himself? Put in your life to lead you astray, make you sin?” His hands are on her back and the door is still open behind her, eyes adjusting to the warm lighting in his living room that stretches into the kitchen, the couch illuminated by the TV and the hazy air above the coffee table, the ripples of smoke coming from a joint halfway tucked into an ashtray. “M— maybe,” she murmurs, looking down at his shirt with her hands on his chest, swallowing so hard she hears the gulp in her throat, “They told me he'd be tempting, and that's all you've done… Tempt me, into— into adultery.”

smalltown shit ♡ Charlie Swan

"You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asks, and it isn’t with a scowl but it’s something of the sort, a narrowing of his eyes and a dryness to his voice. It’s no better than a scowl anyway, his skepticism like a concrete wall between the two of you under the dim lights of the bar where Charlie is stuck with you, just where you want him.

+ more on my ao3

[vechter]

thoughts on girldad dick grayson? god it holds such a special place in my heart i could talk about it for agess! also i think dick wanting to start a family eventually but his life always being too "unstable" is really interesting. dc had SO MANY opportunities to give this man a daughter but its only canon in elseworlds! i dont wanna take away from roys whole shtick but dick having daughters would be such a fun direction to go in if its written while. like he would definitely mess up and have a lot of problems but he would love with his whole heart. a fic ive always wanted to read is a different ending with sophia or even dick getting to keep the grayson desert baby and raising it like ahhh chewing on my nails.

also any headcanons on dick + rose + sophia or dick and olivia desmond or the grayson desert baby? BASICALLY ANY HCS OF DICK WITH A DAUGHTER(S) AAA.

ur gonna wanna kill me for this but in most of my imaginings before n52, a biological daughter is not in the cards for dick. one of my fav headcanons for dick is long-term consequences of being at ground zero during chemo (briefly talk about this here). so, a possible consequence for that is sterility. i need him to have crazy feelings about being the last flying grayson.

but to answer your question properly, i think dick adopting a girl could be soooo interesting if done by someone other than taylor (olivia desmond who). just look at how hard his dynamic goes with sophia tevis.

if we veer into headcanon territory for this:

one of my fav ideas would be dick keeping in touch with sophia after blüdhaven got nuked (briefly talk about this here). possibly during the one year later arc... maybe he takes sophia to new york with him (instead of his no stakes arc of being on yachts with tim & bruce lol). he doesn't send her to boarding school immediately and instead, they spend time trying to recover from the shit-show their lives have been recently.

oooh, maybe a rlly fun arc where sophia gets past her hero worship/crush and properly considers dick's role in what happened to her family... which wars with how much she knows he cares about her (how he visited her at the halfway house, how he saved her from chemo, how he made sure she healed from the radiation). shared grief over how their fathers loved them but often failed them.

you can have some great rose stuff here too. instead of joining the teen titans, she follows dick to new york and ends up becoming a regular presence in his shitty little apartment where she bullies dick about how he lives. she gets to know sophia and comes to care for her. maybe a kidnapping plot where she's the one who saves sophia from some mobsters who didn't get the tevis family memo.

a lot of bullying from the og titans (esp donna and roy who are also in new york) about dick essentially parenting two teenage girls. at dick's insistence, rose hesitantly reaches out to people she sort of let down during her evil era but only after she pulls an uno reverse on dick saying she'll only do it if he does it. she mocks him a lot by calling him 'renegade'. it never fails to make sophia laugh who calls him 'crutches' occasionally too.

sophia eventually joins a public high school in new york. dick and rose make rlly embarrassing banners for her graduation only for sophia to mock them saying wow look at how much you care... aren't you embarrassed?

also, i love the desert baby arc soooo much but i think the weight of dick saving this little girl + all the costs he bore to make that happen... is much more impactful if he never meets her again. maybe he does occasionally check up on how she's doing (is she loved? is she safe?) but only from a distance. the people who adopt her often get random tidbits of information about raising a meta-human and the family collectively refers to dick as their guardian angel.

i would be remiss if i didn't mention mar'i grayson bc she had me hooked with just that cameo in titans '99.

ur right anon... dick should be a girldad.

[cherrycola27]

Star Spangled Seresin

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption. Political situations. Unrequited love, one night stand, military and political inaccuracies. Smut. 18+ Minors DNI. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

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Chapter 1: (I was) Enchanted to Meet You:

After you had left the apartment, Jaycee decided to take some time to herself and get some writing done for work. She was halfway through her article when her phone chimed. It was a text from Jake.

She took a deep breath. She shouldn't have given Jake her phone number. Jaycee didn't do relationships. Not after what happened. But Jake was sweet and made her cum three times and then fixed her breakfast the next day. So, in a moment of weakness, she gave him her number.

She checked his text. It was a message checking to make sure she had made it home okay. After confirming, she was fine, he asked her about her day.

Feeling bold, she snapped a picture of herself with a messy bun, glasses, leggings, and her oversized Georgetown sweatshirt with her laptop. Jake chuckled when he received the image before texting her back a selfie of him in a US Navy tank at the gym.

Jaycee blushed before typing back, "I figured you'd be the kind of guy who works out shirtless 😉." Jake quickly replied, "Normally, I do, but my back had a run-in with some nails last night 😏."

Jaycee's face turned red. And before she could fire off a response, Jake texted her again, "When can I see you again?"

Jaycee sighed. She wasn't a second date or first date, whichever this was kind of girl, but Jake did seem sincere, a nice meal, and some good sex did sound appealing. Of course, she'd have to keep it a secret from you, but that shouldn't be too hard. So, before she could talk herself out of it, she texted him back that she was free on Monday.

Moments later, a smiling selfie of Jake graced her screen with the message, "Fantasic. Meet me at Marcel's at 7:30. The reservation will be under Seresin, party of two."

Jaycee collapsed against the throw pillows of the couch. Was she really about to do this?

The rest of the afternoon was spent texting with Jake. She learned all kinds of things about him, from where he grew up, to his time in the Naval Academy, to his career in the Navy, and some about his family. Jaycee shared more details about herself than she had in a long time. She was about to order some takeout and text you to see what you wanted when she got a message saying you'd be out late and wouldn't be home until after midnight. Something with the campaign.

Jaycee rolled her eyes at how dedicated you were to your job before placing her order.

She'd just settled down to enjoy her orange chicken when a FaceTime from Jake lit up her phone.

"Um, hi?" She said as she answered it. "Hey." Jake said smoothly. "Sorry, I probably should have texted to see if you were busy, but I really wanted to see you again." Jake said.

"It's fine. I just got some takeout and was about to watch some true crime." She told him. "Oh, true crime? Are you more unsolved mysteries or serial killers?" Jake asks. "Unsolved mysteries for sure. And I love a good conspiracy." Jaycee replies as she grabs her chopsticks.

"Conspiracy theories are fun. Once Bradley and I get elected, I can't wait to learn all the secrets they keep locked in the Library of Congress. After the inauguration, I'm heading straight for the JFK file." Jake says without missing a beat. "Why JFK? Is it because he was assassinated in Texas and you're from there, or is it because he was a Navy man, too?" She asks him with a mouthful of noodles.

"Both." Jake confirms

Jaycee snorts out a laugh. "You know that secret section of the Library or Congress is a myth, right?" She tells him. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see. Maybe you and I can look for it together after the election." Jake tells her with a bright smile.

"Yeah, maybe," Jaycee shifts uncomfortably.

"So, other than run for office and fly planes, what do you do for fun?" She asks, changing the subject.

"I like to hike. If I am back home, I love riding horses on my family ranch. A pickup game of football or basketball is fun every now and then. I'm a great bowler, but even better at darts and pool, and I'm a sucker for a good musical or theater performance. My sisters were in drama and dance in school, so I always went to their shows and then started seeing a few shows on my own." Jake tells her.

"Oh, so you have culture?" Jaycee teases him. "What's your favorite show?" She asks him. "Hamilton, obviously." Jaycee can't help but laugh. "Basic." She teases him. "But it could be worse. I figured you would have said something like Oklahoma." She says.

"No self-respecting Texan would ever say their favorite show is Oklahoma." Jake says in a serious tone.

"So what about you, other than grilling potential vice presidents, what do you do for fun?" Jake asks her.

"Um, I like hiking too, I've never rode a horse, I like yoga, and reading, and mini-golf, and kickboxing. And I, too, enjoy the theater."

"So, what's your favorite show then?" Jake asks her. She can tell he's waiting to tease her.

"Wicked." She admits sheepishly. "Oh, and I'm the basic one." Jake rolls his eyes dramatically. "Hey it's a great story about fighting for what you think is right and denying social norms!" Jaycee defends herself.

"If you say so. I've never seen it." Jake shrugs. "What!" Jaycee shrieks. "You said you have sisters. How have you never seen it?!" She asks him. "I tried once. The flying monkeys creeped me out." He admits.

"Okay, okay. I get that." She tells him. "So, I had a really good time with you last night." Jake tells her.

"So did I. Three really good times." Jaycee admits. "I was talking about at the bar. Like, don't get me wrong, the other stuff was great too, but I enjoyed getting to know you." He tells her.

Before Jaycee can answer, she hears keys in the door, and your voice calling out to her. "Jaycee, I'm home!"

"Oh, shit, Jake, I've gotta go!" Jaycee says before quickly ending the call.

"Hey! I thought you said you wouldn't be back until after midnight?" Jaycee asks you. "Yeah, Bradley and I finished up early. Who was that on the phone?" You ask her.

"Um, no one." Jaycee says quickly. "Wait—was that Mr. Tongue Tricks? You gave him your number? Where you guys having phone sex?" You ask her.

"No, no, and ew, no." Jaycee says as she cleans up her mess in the living room. "Okay, whatever you say." You sing-song back to her.

"Hey, do have plans Monday night? Candice and Talia are going to be in town and want to get drinks." You tell her.

"Actually, I do have dinner plans. Sorry." Jaycee tells you. "No worries." You respond before heading to your room.

All of Jaycee's Sunday is spent texting Jake. The two of them talk about everything under the sun. He makes her feel good— happy even, something she haven't felt from a relationship in quite a long time. But then—

Jake had brought up the topic of dumb things he did as a teen and told her about the scar on his ass from a bull. Jaycce laughed at him. Then, he texted, saying how he loved how she had turned her surgical scar into something beautiful. She asked him what he meant. And then he replied, "The one on your side, that's the quill tattoo. Did you have your appendix or something removed?"

Her heart sank, and she dropped your phone. The scar he was talking about wasn't from surgery. It was from the worst moment of her life. She quickly got up and went to the mirror in her room. Jaycce lifted her shirt and traced the jagged lines that ran across her right side.

You had convinced her to get the markings tattooed as a way to reclaim them, but even though she had tried to make them beautiful, they still carried ugly memories.

Flashes of that night flooded her brain, the yelling, the glass, the blood —so much blood. She shook the thoughts from her mind.

Jaycee quickly changed the subject, but suddenly, her heart wasn't in it anymore. Who was she kidding? She couldn't date Jake, she had too much baggage for a guy like him.

On Monday, she barely texted him. And that evening, just as you were able to leave to meet up with your friends, she came out of her room dressed to go out. "Hey, wait up!" She called to you. "You're coming? I thought you had plans?" You ask her skeptically.

"They got canceled. Let's go get drinks!" Jaycee cheered as the two of you walked out the door.

At 7:10, Jaycee, you, and your college friends got a table at the bar right across from Marcel's

At 7:15, she watched Jake enter with a bundle of flowers.

At 7:25, he texted her that he was there.

At 7:30, he asked if she was on her way, and if she was running late, that was fine.

At 7:40, he tried calling her, and she immediately sent it to voicemail.

At 7:45, she stopped checking her texts.

At 8 p.m., she watched a deflated Jake Seresin leave the restaurant. Jaycee finished her drink and excused herself to the restroom.

Once she was alone, she turned off her phone and allowed a single tear to slip down her cheek.

"This is for the best." She told herself in the mirror." But she knew she was lying to herself.

Okay! Here we go yall! Taglist: @daggerspare-standingby @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @hecate-steps-on-me @roosterscock @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @seresinsbabe @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @xoxabs88xox @avengersfan25 @blackwidownat2814 @loveforaugust @mak-32 @cottagecori @amysteryspot @heyimmadisonn @princess76179 @bradshawseresinbabe @sunlightmurdock @lewmagoo @cassiemitchell @die-cunt @mj-l4 @shipinabluebottle @malindacath @violyn20 @imawkwardlysoc @books-for-summer @blackroseboulevard @recordblues @desert-fern @luckyladycreator2 @katieshook02 @samhapner6 @sebsxphia @roosters-girl @diorrfairy @je-suis-prest-rachel @dakotakazansky @mizzzpink @a-linabean @amklibrary @gretagerwigsmuse @jstarr86 @actuallyazriel @krismdavis @bradshawsbaby

[dear-ao3]

hands down the best part of newsies dance wise is the tap break in carrying the banner that they would perform at events and showcases promoting the musical and i will tell you why

first, carrying the banner is not a tap number in the musical, its the first big dance number and general introduction of what the fuck is happening (skrunkly little newsboy orphans and poor kids selling newspapers in 1899 nyc for the new york world). but! there is a big tap dance number at the top of act 2 (king of new york). and sometimes they would do king of new york to promote the show (as it is a more well known song) (and i think they did it in the thanksgiving parade in like...2013? maybe) however!! it is very hard to tap dancing live and in front of large crowds in unconventional spaces without a stage and the use of mics to amplify the tap sounds (cause thats what they do in the stage version) so they usually do carrying the banner cause its got a good number of fun and funky jumps, basically the whole cast and is a good time.

towards the end of carrying the banner they inserted a Very Small tap break that was strictly used for promotion purposes and was never done on the stage (generally disney events). since the ensemble has Dancing Boots and Tap Dancing Boots, theyre not going to change shoes halfway through the number. so! they just overlayed a pre recorded tap track into carrying the banner and they do the tap dance in their normal Dancing Boots.

as in, their feet are not making noise. there are no taps on their shoes. this is very risky (as you would know if you saw paula abdul perform in the 2022 thanksgiving parade) because sometimes the track does not line up with the feet and looks bad

and its not easy tap dancing either. wont get technical but like. its hard. and they !! just do it !! it lines up perfectly !! unless youre a dancer who knows about tap shoes youd never know that theyre not really tap dancing!!

here is the break, for reference (starts at 1:58):

this is the original broadway cast and the quality is shit but liKE LOOK AT THEM

[welcometololaland]

VERY NEARLY UPLOADED A PHOTO OF MYSELF INSTEAD OF THIS BANNER LMAO! JUMPSCARE!

Thank you for the tags @cha-melodius @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @strandnreyes @alrightbuckaroo @carlos-in-glasses @birdclowns @lemonlyman-dotcom @iboatedhere NEEDED this, this week and I appreciate all of you! I know most of y'all are Tarlos writers and I'm so sorry but I have no Tarlos inspo this week, but if you like two very intelligent, boss-ass women lightly bullying their brother/brother-in-law (basically), then maybe you will like this! It's from Fifty First Dates (chapter 4 - released on Monday) (thanks to @rmd-writes for beta-ing).

“Can I ask a question?” Nora asks, leaning back in the booth, her eyes glinting dangerously.  Alex sighs, the beer in his hand halfway to his lips. “If I said ‘no’, would it stop you?” Nora looks at June, who rolls her eyes. “Of course not.” “Then no,” Alex replies petulantly, taking a sip of beer.  “After ant-gate,” Nora continues, now crossing her legs daintily, as if she’s the picture of etiquette and not about to ask Alex some kind of savage, personal question, “why did you not call one of us?” Alex scoffs, almost blowing bubbles from his half-empty beer glass into his face. “Come on,” he says drily, ignoring his near faux pas. “You would have made so much fun of me.” “You told us anyway,” June points out, reaching for her margarita.  “And we’re making fun of you now,” Nora adds.  “I never claimed I was smart,” Alex protests, even though he has, on multiple occasions, claimed that he is. “Oh my god, Alex,” June groans, tipping her head back momentarily in a very dramatic fashion she definitely adopted after spending too much time with Nora. “You know you’re smart. We know you’re smart. So, why did you elect to go and stay at Henry’s when you could have stayed with us?” “We just wanna know if you boned,” Nora quips, before June kicks her under the table. “Maybe not in that much detail,” June corrects, giving Nora a sharp look as she scowls. “Just a high level run-down.” “Including whether or not you f*cked.”

I know a lot of people have done this already but gonna go out on a limb and tag @kiwiana-writes @cricketnationrise @chaa-kiao @athousandrooms @stutteringpeach @clottedcreamfudge @indomitable-love @celeritas2997 @reyescarlos @sunshinestrand @goodways @fitzherbertssmolder and @watmalik (any art wips?) @three-drink-amy @walkinginland @wandering-night19 @ithilien-writes @freneticfloetry @hoko-onchi-writes @ambiguouspenny and @howtosingit just in case you're interested in an early read!

[pajarinwrites]

The Perfect Set 01

➳ fem!reader x Jacob

➳ wc: 4.8k

➳ TAGS: volleyball player!jacob, college!au, best friends to lovers

➳ WARNINGS: drinking?, slightly questionable comments about women's bodies (but our Jacob stops them before they get to finish the sentence :D)

➳ AN: omg wtf this took so long, and i kept pushing it back and then i realised it's scheduled for zhongqiujie/chuseok even and i wanted to write a little special for the holiday and i couldn't finish because i was editing this because i felt terrible that it took this fucking long to finish in the first place

also, sorry to lucas, i'm sure he drinks his respect women juice every morning

next | series masterlist | general masterlist

You could make out Jacob’s focused face from your position in the stands. No matter how many times you’d seen him before a match, you’d never grow tired of the expression he wore during warm-ups. The soft, lovely Jacob you’d known for most of your life suddenly seemed to become a whole different person. The kind of focus that shadowed his eyes and the intensity in his gaze reminded you again and again why the opposing team always seemed intimidated by his mere presence.

You watched him stride across the court, shaking hands with the opponent’s captain in front of the referee. Your heart swelled with pride once more as you remembered the team meeting at the beginning of the semester, where the players voted Jacob as their captain, unanimously. His expression had been incredulous and elated at the same, so very different from the one he was wearing right now. So very different from the one he had been wearing when he came climbing through your dorm window that night, close to tears in worry about not being able to fulfil his duties as captain.

He had big shoes to fill, true, Sangyeon had been a brilliant captain and wing spiker, but Jacob was going to be brilliant in his own right, in his own way. You told him as much, while holding him close and stroking his back lightly. He nodded solemnly against the column of your neck, opting to hold you a little closer in lieu of a verbal reply.

You’d like to hug him again now, tell him ‘see, didn’t I tell you, you’d be great?’. But you have to make do with simply waving your enormous banner and cheering him and his team on as loud as you could.

They win, of course they do. They haven’t done much else since the start of the semester. Largely due to Jacob’s tireless efforts at captain, the research that goes into the best warm-up and stretching routines, the extra hours working on stamina and reviewing game plans together. You’re there for all of it, where else would you be as his best friend? And he thanks you by giving you so much of his precious time, that he always had so little of, torn between responsibilities for his friend group, team, and university work. Not that you’re any less busy.

“You played brilliantly! Mrs. Oropeza would be so proud of you!” You great him in front of the changing rooms after the game. He hasn’t even showered yet, his bangs sticking to his forehead and his jersey sticking to his torso, in ways that leave little to your imagination. But his eyes are shining with happiness and with pride, and maybe a little bit with relief. That’s your Jacob, ever the worrier.

“Thanks! I flunked the toss in the first set to Juyeon. And I lost track off the court for a bit in the last. But the boys covered for my mistakes. I should practice my jump serve again, though. Im sure I can improve in terms of power.” You smile, listening to his excited explanations, his gaze still halfway on the court. Sometimes you wish there was something in your life you could be burning for so passionately.

“You’re always so hard on yourself.” He smiles at that, a familiar refrain. You’ve done this a million times after his matches, it always goes the same.

“Someone has to keep me in check. Especially now that I’m captain.”

“You should take more time to celebrate your achievements, though.”

“That’s what I’ve got you for, isn’t it?”

As if divinely timed, Juyeon sticks his head out the locker room door. His hair is drooping wet, droplets of water running down his neck before being soaked up by the towel he’d slung over his shoulders.

“Did I hear you speaking of celebrations?”

Maybe he was just eavesdropping, you decide.

“We’re gonna celebrate making it to quarter finals tonight. At Haknyeon’s at eight, you should join!”

“They’ve got better stuff to do than party with you knuckleheads,” Jacob jokes good-naturedly, “some of us care about our degree, you know.”

“I think your degree will survive one night of letting loose.”

“I whole-heartedly agree.”

“Great! So you can make sure our captain shows up for more than half an hour for once!”

“Get a shirt on!” Jacob exclaims, pushing his team mate back into the cabin. “Half naked! That’s no way to speak with a lady!”

“And where’s the lady?” You hear Juyeon chuckle at his own joke before the locker room door falls close behind the both of them. Jacob sticks his head out for another second.

“Will you wait for me?” He asks, as if this is the first game you’ve come to watch, as if you didn’t scream cheering slogans at the top of your lungs for one and a half hours, as if you aren’t wearing his name on your face, scribbled onto your cheeks with bright red lipstick. 

“Always,” you smile.

It takes Jacob all of fifteen minutes to come back out of the locker room. At this point most of his team mates have left, most of them stopping you chat with you. Other than the new first semesters, they’ve all come to know you as a permanent fixture in the extended team. Even though you reliably decline the offer to join the management, you make it to every game and most practices. Through Jacob’s friendship, you’ve picked up all terminology for the sport, and, through your constant support in research, you’ve gotten quite a thorough understanding of the tactics behind a play. Not to mention that you’re always front row when it comes to support and cheering. Juyeon high fives you as he leaves, reminding you of your promise to drag Jacob along to the team party.

“Who said anything about a promise?”

“If you actually get him to come, then I promise to get you free drinks all night.”

“Tempting,” you muse sarcastically but Juyeon seems to miss your tone.

“Yeah, it’ll be awesome, seriously. You two have really missed out on some great parties over the years!”

“The greatest part are usually the wonderfully embarrassing stories you tell of each other afterward. Plus the blackmail video proof.”

“And this time you can be a part of them!”

You’re not sure how to reply to the earnest expression on Juyeon’s face.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick to watching the blackmail.”

He only shrugs in response before sauntering off with one of the newer recruits for the team.

You spend your time scrolling through TikTok until a soft tap on your shoulder and the waft of a familiar aftershave alert you to the presence of your best friend. You look up, smiling, and are met with a similar expression on Jacob’s face.

“How about we go to your favourite café to celebrate?” He asks.

“Shouldn’t we go to your favourite place?”

“My favourite place is wherever you are.” He replies, as if it’s the most normal thing to say. 

You exhale unattractively through your nose as you two start walking in unison.

“Save your sappy pick-up lines for your girlfriend.”

“No girlfriend, as you know.”

“Alas, so you have to waste them on me.”

“I don’t think they’re wasted on you.”

“Ugh stop, you incorrigible flirt.”

“I’m not flirting.”

“So that’s why every girl I know has a crush on you.”

“They do?” You punched his arm at the excited expression on his face.

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Jacob laughed, rubbing his biceps where you hit him. “But don’t tell Juyeon. He’ll get sulky.” 

“Maybe you should give him flirt lessons?”

“I should. His idea of flirting is taking his shirt off.”

“Ah so he was flirting with me today,” you grinned sarcastically, looking over to your best friend. But instead of the expected teasing, you were met with a surprisingly serious expression.

“I think so. He’s been trying to show off for a while. Why else would he invite you to the party?” You were stunned into silence while Jacob held the door to your favourite café open.

“I thought he was just using me to get you to the party.” 

“That was just his excuse. He talks about you a lot.” You were floored at this new development, and your expression must have been betraying as much because one glance send Jacob into giggles.

“What’s with the disbelief? He’s not the first member to develop a crush on you.” You’re too preoccupied with sorting through all this new information to notice the way Jacob presses his lips together right after the statement, looking very much like someone who confessed something he’d rather not have.

“Anyway. What do you want? The usual?” You ignore his question in favour of returning to the can of worms he himself just opened. “So you��re saying that there are multiple of your team mates that are interested in me, right?”

Jacob groans, “I don’t know. Not right now, I guess. Juyeon was pretty clear about his… crush.” The words seem to pain him.

“But there have been several of your team mates interested in me?” You insist. He says nothing while studying the menu. You both know he won’t choose anything other than his regular iced americano anyway, so you nudge him none so gently.

“Don’t ignore me!”

“I’m not ignoring you! I just don’t know what to tell you. I guess, yeah, several. Over the years a few of them said stuff.” Jacob doesn’t turn around to face you during your conversation, opting to instead order for the both of you. You watch the barista being a little too touchy when giving him his change. She winks at Jacob. Your best friend really can’t go anywhere without being ogled. And you couldn’t be mad if you tried, you have eyes after all. Anyone, who’s ever exchanged more than three words with Jacob Bae, can tell that his kind demeanour, sparkling eyes, and fluffy hair are the stuff movies are made of. Heather here (as the name tag on her uniform informs you), seems to agree. As you cling onto your best friend’s biceps, she gives you a scalding glare.

“What stuff?” You ask. He finally faces you when the two of you make your way over to the pick-up counter. Jacob seems thoroughly unamused by your antics.

“I don’t know, dude. Just that you’re, like, cute or whatever,”

“Who said that?”

“Okay, time to change the topic,” he smiles.

“Why? Are you scared I’ll be mad when I find out what big, ole hunks of men you’ve been gate-keeping from me? What’s up with that, by the way? Are they all spineless or did you actually tell them not to ask me out?” His silence is answer enough.

“Jacob Bae! You are the reason none of your super hot athlete friends ask me on dates? What kind of best friend are you? Since when has this been going on?”

Jacob stews more in his silence but you decide not to let him get out of this particular question. He manages to hold out until you’ve both picked up your drinks and slid into your regular booth. Still avoiding eye contact like he could contract the plague from you he mutters ‘sincehighschoolorsomething’ in such a small voice that you have to lean forward and ask him to repeat himself.

“It’s not that I’m gate-keeping them from you!” He says in lieu of repeating his words, “If anything I’m gate-keeping you! You deserve better.” You heart flutters in your chest at the compliment, given in such a frank and matter-of-fact manner. Especially with how Jacob doesn’t even seem to notice how sweet his declaration was. He simply forges ahead in his explanation.

“You should see them, some of them can’t even wash their uniforms regularly. Do you remember Mark from algebra? I swear he didn’t even shower after every practice!” Jacob whines.

“Mark?” You near shout, the warm feeling behind your ribcage vaporising in a second from the surprise, “from algebra? Are you telling me it’s because of you that I couldn’t get a boyfriend in freshman or sophomore year of high school? And when I always encouraged all the girls that told me they had a crush on you, too!”

He blushes, “but girls are girls and boys are trash.” He says with such naïveté that you can’t help but laugh, all your righteous anger dissipating.

“That’s a valid point,” you concede between fits of laughter. “And, in all honesty, if you think they’re not good enough for me, then I trust your judgement.” You wink at him, but miss the way he flushes an even brighter shade of red as you take a sip of your drink.

“Anyway, the party tonight?”

“What about it?”

“Are you coming along of your own accord or do I have to drag you?”

He frowns, “But what about our victory tradition?”

You look at his petulant pout and cock an eyebrow. As important as your tradition is to both of you, you know that it’s also a convenient excuse. There’s a short staring contest between the two of you, but it’s clear that Jacob will cave first, as usual. He rolls his eyes as if there was important information printed on the inside of his skull.

“Fine! If you wanna go that bad, I’ll come along. I know that you can’t hold your liquor.”

“Awesome! You can pick me up later, I gotta go get ready.” You blow him a kiss that he pretends to bat away. “Be on time!”

“Maybe!” You reply, knowing full well you won’t.

You let Jacob into the tiny space that is your dorm room at seven fifty-five sharp, dressed in an oversized t-shirt that might have once been his.

“Is that my t-shirt?” He asks instead of a greeting.

“Who knows,” you reply getting back to your make-shift make-up station on the ground in front of your desk. Jacob plops down on your bed.

“Watch it,” you say, throwing him a piercing gaze through the mirror, “I was gonna wear that!” He gets back up immediately, looking at the mess on your bed.

“All… one, two… six of these dresses?” He asks.

“Don’t get smart with me. Obviously not. But I haven’t picked one yet. What do you think?” He takes a closer look at the heap of clothes and is immediately transported back to the last (and only) time that he helped you get ready for a party like this. He’d already been apprehensive that night, favouring a comfortable night-in with his best friend over a crowded, rowdy place of strangers. But the way your eyes lit up with the prospect of mingling made him cave, just like today. Of course, the party turned out less than ideal. So much so that it kept you from insisting taking him to another one for the better part of your university life. He should thank his lucky stars that it lasted this long. Jacob knows he could have refused you today. He could have insisted that he still felt uncomfortable, that parties simply weren’t his cup of tea. And you would have given in, easily and with the same smile as always, happy to spend the night lounging in one of your dorm rooms. Be that as it may, he also knows he couldn’t have said no to you even if it had cost him his arm. He just wants to see you happy, he thinks. And so he takes the red dress up first, ready to play stylist for you if it’s what you want. The dress pretty, but the neckline makes him a little nervous. Jacob puts it back down to look at one of the black ones instead. It glitters softly if he turns it in the light. He tries to gauge your reaction to any of the dresses by throwing a glance into the mirror but you’re completely engrossed in drawing a straight wing with your eyeliner.

It looks good, he thinks. And the glittery makeup would probably look really nice with the dress he’s holding right now. Just to be sure, he decides to take a look at the other three, holding up a dark blue piece and another black one (just how many of these do you own?).

“What do you think?” You say, directly next to his ear, and Jacob flinches, causing his shoulder to hit you in the jaw.

“Shit! Sorry!” He says but you’re only laughing. He gets temporarily blinded by the sparkle in your eye. Maybe you should cool it a little with the glittery make-up. He stutters, “Umm…”

“You good?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“It’s fine, Jake. Nothing a little plastic surgery couldn’t fix.” You’re rubbing your chin in such exaggerated suffering that he knows you’re fine. “I just need to know which dress I should wear so that we’re not even later than we already are.”

“Who’s fault is that?” He nags.

“Well, I would’ve hurried more if you had picked a dress more quickly.”

“I did pick a dress quickly.”

“Yeah? Which one?” There’s a split second in which Jacob feels self-conscious about his choice. He’s usually so adept at pin-pointing the things you’re going to like, but the way you look at him with your hair and face all done-up makes him falter a little. The next second, he’s almost mad at himself. How ridiculous of him to fear that you would ever think of less of him for his opinion, much less disregard it.

“This one,” he says, holding up the black one.

“Oooh, sparkles!” Is your only comment. You hold it in front of your body in the mirror. But instead of agreeing with his choice you look back at him again.

“What is Juyeon’s favourite colour?” The question takes Jacob so by surprise that he doesn’t even manage to stop himself from answering, “blue.”

“Okay,” you toss the brilliant, black piece back onto your bed unceremoniously and grab the dark blue one. You stare at him with those intense eyes and Jacob can’t help the thought that, as stunning as you look now, he prefers you with no make-up on. He only notices that he’s still staring when you clear your throat.

“Huh?”

“Could you turn around?”

“Oh shoot, yeah, sure,” he says, spinning around, glad that you won’t see how his face heats up. Maybe it’s your stupid make-up or the fact that you’re clearly getting ready with thoughts of Juyeon on your mind but Jacob is feeling like the air in the room has gotten a lot thicker. He wonders shortly whether he should tell you that he thinks you’re better than doing all this for a man, choosing your dress according to his preferences, dolling yourself up for Juyeon instead of for yourself. But when he opens his mouth to speak, you beat him to it, prompting him to turn around.

“Ok, done. What do you think?”

Jacob thinks he’ll be hard pressed to keep Juyeon, or anyone’s, eager hands off of you.

The two of you make it to the party only five minutes short of an hour late. Haknyeon is the one to open the door, letting you know where to find snacks, the beer pong table, and the drinks. He looks you up and down, making you wonder if there’s something wrong with your dress. Jacob steps closer to you, one arm on your elbow. He continues to stick close to your side, while you two get a feel for the place. There seems to be a game of truth or dare going on the floor of the living room and Jacob easily steers you away from it.

He hands you some form of alcohol in a red solo cup. You give it a sip, “ooh, it’s good.”

“Don’t let it out your sight. There’s not only team mates here, but also a bunch of people I don’t know well.” You chuckle.

“Ok, mom.”

Eventually, you loose your best friend in the crowd, in what looks suspiciously like a whisking away by his team mates. Possibly to get him to do a keg stand. You chuckle, thinking back to the first and only time you attended one of these after-match parties in your first semester with Jacob. The secret to why Jacob was so adamant about avoiding team parties was a less than stellar escapade with the beer keg in his freshman year that none of his older team mates would let him forget. Before you can try to go looking for him in a much needed rescue attempt, someone taps you on the shoulder. You spin around to be faced with Juyeon, in a leather jacket, open over a skin-tight shirt that leaves little to the imagination.

“Hey,” he greets you, “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“You should know that I’m always down for a little get-together.”

He laughs, “this isn’t exactly the right place then.”

“Well, as long as there’s people I like around.”

Juyeon smirks, resting his forearm against the wall next to your head and leaning into you.

“Some more than others, maybe?” He whispers under his voice. You can smell the vodka-o on his breath but it doesn’t really bother you. You mirror his smirk, leaning a little more forward.

“The jury’s still out on that, but if someone were to get me a new drink, I’d definitely warm up to them.” He snatches your empty solo cup out of your hand immediately.

“I’ll be right back,” he winks, making a beeline for the kitchen. You bite your lips in anticipation of where this night might lead but your thoughts are rudely interrupted by a familiar voice, “You look silly.” Your best friend’s expression betrays another close call with the keg. His eyes, usually bright and soft, have darkened.

“Rude!”

“What’s got you grinning like an idiot like that?”

“Oh just this and that.”

“Is ‘this and that’ roughly 1,80 tall, mildly annoying on a good day, and our best middle blocker?”

“Don’t let him hear that, it’ll get to his head.”

“Men are trash after all,” your best friend says, his face still impassionate. You bump hips with him in an effort to get him out of his funk. “But some are a little less trash,” you wink at him and he finally gives you a smile.

“I don’t really know if I should feel offended or flattered.”

Jacob keeps you company until Juyeon returns with your solo cup, filled to the brim and reeking of alcohol. You take a sip and try not to grimace from the taste. Seems like he threw every type of alcohol he could find in the kitchen into one cup and topped it off with an inch of sprite.

“Thanks,” you say anyway.

“Have you seen the pond in Haknyeon’s backyard yet? It’s the second prettiest thing tonight.” He winks and you you can’t help but giggle. Behind you, quiet enough for Juyeon not to catch it, Jacob pretends to retch. The middle blocker holds an arm out for you to take and leads you to the garden. You miss the forlorn expression on Jacob’s face.

“I think Jacob’s best friend is super cute,” one of his team mates says, making the boy in question wheel around. “What?” He asks, incredulously, before he can stop himself. Mark looks over at him from where he’s changing. “Sorry, dude,” he chuckles, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

“He’s not wrong, though,” Lucas chimes in, “at our last game she was wearing that tight t-shirt—“

“Stop… talking, please,” Jacob says, still all smiles, even though the way his team mates are talking about you makes his throat constrict. Lucas seems to either not catch his tone or choose to ignore it. “Her friend’s not bad either, huge pair of—“

“Oh my god, Lucas,” Jacob interrupts. Mark is starting to look very unhappy with where he took the conversation. Lucas just looks confused at Jacob’s reaction. “What? Are the friends of your friends also off-limits now?”

“No,” Jacob replies in between deep calming breaths, “I’d just appreciate it, if you didn’t talk about women like that in general. No matter who they are.” Lucas seems to really work through those words in his head before he shrugs his shoulders, “Ok.” Jacob is almost certain he heard Mark sigh relief.

When you meet him outside the changing room, as you always do, you have no idea about the conversations that had just happened inside the locker room. You give him a big hug, which Jacob cleverly uses to stare down Mark behind your back, who had been lingering a little too long for his liking.

“You did so well!” You say, also as always. Jacob doesn’t have it in himself to negate your gushing praises today. “Thanks,” he simply breathes, with a smile. You walk home together, another daily ritual, except today you take a detour to try out a new café you’d been talking about for ages. It’s supposed to have super cute interior and be the new hotspot in town. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. He always treasures these small moments. You’re in the final strokes of your junior year now, and time is getting increasingly scarce between both of your academic and leisurely commitments.

“You find a table, I’ll go order,” Jacob says and you agree immediately, already on the lookout for one of the lounging chairs on the deck in front of the building. He makes his way inside, immediately glad you decided to sit outside in the sun. The huge glass front of the café makes the interior feel like a hundred degrees. He walks over to the counter and is surprised to be greeted by a familiar face.

“Mrs. Oropeza, I didn’t expect to see you here!” He greets the elderly lady. She smiles warmly, the same smile she’s always smiled, ever since babysitting him when he was little. It’s been a constant fixture in his and your life to run over to her house in the neighbourhood in search of freshly baked pudín, a place to watch Sunday TV volleyball matches or a shoulder to cry on over scraped knees. Once Jacob took up volleyball in middle school, she made sure to come to all of his matches. She insisted it was not only for his sake, but also because she loved the sport.

“Well, it’s grown so quiet in the neighbourhood that I’ve been longing for a chance to get out again.”

“So you started working here?”

“Just sometimes. It’s not hard work to man the register, and I enjoy getting to talk to people.” Jacob smiled at her warm expression. He didn’t doubt that her positive presence would do the café well. “So what can I get you today, cariño?”

“I think I’ll take a latte, and one homemade lemonade for my friend.” 

“Oh, how lovely. Are you two still as inseparable as ever?”

Jacob smiles fondly at the memories of the two of you together on Mrs. Oropeza’s old, orange couch, munching on her baked goods while watching cartoons. “Yeah,” he says, smiling fondly, “we’re on our way home from one of my games.”

“Ah, I heard you were playing the Tigers today. A terrible team, in my opinion. No sportsmanship.” Jacob chuckled at her committed interest in high school volleyball teams.

“Who said that?” He laughs.

“I did,” she winks at him while ringing him up and telling the part-timer next to her his order. He hands her the cash as she inquires about the outcome of the game. “We won,” he says, his chest swelling with pride a little. He was sure that Mrs. Oropeza had heard about how infamous their opposing team was for their power and endurance.

“Of course you did. I always keep telling you the setter is the centre point of every good team. He’s the game master, without a good setter, the rest of the team has an infinitely harder team.” Jacob only nods amiably as he listens to his old neighbours often repeated chorus. “And you were always a brilliant setter,” she continues, making his cheeks burns.

“I tell all the ladies at my book club, as far as high school volleyball goes, you haven’t seen a perfect set, if you haven’t seen Jacob Bae play.” At this point, the boy in question is sure that his entire face is bright red. He waves his hand in a throw-away motion while trying to dissuade Mrs. Oropeza from uttering any more praises. He’s lucky because she seems to sense his discomfort with being the centre of attention. She let’s him go with a simple, ‘say hello to your other half for me’.

next | series masterlist | general masterlist

[teleportationmagic]

Most days Acier spends her time in the library.

The simmiering sheen on the banners that sweep through the space glitter back at her, a pale purple. Her family's colour. She'd always been partial to blue herself, but there was something to be said about rebellion.

Well. It had been rebellion at sixteen. Now that she was fully grown, it was disdain, maybe. Selfishness, if she was any less valuable a member of House Silva. How funny for them, that they had two heads of house, one which came from the outside and yet fit in perfectly, their own eldest daughter contenting herself in matters of war. They'd make a better set if they switched.

And yet. Here they were. She wonder how her husband is doing, handling his duties along with the children. She wonders how Nozel is faring, as a new magic knight. She wonders if Nebra and Solid have taken her death well.

She doesn't wonder about Noelle. Her heart throbs, at all once, and she puts it out of her mind. Unproductive and useless, she doesn't have the time for it.

The library is full of texts, none of them novel. Most of them have pages that have become blurry around the edges, from where Acier had rushed through them barely skimming. Grimgar was fully intact, thankfully. As were the pictures of her children's faces.

When she tires of it (or gets so much more tired of it, that staring at the tauntingly familiar texts goes from uncomfortable to untolerable,) she marched out to the courtyard and casts. Opposite castle Silva is a dark brick-stones spire of it's own - likely Spade's, considering the occupant and the decoration, though she's never bothered to ask - and above the both is a writhing mass of leeches.

She tries to ignore them. Her steel comes to her easy as always, sharp and pointed, an exercise in razor perfection. There's no more satisfaction in it, not for a long time, not since she came her and stopped being able to improve, but the motions are repetitive and rhythmic and soothing in their own way.

On some level she expects Vanica. This is as good as an invitation, after all, practising in full view of that eyesore. But she lets it come as a suprise, when her back is peirced.

She flips and turns, driving her own lance into her. They stand for a moment, taste of iron in the air, before the pull back.

She smiles. She always smiles. Acier can't - it would be irritating if she knew just ho much she valued to novelty of this fight - but Vanica always smiles enough for the two of them.

"Steel Magic; Dance of a Thousand Sparks"

The world lights up aroudn them, light reflecting off flecks of steel. She wants to make Vanica eat them.

She cackles, and responds with a barrage of her own, each parried against the legnth of her's. It's not a hard fight to win - in their past fight, Vanica had been far too depdant on Megicula and now stripped of her favour there was very little variety in her fight.

She wins. Predictably, her hand halfway through Vanica's chest, she wins. The soft flesh of her sticks to her hand as she pulls away.

"I won. Leave."

"I will. Just look here for a second?" And she does. She should have stayed her course, but let noone accuse her of cowardice.

Lips land against her, tasting overfermented. She destroys half her face for the insult, a cackling noise echoing around them both.

"Oh come on," She croons it from her place aginst the floor.

"Leave." Acier feels like pure ice. Or she should. Something moves in her, more than it should.

It's been a very very long time.

"Oh come on." She's pieces back together, bit by bit. Nothing changes here. "Aren't you bored, Acier?"

The kiss had done something fundamental to them, she was sure of that. "Not bored enough."

"So you will be!" She cuts her off before Acier can continue, another step into her personal space. "That's good to hear. Because I'm not bored at all - not so long as you keep beating me!"

A shudder shakes down her spine. Because that was the thing with Vanica - even when you won, you lost. "I will drag you back there, Vanica."

She grins, wide and manical. "Will you?"

She does. Forced to bear the disrespect, she does. The steel is marred, frayed, and she spends some time repairing the barrier before returning home.

After the library, she spends the most time on her bed. She can hear the siren song of apathy, and despite knowing she should be more insulated against it, sometimes...

Sometimes she wants to sleep forever. Most of the time, that disturbs her the most. Right now? She longs for it. Unconsciousness drowns her.

[desirepathzine]

Jeff Buckley Saved My Life in Orlando, Florida by Randi Eversole

In March of 2016, I was on a charter bus, headed towards Orlando, Florida. I was a senior in high school. The trip was with my Southern Baptist evangelical church choir. I did not want to be there.

The choir tour was a non-negotiable part of every year, a way for all of the concerned parents of young church goers to ship their kids off during spring break so they would spend it in service of the Lord and not mingling with all the other degenerates who were out of class. Ostensibly it was a week full of "volunteering" to some degree, singing at shelters and nursing homes, paying money to sing contemporary christian worship music in historic cathedrals. touring around whatever major city from the safety of the bus, so on. The trip was to a different scary big city every year. Prior to Orlando I had found myself in Chicago, the year before Chicago we'd done an actual tour, saving souls in Jacksonville/Florida, Savannah/Georgia, and Charleston/SC.

By the time we were halfway through Chicago, I had started to articulate issues I had with this mission, and indeed the Southern Baptist denomination of Christianity as a whole. By the time a senior trip to Orlrando, FL was announced, I saw it for what it was: an excuse to take a bunch of kids to Disney World under the banner of Christianity.

For the 12 hour bus ride to Orlando, I had prepped a few albums to listen to, as I usually did when headed somewhere new. I had discovered many favorite artists tucked away at the front of the bus (they usually made all the students sit in the back, but I was prone to motion sickness, so I always ended up at the front with all of the chaperones, who largely left me alone).

That year, my album picks had included Grace, Jeff Buckley's only album. I had of course been familiar, you couldn't sift through a single Tumblr playlist without coming into contact with Hallelujah. I vaguely knew somewhere that he had passed, that he was all of my favorite vocalist's favorite vocalist, that sort of thing.

For whatever reason, somewhere in Georgia, I decided now was the time to listen to Grace for the first time. And my download of the album had somehow not copied Mojo Pin, the album's first track, to my iPod so I indeed did start the record listening to the title track. I quickly fixed this mistake on returning home. Ancient problems from a different time, truly.

I did not listen to another record for the rest of the week.

Here was a friend, a person striving for authenticity, an artist coming into his power. All of the things I desperately craved both to be and to be around. It was a balm and a shield against all of the empty expressions of the music I was going to sing that week, the manipulative key changes and nonsensical lyrics. Here was something real and special.

So many lyrics were reaching through time to hold my hand, the beautiful melodies and vocal acrobatics elevating me, taking me away from the bus window view of the interstate, to somewhere I felt safe and seen.

I was alone in many ways that week, alienated from the religion I was raised in, alienated from my peers who maybe at one point had been my friends but had steadily pulled apart from me in the latter months of high school when it became clear we were not going to be compatible adults, bunking in a drafty Hyatt Place with roommates I really didn't know at all, who argued ceaselessly when we were supposed to be sleeping. I had been relegated to a pullout couch in an attempt to get some space.

As any anxious and isolated neurodivergent teen girl would in the circumstances, I went on a deep dive that first dark night in Orlando, far away from home and surrounded by strangers, into Jeff, his life, his work. I listened to interviews to keep the noise at bay. In my search, I found a picture of Jeff, holding a phone, on a portable bed, presumably talking to a journalist, doing press. I tracked down the location. It was a hotel somewhere in Orlando, Florida.

(photos by Merri Cyr)

It was like waving at someone in another dimension.

Two days into the tour I looked down at the t-shirts we all had to wear, a mish mash of Bible references and key words in the shape of a cross, printed on ugly mint green and coral orange t-shirts (the orange stained my bra for weeks, it was horrible). The choir was given a 'theme' every year for the tours, one inspirational word that was supposed to drive the spiritual growth of 9-12 graders. The year in Chicago had been the "restore" tour (which is extremely problematic the longer you dwell on it). "What's the tour name this year?" I blearily asked one of the chaperones. "Oh, it's the Grace tour. Make sure you use the hashtag."

The tour was the first time I encountered an actively hostile audience during any of the shows. Looking back that seems strange, but nonetheless. We often performed for unsheltered folks, who were forced to listen to us boisterously praise the Lord as they tried to get something to eat or were otherwise seeking support. The show in question took place in a parking lot where an extremely questionable Christian charity group set up once a week to attempt to convert anyone who needed a hot meal. Somewhere in the hour long set of worship music, teenagers banging on trash cans under the guise of performing STOMP (yes, like the off-Broadway thing, which no one even knew because it was such a dated concept by 2016), a capella chamber music (I did that too), and emotionally manipulative skits, one of the people in the crowd started to yell. I don't remember the exact verbatim statements, but it was along the lines of "Why are you singing when we need food, need shelter?"

That night, at the mandated debrief/devotional portion of the night before they finally let us all go to bed, many of my peers expressed that they had never thought of the work that way, as something that could be potentially a nuisance, bothersome, something people were forced to suffer through in order to have their basic needs met.

That was a question I had been asking myself for over a year at that point, ever since pretending to "restore" Chicago in 2015. Did anyone really find inspiration in a bunch of white middle class teenagers singing their little hearts out over Coldplay instrumentals? Did the sloppy manual labor we tried to do at various places for people in need really benefit anyone? Did tired building custodians go back in the day after and correct the naive mistakes of suburban teenagers who were not given any option other than to figure out ways to be helpful? Much ink has been spilled over the epidemic of teenage-centered volountourism from churches, sending unqualified children to do labor to get closer to God, etc. I was tired of treating people less fortunate than this community like pawns to achieve karma points. I was tired of singing bad music. I was tired of feeling like a ghost.

When we got back on the bus, or returned to the hotel, or had mildly unsupervised free time at venues, I would check back in with Jeff. I listened to So Real over and over again, its simplicity was spellbinding. One night they carted us to Disney Springs, the shopping district on Disney property, to burn off steam before getting ready for another day of presumably hard work. I was too tired to traipse around, half-heartedly tagging along with folks that seemed indifferent to my presence. I sat down with a shaved ice and watched a pair of living statues performing in the humid evening, bronze and vaguely Victorian looking, glimmering under the ambient theme park lights. I watched them work a crowd while I listened to So Real and briefly became lost in a story that to this day I cannot recall correctly, some short-lived idea about statues yearning to be real. I started crying, not helped by the schedule that left us overworked and under-rested, and a lack of access to protein and actual nutrients beyond pizza.

Every night, I thought of Jeff on a hotel bed, years ago, in the same place as me. Was he alone? Did his worldview, the questions he screamed out towards the end of Eternal Life, his propensity for diving into the biggest emotions, isolate him like they isolated me?

It's easy to fall in love with someone who has passed, it makes it easy to assign them traits you admire or romanticize their short life. I don't think I fell in love with Jeff in that way, although it is undeniable that he was beautiful. I didn't need lips to kiss, I needed a shoulder to cry on, and it felt like there was a beautiful friend helping me chart a course out of self-loathing and getting mired in philosophical mud.

The last night of the tour, before the Friday fun day when all pretense of work is thrown out to go to a theme park or explore safely curated areas of the city, it was expected that somebody, a youth pastor or the choir director or a well meaning chaperone, would give a sort of pious pep talk, asking us if we really believed all the things we were singing, or were we just having fun on a spring break trip? Anyone who is familiar with Cry Nights at evangelical summer camp knows this tactic. Overstimulate and exhaust young people with still developing brains, feed them a steady diet of sweets and carbohydrates, and then the claws of emotional manipulation will sink so much deeper. And then make them go sing a concert with exhausted voices and clogged sinuses from crying, where their emotions and convictions will run so high, that surely no one in the audience will go unmoved.

That last pep talk reared its ugly head before the last concert, as I presumed it would. But I didn't really listen, while the tears flowed around me. In my head, I was sitting across from Jeff Buckley at the pullout bed, quietly centering myself, trying to find peace in the midst of the chaos. We smiled at each other and said nothing in this vision.

I returned home, glad to be done with youth choir forever, vowing ot never go back to the church I had been raised in. (and also I finally listened to Mojo Pin since it didn't make it onto my iPod)

I was trying my best to give myself grace under strange and infuriating circumstances. Jeff taught me how. Being curious and sensitive is a strength, rage can fuel beauty, seeking authenticity is a worthy journey. That this situation was temporary and I would not have to live my life beholden to the whims of a religious institution that actively benefitted from my fears. Grace, real grace, given freely without the expectation of a transaction, is beautiful. I returned home, a week before my eighteenth birthday, and began the long process of figuring out what I actually believed, what I actually valued, and pursuing the things that filled me with joy at full speed, a road that I am still traveling.

[orphicpoieses]

Writing Log

August 3, 2023

WIP: Project Rosary

Phase: Active Writing

Percentage: ~ 50%

Hello and welcome back to a new writing log.

I am slowly coming near the halfway mark in my Project Rosary Part 1. Even though life is stressful right now (exam season started in Germany two weeks ago), I am fairly consistent in writing every morning before studying.

Creating stories in these times is crucial for me. I immediately feel stressed, when I cannot write (especially if people tell me to not write during the exam phase!). It is like my little escape from everyday work.

But to be honest with you, I am currently a bit unmotivated. Not only because stuff currently happens within my family, but also because everything seems to be quite exhausting. So, what’s been new these days, is that I am trying to get anything down. A new Tumblr post, stuff for my project, new stuff… All of that.

Some of you have already seen that I came up with a new kinda fantasy story, that has no particular meaning, whatsoever.

It doesn’t have a name, beside the codename for Tumblr, so I can tag it: Project Unnamed. It is probably the shittiest story I have ever written. Not only because it is mainly pure Romantasy, which I normally don’t write, but also the fact, that I am writing some elven romance thing while complaining about how many elven or fae romance is out there? It’s kinda ironic.

To give you a little insight in the quick story (including some fancy banners I made for this):

It is about a somehow royal girl (I haven’t decided on that just yet), who lives in a world where magic is banned and seen as a wicked thing. One day, she gets in danger in the nearby woods, where a mysterious man saves her. Fascinated by his ethereal presence, she decides to find him again (which obviously works), where she finds out that he is able to control magic. He seems to come and go like a spirit and so she calls him the white spirit, also because he doesn’t tell her anything about him, besides the facts, that are obvious to her. She gets him to teach her about magic and soon enough, she finds out, that she can use the forbidden force too. They kinda have a secret relationship going on (with probably many red flags - I don’t know if he is a good or a bad guy). The drama comes from the secret relationship and when people find out about the elf in the forest.

I already know that this is going to be bad. I have no intention on publishing it. Maybe one day on Wattpad or as snippets here on Tumblr, but this is probably the most cliché Romantasy story you can come across. Even though I kinda like the characters…

But this is never going to any publisher in this world. It’s to bad for that.

If you are lucky enough to grasp an update on this story in form of a writing log, you are probably blessed. Project Unnamed is not even considered an active WIP.

But back to the original project, of which I am very proud of.

Project Rosary is still right before the half-time of the book, but I only have to finish the current scene and I am done. I like the pace in which things are falling together. Also, because I have the time to come up with solutions to plot holes in the storyline.

Now, as I am slowly coming to the end of one book of the series, I ask myself more, if I should wait until all seven books are done and then publish the first one. If people read the current book first, they will be (a little bit) spoilered for the rest. But if I publish the rest first, they get spoilered for the current book. It’s a bit of a challenge here, since everything connects to each other.

Luckily, I have until the final draft is done, to decide wether or not I publish now or later.

And that sums up, what’s new.

I hope, you enjoyed reading this writing log and if so, please consider to share it and subscribe to my Tag List, so that you get notified when I post.

See you soon and bye bye 💕

From the tag list: @ladyazulina

Other: @writeblrsupport

[helion-ism]

my knuckles were bruised like violets, sucker punching walls

The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth. Something wet and warm slid down her neck. A sniff told her it was blood, too. And her fingernails, the ones gripping the stone steps — Nesta blinked at her hand. She had seen sparks. Her fingers were embedded in the stone, the rock glowing as if lit with an inner flame.

cursed you as I sleep-talked

spineless in my tomb of silence

Nesta dug her hands into her pockets, wishing she’d opted for the warm gloves Feyre had coaxed her to take. She’d refused. Or silently refused, since she had not uttered a word to her sister after they’d left the study.

tore your banners down, took the battle underground

Knew the fastest and deepest way to annoy Cassian, hurt him right now would be to strike for that, to make him doubt the work he did and whether he deserved to be here. The instinct crept up, a rising wave, each word selected to slice and wound. She’d always had the gift, if it could be called that.

and maybe it was ego swinging

“Now I tell you I’m done.” Nesta blinked, the only sign of surprise she’d allow. But she sliced into Cassian before he could go on. “Does that mean you’re done panting after me as well? Because what a relief that will be, to know you’ve finally taken the hint.” Cassian’s muscled chest heaved, his throat working. “You want to rip yourself apart, go right ahead. Implode all you like.”

maybe it was her

Morrigan was a self-righteous busybody. The thought raged through Nesta as she stood in the subterranean library beneath the House of Wind. A vain, self-righteous budybody.

flashes of the battle come back to me in a blur, all that bloodshed, crimson clover. uh-huh, sweet dream was over.

I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you again in the next world — the next life. And we will have that time. I promise. She relived those moments more often than she cared to admit. The press of his fingers as he’d cupped her face, the way his mouth had felt and tasted, tinged with blood but still tender.

my hand was the one you reached for all throughout the great war

Cassian bristled. But he held out his hand again. “Please.” She’d never heard hin say that word. It was a rope thrown between them. He’d meet her halfway — let her win the power battle, admit defeat, if she would just get off the rock. She told herself to get up, to take that outstretched hand. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t bring her body to rise.

[convexicalcrow]

Sir Cub's banners always had a strange aura around them. The colours were always so vivid, and the metals shining brighter than the sun. Some swore up and down that they'd seen the air shiver and shimmer as they faced him down for a joust, somehow losing sight of their opponent as they prepared to fight.

To be fair, the knight was a rogue who spent his time wandering between kingdoms, going where the money and the tournaments were. He belonged to no king, and that was how he preferred it. But every time he fought in tournaments, he won, and no one really knew how. Something always seemed to happen. An accident. A horse going lame. Shimmering. Blindness. A distraction from the stalls.

Sir Cub laughed all of this off. Of course they were just coincidences. How could something happening during the first round of the joust really be responsible for him winning? That was absurd, and most agreed, which was how Sir Cub liked it.

After all, if they knew how he crafted his banners, how the paints were made, and the patterns decided upon, and the way the spells were weaved in a magic circle in the thickest part of the woods, then maybe they'd never let live. And Sir Cub couldn't have that. His masters would never forgive him.

He sat by the fire, sketching out the next design. A spell woven into the banner itself, from the paints to the texture of the wool used to craft the banners. A spell designed to confuse, nothing more, nothing less. The tournament in the next kingdom was calling, and chaos was on his mind. Let them decide who he was. Let him be in many places at once.

He smiled as the design took shape, seeing the image in his head as dictated by his masters. It required precision, and marking the design on the banner would take all night to meet that level of precision. But the effect of it once it was done would be worth it. He felt his masters watching over his shoulder, and a cold hand touching his head. They had a plan, and they gifted him the languages he needed to complete the spell. Tomorrow. Tomorrow at the full moon. Tomorrow, the banner is finished.

Of course, no one bore witness to Sir Cub in the woods. No one ever saw him when he didn't mean to be seen. He would disappear into the fog, or around a corner, or suddenly be travelling the other direction, or seen halfway across town. And no one would think it strange because they'd forget they ever saw him. And that was how he liked it.

[palialaina]

I have made

MY KITCHEN!

I think I need to move my prep stations around to make it easier to reach the stoves, but for the moment I'm really proud of this.

I made another chair, so now Lark doesn't have to drag in one of my bigger ones, or if I invite Jel over for dinner, he has a decent chair to sit on.

Weirdly, Tish also sold me some Bellflower blueprints, but holy heck. Flow infused boards, Tish? I think I'm just going to buy that stuff when I have the money! Jeez!

My front room is pretty empty now. I was thinking I'd use a medium room to have... Iunno, a library? But there's enough space in the main room now that I can just put it there. I do think I want another small room to build a bathroom (and I'll probably move my closet in there once I do), but seriously, Zeki's night market prices!

That said, I now have some pretty good notes on what to make and what to preserve to get a pile of coin every so often. I also finally wrote down the things I still need for the Night Sky Temple fish constellation thin. I'm about halfway done, which is nice, but all the things I need now are really hard to get my hands on.

...I kind of want to tell Jel that the fabric he gave me got turned into a not-half-bad wall hanging that's next to my bed now, but he did ask me not to tell him. Maybe I can make a... maybe I can buy a Bellflower banner and give it to him as thanks?

He really does seem to like getting crystal lake lotus's tho. He's always happy whenever I give him one, even if it's only been a day. Which is sweet. I'd give him a whole bunch at once if I could! A bouquet of pretty lilies and lotuses... would that be too subtle?

....actually, with it being Jel, it's probably too forward, never mind, bad idea, abort, abort.

(I say this as though he didn't send me an entire Ravenwood planter of goth flowers when I first started getting my house put together. He's so adorable when he goes overboard, I swear.)