#can i just jump into my own story or what like

[bethanythebogwitch]

Yeah, DW writers tend to fall into the trap of "my character can't ever kill someone so I'm going to say that any other option, including stuff that is way worse than just dying, is more moral". It's the same problem Superman has where he won't kill, but will stick his enemies in the hell that is the phantom zone.

While there is a lot of inconsistency that comes with characters being written by so many different people, each with their own takes, I think there is some in character reasons why certain Doctors don't kill. For the more optimistic and pacifistic ones like 5 and 8, they often genuinely hope that their enemies can reform (unless they're Daleks) and want to give those enemies the chance to live. For some of the darker Doctors like 6, 7, and 9, they have the issue where they're scared of what they'll become if they jump to killing without it being the absolute last resort. If they accept that killing is an option, how long will it take before they are killing all their enemies, even those who could reform? Interestingly, both of those reasons have been used by DC writers as reasons Batman hasn't killed the Joker yet.

Of course, inconsistent writing is the biggest cause of a lot of these problems. Some writers will have a Doctor kill enemies of they need to, while others insist they won't kill and then need to come up with some other way to dispose of the villains. And sometimes it's out-of-character writing. For example, in Rogue, I think it was out of character for 15 to so quickly jump on the "exile the LARPing bird people to an empty dimension" plan without trying alternatives first, but the writer needed that setup for the tragic end of his boyfriend getting trapped, so they just went with it.

Of course, probably the most famous example of a Doctor trapping his enemies in a hell dimension (or close enough anyway) from The Family of Blood isn't an example of him thinking it's more moral than killing. He was just pushed so far over the edge that he wanted the villains to suffer that bad.

Side note: part of my problem with the War Doctor stories from Big Finish is I don't think he's ruthless enough. War was the Doctor who gave up on his morals and the promise of the name "Doctor" to end the time war at all costs, but the writers aren't willing to treat him as someone who will do whatever it takes. Like if you're going to write War like 8 or 9, just have one of them be the time war Doctor.

My favorite part of doctor who ever is when the doctor does their whole “I refuse to kill this villain/monster because of merciful moral reasons” bit and then immediately follows it with “so instead I will trap them alone in a barren hell dimension for all eternity”. It’s like that’s worse, though. do you get why that’s worse.

[archangeldyke-all]

ok hear me out angel, what about reader asking sevika about Isha’s family? Like wondering if they shouldn’t find her family or anything.

Maybe Sevika could open up about her own past with her abusive father and confess that she relates to Isha because she was probably either an orphan or running away from a toxic environment?

idk if you share my vision but I loveee when Sevika is vulnerable.

🖤

god :,) i love this

men and minors dni

as a family, you've all been learning sign language to better communicate with isha.

the girl is young and restless, and she gets frustrated easily when her hands can't keep up with her thoughts. she would rather just use jinx's surprisingly good interpretation of her facial expressions to communicate.

so, none of you are experts yet, but isha is able to tell you all a little bit more about herself the more she learns.

she doesn't know how old she is, but in the mines she was grouped with kids aged 4-6. so she's close to there.

she doesn't have any parents, and she doesn't remember ever having parents.

and when she met jinx, she had made an escape from the mine camps she was raised in, being chased by goons wanting to bring her back. tiny hands are useful in mines. and isha was a for-lifer.

isha explains this all to you slowly, over time, mostly with jinx's encouragement. and living in the undercity, stories like isha's aren't as rare as they should be. so you're all a little numb to the true horror of isha's life before jinx.

it hits you all at different times.

jinx is the first person to shed tears for isha. you wake up in the middle of the night to horrified screams coming from the girls' room, and both you and sevika sprint in, fearing the worst.

it's just isha having a nightmare, but it's still heartwrenching to watch as she sobs and shakes and screams out in her sleep. jinx is the only one who could wake her up, her voice seeming to break through the horrors for poor isha. the girl snaps awake with a gasp, launching into jinx's arms with a relieved cry.

"w-what happened, kiddo?" jinx whispers, her voice shaky.

isha quickly, shakily signs something only jinx can see, and she bursts into tears, wrapping isha up in a hug.

"what was it? what'd she say?" sevika asks.

jinx shakes her head. "'canary went quiet.'" she says, shakily. "she dreamt about the mines suffocating her."

you shiver, and sevika sighs heavily. both of you crawl onto the floor, preparing for a long night of soothing the kids to sleep.

the next person who cries about it is you.

you stumble to the kitchen in the middle of the night in search of a glass of water and catch isha in the fridge, stuffing her face with leftovers from dinner.

"you wan' me to warm that up for you, kiddo?" you ask around a yawn.

isha jumps and stumbles to her feet, her eyes wide and fearful, the food splattering to the floor. sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-- she signs over and over.

you blink. "no-- what? don't worry about it baby, 's just some spilled rice--"

isha bursts into tears and starts tugging at her hair, worry consuming her, you gasp, darting forward and pulling her in for a hug. she flinches just a bit before she realizes you aren't going to hurt her, and your heart shatters.

"isha, baby, you can eat as much food as you want, whenever you want." you whisper into her blue hair. isha moans against you. "that's a rule here. you'll never be in trouble for taking food. even if it's jinx's 'secret' cookies." isha giggles a little at this, and you start to cry, burying your face against her scruffy head of freshly dyed blue hair.

you both cry until isha's stomach grumbles, and then you burst into giggles.

"c'mon. i'll make you your favorite if you help me." you say, standing from the floor and flicking a light on. isha gasps.

blueberry pancakes? she signs with a grin. when you nod, isha darts forward and hugs your legs. thank you ms. baby. she signs. it makes you start to cry again.

sevika's the last one to crack, but that doesn't surprise you.

what does surprise you is how open she is about it.

isha asks about family one evening over dinner. it's got you all a little emotional, the sweet questions she signs.

is this family? she asks first.

a few forks clatter onto plates, and it's silent. isha's inquisitive gold eyes dart around the table, waiting for one of you to speak. sevika looks at you you look at isha.

jinx speaks. "close enough, yeah." she says.

you grin, and bite your lip. sevika sighs.

is there more? isha asks.

all your smiles immediately fall as the solemn topic of more family, alive and dead, is brought up.

jinx sighs. "you know vi, my sister, the asshole cop." she mutters. isha giggles at the curse. "i... had parents. don't remember much of 'em. mostly, i remember the stories vi would tell me about 'em. felicia and connel. they died when i was young. then i had a few brothers and vander... and they died too..."

isha pouts and darts forward to hug away jinx's far away look.

sevika takes over while jinx starts stroking isha's hair.

"then she had silco. and me, i guess." she says with a shrug. jinx smiles a little.

"do you have any family in zaun, sev?" jinx asks.

you reach out and grab sevika's hand, and she kisses your knuckles before speaking slowly.

"i had a dad. we had a... shaky relationship." she says simply. jinx understands this, and she hums with a nods. isha's blinking at sevika with big eyes, listening intently. "he died hating me, i mean we were always feuding. but then sometimes, we weren't feuding, and..." she shakes her head and huffs. "and after that i kinda thought family was somethin' i just wasn't any good at." a few tears fall down her cheeks, and she looks up at the girls across the table.

but look at you, now, big mama. isha signs with a happy smile.

jinx bursts into laughter at the use of the nickname, and sevika bursts into tears.

you giggle and coo, pulling sevika into your arms to let her cry in your shoulder. "'s okay, big mama." you tease.

"s-shut up!" sevika cries. isha giggles, and sevika lifts her face to smile at the girl, tears streaming down her cheeks. "look at me now, kid. exactly."

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@lavandasz @strawberrykidneystone

[musashi]

Hiiii, so this is a call for some help with a video I have in the works right now.

I am looking for a Latinx volunteer to... I guess sensitivity read and/or help me fine-tune a very specific part of a youtube video script. Preferably someone in the Ace Attorney fandom, but you do not need to be by any means--if there are any plot details you need me to explain to you to make my points clearer, my autistic ass will jump at the opportunity.

It's a misconception debunking video with a little 'character assassination' bit at the end where I plan on talking about unfortunate boxes, flanderizations, and stereotypes that some of the characters in my favourite visual novel often get lumped into. One of these characters is Diego Armando, a Latino (dark skinned Japanese in the original) man who is constantly held to higher scrutiny by the fandom than his lightskinned peers. He is frequently demonized, painted as a misogynistic scumbag, held in much worse faith than other culprits for his very understandable and sympathetic wrongdoing, and overall just treated incredibly harsh for things that other comparable characters get away with on account of them 'looking' white and having more anglicized names.

Since I am white myself I do not plan on speaking excessively about the experience when it is not my own but I think it is a huge fucking disservice to not focus on the fact that this fandom treatment all just stems from racism. It's the one part of my video where I don't plan on even entertaining "the other side" or explaining where the misinterpretation "comes from" I want to just. Make the point. That it's racism, with no rhyme or reason.

But I obviously don't feel qualified to just do that on my own so this is just me putting out feelers to ask if anyone would like to read over this part of my script for me, offer concrit (scalding concrit if you must, please, I want it to be as tight as possible) and basically just make sure my own white privilege doesn't gloss over, misrepresent, or miss anything. Basically just asking for help not fucking it up.

Again you do not have to be into AA to help me with this, I can tell you all about the character and what he does and doesn't do, his place in the story, and the things I hear about him in fandom and how they don't hold up on other comparable characters. Just know I will have to spoil the whole final game for you if you ever plan on getting into it haha. And, once again, please only volunteer if you are Latinx yourself.

I will, of course, give you full credit and thanks in my video and in the description, and link my viewers to any and all platforms if you'd like. Since I make no money off youtube and am horrendously broke myself, if you have any donation links posted anywhere I will boost the hell out of those too. That's about all I can offer for compensation OTL

Please contact me via ask if this is something you're interested in. You can also reply on this post and I can open DMs for you or get in touch with you via email or discord. I really, really, really want to include this in the video but I want to do it right.

Even if you're not someone who qualifies, if you are an AA blog or have lots of AA blogs following you, I'd appreciate a reblog to boost this! Thank you :3

[kandadze]

There's a particular quality to Fangs of Fortune that I've seen pointed out as one of the show's weaknesses, and that is the seemingly illogical at times, nonlinear way in which the story is presented to us. And as much as I can see how that could be an issue for some folks, for me personally it's a big part of why the show as a whole works so well.

For one, it's my favorite storytelling technique. Puzzle-like structures, flashbacks, dreams vs reality, story-within-a-story, memory games... I used to incorporate them in my own writing and I look for them in the media I'm consuming, especially visual. Before I even knew what Fangs was really about, based on the trailer (and then the MV) alone, I clocked it as a sort of a fever dream, and I was seated.

Then there is the overarching theme of dreams that the show reiterates often and in many ways. We're being told repeatedly that the lives of these characters are a dream; that there's a moment of falling asleep and there's a moment everyone will need to wake up. The amount of dream-like flashbacks and memories, not to mention the illusions the characters are forced into again and again is staggering; in fact, until the very end I wasn't sure if the whole story won't turn out to be either a memory or a dream told by a descendant of one of the characters.

When we tell a story from memory, due to how fleeting and subjective it is, we will inevitably stumble upon inconsistencies; there'll be time lapses, sudden changes of scenery, continuity issues. When we dream, there's no logic in anything we encounter, time and space have no meaning, and we can't even be sure that we're still ourselves. Like Through the Looking Glass Alice jumping over little streams

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

we continue finding ourselves in different places, very often in a different time, and encountering different people than just a moment earlier.

And so in the show that consistently keeps us guessing what's real and what's not, who's dreaming and who's not, and when the illusion started and for whom... it only makes sense that the way the scenes are cut and edited appears to be - almost random, fragmented, not entirely clear. I for one, am very okay with it.

(I'm also not in any way deluding myself that all of it was a conscious and deliberate choice of the show's creators; other than a simple fact that perfection is not possible, censorship, the limit put on the amount of episodes, as well as time and money constraints all undoubtedly played part in what the final product looks like. I'm just making a conscious and deliberate choice to focus on what works for me. YMMV.)

[samsalami66]

Tough decision, but "I will hang on (until I can't anymore)" with Dreamling? (Soccer au maybe? 🥺)

🤘five-and-dimes

Shooting for the Sky

Hey my lovely @five-and-dimes! Thank you for the prompt, I had a great time writing this! I hope you don't mind some humour sprinkled in between the usual angst and fluff, the idea suddenly grew wings and took flight and I had zero control over it.

Morpheus is regretting every single decision he has ever made in his tragically short life that led him up to this moment. If only he wasn't at fault for a hundred percent of them, from starting to kick a ball around with Olethros at age ten, to signing his first professional contract and later joining the Fiddlers. 

This blasted team of absolute nutters. 

Team building, Hob has said with a smile and a glint in his eyes that Morpheus hasn't quite been able to place. Now he knows it to be unbridled insanity mixed with a healthy dose of sadism, joy granted by witnessing his best friend's early demise due to the heart attack he would surely suffer in the next few moments. 

Morpheus has heard about team building exercises where a team went to play minigolf or drove around with go-carts or some other safe and ordinary and fun experience. But of course his band of suicidal idiots would go skydiving for such an event. And of course they have all done this before, since they have zero sense for self-preservation and do not care about their personal well-being at all. 

Those words out of his mouth have only caused the other men to burst into laughter when he said them. 

So now he is here. ‘Here’ being an aeroplane about a kilometre above sweet British grounds, strapped like a toddler to Hob Gadling's chest. Apparently you do not jump on your own the first time you skydive, which has never been a thing Morpheus gave much thought to, since he never expected to find himself in this situation. 

But he has done a lot of things he didn't expect himself to do since he has met Hob. Wonderful, amazing Hob, who is currently resting his chin on Morpheus’ shoulder so he can look out the window while Morpheus himself is trying his hardest not to hyperventilate. 

The team would never let him forget it if he had a panic attack over skydiving. Their serious support ends with the after-effects of abuse, everything else will become part of the Terrific Team Tales (what an awful name), which they recap at least once a year on pub night, specifically to torture the other members with embarrassing stories of the past. 

It is a horrifying tradition. Truly grotesque. 

Morpheus will not give them more material by panicking. 

So, instead, he concentrates on Hob. 

Hob, who stands pressed to his back, head to calf, lending to him the warmth Morpheus so rarely feels on his own. Hob, who's scent envelops Morpheus like a hug of comfort and safety, calming him like few other things could these days. And Hob, who's midsection is pressed directly to Morpheus’ backside. Will be pressed to his backside for the whole dive. Together, in the air, putting his life in Hob Gadling's hands. 

Oh dear.

Perhaps the panic attack is the better option after all. These thoughts will only lead him to a single outcome, and he's absolutely not going to face this conversation after falling a whole kilometre out of an aeroplane. Absolutely not. 

Just as Morpheus is about to force his thoughts back onto the ridiculous ideas of his teammates, the voice of the pilot sounds over their headsets.

“We reached the final height for the jump! The door will be opened as soon as we hit the agreed upon coordinates. Have a good way down, gentlemen!” 

Cheers ring out around Morpheus, and ten men, Hob included, jump up and down with barely concealed excitement. Hob's jumping jostles him where he stands, and Morpheus barely catches himself before he would have crashed backwards into Hob. 

��Someone's excited,” he comments with a wry smile, which only turns softer when he looks over his shoulder to see Hob's bright eyes, shining with joy.

“I get to share one of my favourite activities with my favourite person, of course I'm excited!” 

Morpheus softens even further at that answer, Hob’s affection as always so easy to grasp. 

“Ugh, find a private channel to flirt on with your man, Hobert!” Sounds Corin's voice over their headset, and Morpheus can't help but chuckle at how he and Hob stick their tongues out at each other. 

“Ten bucks that I’ll land first!” calls Abel into the round, which Cain immediately meets with “Twenty bucks that you’re full of shit!”

“Fifty that you’ll both be last,” Mervyn murmurs, and the rest of the team laughs at their bickering, as they always do. 

Cain and Abel, the other brothers in the team, have a sort of love-hate relationship going on. Half of the time Morpheus is a bit worried they might kill each other with their antics, but in the end they would never seriously hurt each other. Though if it does happen one day, Morpheus believes the murdered brother would come back to life just so that they might continue their bickering. Mervyn likes to pretend that he doesn't find it hilarious. 

Behind Cain and Abel the door of the aircraft suddenly opens, the wind suddenly overpowering every thought Morpheus might have had. He couldn't look outside, as there were about nine burly football players between Hob and him and the door. But even just the coldness of the air against his face, unnatural in comparison to the cold he has felt so far down on safe ground, wipes his mind clean of coherent thought. 

“Ready?” Hob says, so close to his ear that Morpheus feels his breath on his cheek, clearly to avoid speaking over the open channel. It makes him shiver, but the cold covers the real reason just fine. 

“Absolutely not,” he replies as loud as he dares, while making grabby hands towards Hob's arm to hold onto. The other man complies immediately, and Morpheus digs his fingers deep into Hob's biceps. “But I'll be fine as long as you're there.” 

“If you change your mind, say the word, yeah? We don't have to jump.” 

“Kollité, I would do a lot of things to see you happy. Including jumping out of a plane with only a piece of cloth strapped to my back, like some crazy person.” 

Hob looks increasingly fond the longer Morpheus talks, and eventually he smacks a loud kiss to his cheek, and then another to his forehead and his nose and wherever he can reach from behind Morpheus’ back. It's silly and adorable and so Morpheus laughs, free from the fear of judgement he once had. 

“I like my men a little crazy.” Hob murmurs into his ear then, and Morpheus thinks he might choke on the thin and cold air. 

“Let's go boys!” Corin then calls over their headsets, which suddenly brings movement into the aeroplane. One after another, the Fiddlers jump out of the open door, some head-first, others (Ken) do a flip into nothingness. And all too soon, Hob and Morpheus are the only ones left on the plane. 

“Run. Makes it easier to jump,” Hob calls over the noise. 

Screw it, what is there to lose (except his life, the part of his brain that is not yet totally beyond salvation provides) anyway?

Together, he and Hob run the ten steps towards the door of the aircraft and jump. 

Morpheus regrets it almost immediately. 

Upon falling, his stomach swoops and turns in the most uncomfortable manner possible and when he looks down he sees certain death rushing at him. His heart pounds in his ears and he's pretty sure he doesn't breathe for at least a full minute with how light headed he feels as he finally sucks in his first breath. 

But then broad arms snake around his chest, impossibly warm hands are splayed across his ribs, and Morpheus feels himself melt against Hob. He trusts this man, quite literally with his life, proven as of this moment. After all, Hob is the one that has the parachute strapped to his back and he is also the one who knows how to work it. Morpheus thinks (hopes) that in an emergency he would remember the instructions Hob gave him a few hours ago and pull the right flap, but he prays it won't come to that.

He would much rather enjoy Hob's warmth against his back, the arms that hold him and not open his eyes again until they're on the ground once more. 

“Just hold onto me, love.” Hob whispers into his ear and Morpheus can’t help but snort. 

“Oh I’ll hang on, alright? Don’t think I will let you go though, once we’re on the ground.”

A chuckle, right beside his ear, and Morpheus simply closes his eyes and concentrates on Hob’s warmth, the wind on his face and the adrenaline rushing through his body. After that first moment of falling, the tingling in his stomach almost turns into a pleasant sensation and he feels like every breath fills his lungs up way past the limit. He could run a marathon right now without breaking a sweat, the amount of energy coursing through his veins is just perfect. 

Slowly he starts to understand why the other men were so excited for this team-building activity. 

Adrenaline-junkies, the lot of them. 

Morpheus opens his eyes next when they are suddenly jolted into a slower fall. As he looks upwards he sees the bright green parachute with the Fiddlers’ club crest in the middle that Hob has shown him during their preparation for the jump. Since this is a team building exercise, naturally all gear is sponsored by the club and usually Morpheus would find this incredibly tacky. But looking upon the crest of the Fiddlers only fills him with a sense of pride, to be using or wearing anything sponsored by this team is simply amazing. 

He’s proud of who he works for, who he’s representing, and the thought is so sudden Morpheus feels tears sting in his eyes. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hob’s voice sounds next to his right ear and Morpheus has to blink a few times before he can see clearly what Hob is referring to. But once he does he lets out a small gasp of surprise. The sun is setting on the far horizon and a few clouds break her light just so that reds and purples and pinks colour the sky around them like the most stunning of watercolour paintings. 

“Oh,” he whispers as the tears suddenly spill over, his throat closed off with emotions he can't quite name. It really is beautiful. The sky, the view, the man behind him. His life, really. He's grateful for so many things in that moment, but he manages to voice one thing.

“Thank you, Hob. For taking me along. And being patient with me.” 

“Anytime, lovey. Anytime.”

[burningcheese-merchant]

2 QUESTIONS.

2: short stories WHEN!? -nf

3: any more facts about them? id love to hear more about these blorbos

Short stories soon! I have several in mind already, I just want to post a few more Spice/Golden-centric ones before them. We gotta continue along Spice's accidental redemption lol. But there will be stories, I promise

Don't want to spoil everything immediately (that's for when I post the official character sheets lol), so eat these bits of trivia about both of them:

Pepper Jack:

While he's not outright claustrophobic, he does still get kind of anxious/wary in small or enclosed spaces. Rule of thumb for him is that he needs whatever room he's in to have at least one door, or one window that he can fly through (the window is more important tbh. He just... needs some sort of view of the sky). Have that and he's all good

He has a HUGE sweet tooth. He goes nuts over candy and cake and chocolate and all those things. (The best part of Aunt Hollyberry's visits is that she always bring him and his sister sweets from her kingdom. He loves Hollyberrian desserts, they sure know how to make them over there!)

He loves flying with all of his heart. Up in the air is where he feels the most free and at peace. He'll go on long solo flights when he wants to be alone or clear his head, as no one can reach him up in the clouds (besides his mom, but she tries to respect his need for space when it shows itself)

He also likes to sit/perch atop trees and just watch the world go by (he has a few "bird" habits, as you can see lol)

BONUS TO THE ABOVE: A game he likes to play with his father (and his sister, too, after she's born) is flying up and hiding in the treetops while they try to spot him from down on the ground within a certain time frame. No jumping up or climbing the trees or shaking them so he falls out, that's cheating! (Mom doesn't usually play because it's inherently unfair. She can fly just like he can, thus she'd find him instantly)

Matar Paneer:

She is OBSESSED with getting tattoos. She was drawn to her father's almost literally from the moment she opened her eyes and they registered in her mind. Whenever he held her as a baby, she'd try to reach for them and grab at them (and at the Light of Destruction, too. She was, like... hypnotized by the Soul Jam as a baby). Every single time her birthday rolls around, she tells people she wants tattoos just like her papa (the answer is "no, you're too young" for most of her life. She gets Very Big Mad every time). She's been caught drawing and painting on herself multiple times, trying to make her own (Golden scolded her if she got her clothes dirty, but otherwise, she and Spice just thought it was adorable). She WILL get her tattoos someday, there's no doubt about that. (But what they'll look like remains to be seen...)

She loves all of her "extended family" (all of her parents' friends lol), but her #1 favorite person is Mozzarella. She and Auntie Mozzarella are two peas in a pod, partners in crime. The same way Smoked Cheese mentors and indulges Pepper Jack, Mozzarella mentors and indulges Matar Paneer. When she feels like she's struggling, and like she can't turn to her brother or her parents, she goes straight to Mozzarella for comfort and advice

Her katar were gifts from Cilantro Cobra (who is alive and well in my canon don't @ me). They were a labor of love from her and the other cobras, crafted and sharpened with the utmost care and precision. She even went the extra mile and had symbols carved into them: Golden Cheese Kingdom hieroglyphs in one, Wild Spice symbols and patterns in the other. They are some of Paneer's most prized possessions

She's very particular and fussy about her hair, and would prefer that nobody touches it lol. Her dad is the only one with 100% free reign, as they have literally the exact same hair, color and texture and everything; the only difference is hers is somewhat shorter and she wears it in a low ponytail. She thinks he's the only one who "understands" her hair lol.

BONUS TO ABOVE: She and Spice have a cute little daddy/daughter bonding thing where they'll brush each other's hair. He does hers first, then he lets her do his next. He has to sit on the floor and hunch over/bow his head so she can reach properly because she's so much smaller than him, but he doesn't mind. She babbles at him about random things while she works and tries extra hard to do a good job, and it just melts his manly man heart lol

[littlemissmiller]

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟 𝐻𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑠

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔: 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐇𝐞 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝

Pairing: drug dealer!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

Summary: (au) The next morning, you and Coriolanus wake up and decide to spend the day together. At the pool after breakfast, your ex catches you and Coriolanus kiss, which causes a scene. After he’s take you back to his room…

Warning: 18+ (eventually smut), fluff, kissing, pet names (baby girl), toxic relationship, obsession, fantasies about readers body, possession

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: hello! slowly getting stories done! i want to say that even though i took a break, the continued support has been amazing. thank you to everyone who has helped this little blog grow! especially to those who have liked or commented on almost every post…i appreciate the kind words and dedication. as someone who is a fellow fan girl, hearing people say how they look forward to my writing or saying that me dropping a new post makes their day, warms my heart ♥︎ so enjoy this chapter and in the meantime go read Bird in a Cage if you are looking for more Coryo fics!

Series Masterlist | Playlist

☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎

The next morning, Coriolanus wakes up with you resting on his chest. You’re asleep, your hair tickling his lips and nose. He can’t help it and kisses the top of your head, petting your hair. You stir slightly, nuzzling into his chest. You’re still sound asleep, and he watches your back rise and fall. Coriolanus continues to stroke your hair and smiles to himself. You’re sleeping soundly in his bed. Not only that, your body is completely on top of his own. He admires how at peace you look and not to mention how beautiful you are in the morning sunlight creeping through his blinds. He kisses your head again, then firmly presses his cheek against you, hugging you.

You eventually stir awake and find him with his hands tangled in your hair, his other hand stroking your back.

“Good morning, beautiful” he whispers

“Hey…good morning” you yawn “mmm you make a nice pillow” you giggle softly, scooting up on him more and kissing his cheek. He suddenly turns his face and your chin to kiss your mouth. You smile against his lips, kissing him back. You pull back for a moment, stroking his face.

“What time is it?” You ask

Coriolanus reaches for his phone on his side table. It reads 7:32 am. He tells you and you groan.

“So early. I told mom I was at a friend’s house so I can really be back at any time.”

“So, you can stay a bit?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you wanted to get breakfast maybe. I’m so hungry”

Coriolanus smiles, kissing you again.

“We can get breakfast”

You and him lay there for a while, at least another thirty minutes. Occasionally kissing each other, Coriolanus commenting on how beautiful you are, how happy he is you’re here with him. You eventually need to use the bathroom and you get up. Coriolanus is all too satisfied with himself. He reaches for his phone again and checks his notifications, placing his hand behind his head. As he scrolls through Instagram and sees people are still talking about his Yik Yak post. A small tinge of guilt hits him and he closes out of the app. He goes to check the original post and the likes have only gone up. He’s pretty sure the entire high school knows, and not just the recent graduated seniors. He closes out and clears his app history. You come back into his room and smile at him. He looks past his phone at you and smiles back.

“Would you want something to change into. I bet Tigris has something that would fit…”

“Yeah that would be nice”

“I’ll grab you something.”

He jumps out of bed and out of his room, dashing across the hall. He knocks on his cousin's door. Tigris answers and he opens her door. She’s currently sipping on a cup of tea and sketching in her bed.

“You’re up early.” She remarks

“Yeah, hey so I have umm someone over and I need some clothes for her.”

“You have a girl over? Who?”

Coriolanus utters your name and quietly, Tigris gasps.

“She slept over?”

“Yeah, are you gonna tell Gran?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, getting up and going to her closet.

“And purposely upset her. I’m not your mother Coriolanus.” She smirks, tossing him a purple tank top and jean shorts.

“Thanks cus.”

“I wanna know more later though.”

He nods, then turns back to go to his room. You are sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling on your phone. He hands you the outfit and you go to change.

“Hey, do you have some deodorant I can borrow? Maybe a toothbrush and some toothpaste too? Sorry I wasn’t planning on even staying at Bella’s after.”

“Yeah. You can use my deodorant and toothpaste. I’ll see if we have an extra toothbrush. Gran tends to forget once she bought things she needs, so we always have extra shit just laying around”

You nod and head into his bathroom. He leaves his room and heads downstairs to their linens closet. Coriolanus’s house was not messy by any means, his grandmother is in fact a relatively structured lady and was keen on keeping a tidy house, however all the knickknacks, photos, and pieces of old memorabilia scattered around the house made it feel full. And his grandmother seemed to develop a knack for buying things she didn’t need or duplicates since her working memory was becoming worse.

He knows that he saw her buy some new toothbrushes for cleaning last week and figured he could use one of those. He finds them behind the fifth box of tissues and takes one. He heads up back to his room and knocks on his bathroom door. You step out for a second, thank him and smile.

Coriolanus decides to change clothes himself, stripping himself of his navy button up. He goes to his closet and picks out a black tee and pair of black shorts. You watch him as he changes, admiring his toned body. He strips out of his pants, changing into shorts. For a brief moment you can see his bulge in his boxers. You smirk to yourself as you turn back to the mirror and continue brushing your teeth. Coriolanus saw you gawk at him and he loves that your attention is on him like that. Your eyes are so telling, your look so recognizable. The same look Coriolanus himself has given you many times over the years. He zips up his pants and heads into his bathroom. You scoot over as he checks himself out. He grabs his own toothbrush and toothpaste and starts his morning routine. Brush his teeth, deodorant, wash his face.

“You actually use face wash. I didn’t think boys cared about that stuff.”

“I hate pimples. They always irritate my face.”

“Well I love a man that keeps up on his appearance” you smile.

Once you’re both ready, you and him head out of his house and off to Bill’s Pancakes, the local diner. It almost feels like a date once you both are seated in a booth, Coriolanus suddenly gets nervous and feels like he doesn’t know what to say to you. You look incredibly cute in that tank top though and he decides to let you know.

“Thank you!”

He then notices you’re still wearing the necklace from last night and smiles to himself.

“So do you have any plans today?” You ask

Coriolanus shakes his head, as he starts to look at the menu.

“I mean if you want we can still hang out after this. I kinda don’t want this time to end just yet.”

“Yeah we can hang out! What were you thinking?”

“The pool at the club allows me to bring a guest. Would you want to come?”

“Sure I’d be down”

“Ok we can stop back by your house so you can change and then mine so I can get my bikini?

“Sounds like a plan”

You and him continue to chat until a waiter comes to take your orders. All in all, breakfast is delicious and now that you asked him to come swim, all he can think about is you in a bikini. He’s always thought about how incredible your body is. He’s seen glimpses of it based on some of the clothes you wear and filled in the rest with his imagination. He has a small idea about how perky and perfect your breasts are, and could tell you had a nice ass. And the thought of you wet in a bikini is almost overwhelming. The entire time at breakfast, he tried to concentrate on his food and the conversation, but is now all too eager to get home.

Once he pays and you both leave, his excitement only gets stronger. Maybe you’ll even let him pick out what you wear. Invite him into your house. You watched him change, maybe you’ll return the favor. He nearly misses his turn into his neighborhood at the thought of your bare body. He parks, tells you he’ll be right back, and rushes into his house to grab a pair of black swim shorts. He quickly returns and starts the car back up. He drives to your neighborhood and as he arrives, Sejanus is shooting hoops outside. He watches as his best friend’s car pulls into your driveway. He waves and you both wave back at him. Sejanus looks upon with confusion. You tell Coriolanus you’ll be right back as you dash up to your front door. You don’t end up inviting him in, to his disappointment, but regardless he’s still just as excited to see you in a bikini. He looks out his rear view mirror and sees Sejanus still standing there dumbfounded. He turns off the car and gets out, walking over to his friend.

“Hey!” He smiles

“Were you going to tell me about her?”

“Of course, I just haven’t had an opportunity to text you. We went to get breakfast and now she invited me to the country club pool.” Coriolanus explains

“Oh!” Sejanus exclaims

Coriolanus gives him a proud nod and looks back to see if you’ve returned to the car. Just then your front door opens and you trod outside. Coriolanus watches you, bidding Sejanus a farewell, and jogging back over to his truck. You hop in with him and he smiles at you.

“I got us some towels and sunscreen!” you explain holding up your swim bag. He nods and starts the car. Before he can put it in drive, you delicately turn his chin, and kiss him. He kisses you back, but you pull away, leaving him wanting more.

“What was that for?” Coriolanus inquires

“Because, why not. You’re so handsome.”

He can’t help but smile at you, blush almost. At the same time, his chest swells with pride, loving that you think he’s so attractive.

“You really think so?”

“Mhmm.” You nod

“Yeah…” he starts stroking your cheek. “but you’re even more gorgeous.”

You give him a playful, girlish giggle and kiss him quickly again.

He starts the truck and pulls out of your driveway. He heads to the country club and when he pulls into the parking lot, he initially pulls into a spot in the back for guests.

“Oh, you can park in our spot.” You remark

“You have your own spot?”

“Well no, it’s just where we always park. Go to the members lot. I’ll show you where to go. ���

He follows your instructions and pulls into a “members only” spot. He parks the car and the two of you walk around the back gate to the pool. It’s a nice area, with brick pavilions, a bar, chairs for lounging, and even an area for kids. It wasn’t too big, not like the public pool at the park. In the summer, as a boy, Coriolanus and Tigris’s grandparents would take them together before their Grandfather passed away. Except it was more crowded, more loud, and filled with mostly pee.

“The men’s bathroom is that way. I’m going to change.” You declare, pointing as you press a key fob up to the gate. Coriolanus nods and walks in the direction you pointed while you head off to the women’s restroom. He changes quickly and then awkwardly waits for you to come back out. He feels so out of place at the country club, even though he’s tagged along with Sejanus before. Finally, you come out and Coriolanus is taken aback. Your body is stunning in your blue bikini, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. It was just modest enough, but fit you perfectly. Your breasts sat perfectly on your chest and he can see how perky and round they are. Just like he knew they would be.𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 imagined He tries to contain himself, hoping not to develop a hard on through his swim shorts, but you’re so damn tempting. You walk to him, swaying your hips.

“Let’s find some chairs. Do you think you could help me with my sunscreen?”

“Of course.”

You and him find some empty chairs and sit down. You get the towels and sunscreen from your bag, handing him one. You start to apply the sunscreen to your body, working it into your arms and chest. He’s mesmerized by you, watching closely as you apply the white cream on your chest and cleavage. You notice him and smirk. Then you readjust and turn around, handing him the bottle. He squeezes the sunscreen into his hand and you lift up your hair. He slowly applies it to your back, feeling his cock hardened as he does. He rubs your shoulders, back and down to your lower waist. He can’t help but notice how sensual this simple act has become. His hands are so delicate as they move across your skin. You’re so smooth, so soft, and he could feel you all day like this. He applies some extra sunscreen, just so he can continue to feel you. You sigh and hum into the feeling of his hands. You giggle at the coldness and his touch, then turn around when he’s done.

“My turn.” you declare

“I don’t really use that stuff.”

“Well you are with me. Stay still.” You insist, squirting the cream into your hand. You rub it on his chest and shoulders, admiring his toned build, excited that you get to see him shirtless again. You focus on your own touch, making sure he feels good as you lather him up. You’re so soft and gentle and he loves how your finger rubs into him.

“If you wanted an excuse to touch my chest you could have asked me” he smirks playfully

“Noted, now let that sit in for a bit.”

After a few moments, you both get into the pool, swimming around and chatting. He loves how gracefully you flow through the water, and still can’t get over how fucking sexy you look in your bikini. You’re caught up in him as well. His piercing blue eyes, his charming smile. At one point you swim over to him and give him a quick kiss.

“What was that for?” He asks

“Because I can” you smile kissing him again

Little did you and him know that Devon was entering the pool area, fresh out of a round of golf. He spots you, then sees Coriolanus. You kiss Coriolanus again, and that gets him fuming.

“Hey!” He storms over to you

You whip your head around and see him. You gasp and move behind Coriolanus.

“Hey, let's go back to your place.” You whisper

Coriolanus looks up and frowns at Devon as he stalks over him.

“What the hell are you doing kissing my girl, Snow?” He pouts, starting to draw attention to himself and you.

“She’s not your girl. You don’t own her.”

“Hey!” He shouts at you ignoring Coriolanus’s remark. “You can at least talk to me! C’mon you can’t just avoid me.”

“Stop talking to her.” Coriolanus speaks up, getting out of the pool, while you scurry off to gather your belongings.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He shoves Coriolanus. “Get out of my face, and get your tongue out of my girl's mouth!”

“She’s NOT your girl.” Coriolanus shoves back

“You really wanna do this, Snow, embarrass yourself and your family name more.”

That pisses him off. Before he can take action, going to throw a punch, your hand grabs his wrist and pulls him towards the exit.

“I said I don’t want anything to do with you anymore Devon. Leave us alone.” You tell him off “C’mon”

You rush off with Coriolanus, the sound of Devon’s anger trailing behind with the last thing you hear him say being “This isn’t over. We still need to talk. You can’t ignore me forever.”

“I’m sorry…” you apologize as you get into his truck.

“For what?”

“For that becoming a scene. So embarrassing.”

“But you didn’t do anything.” Coriolanus cups your face, consoling you.

“I just feel like this is my fault.”

“C’mon, let’s go back to my house and take your mind off things.”

You nod, holding back your tears. Coriolanus gets to his house as fast as possible, ushering you inside and up to his room. He closes his room and you immediately burst out into tears.

“Hey, hey, please don’t cry baby.”

You sniffle and a stream of tears runs down your face.

“I’m sorry it’s just…just…everything has been so crazy since the breakup.”

“I know I know. But it’s not your fault.”

You and him both have a seat on his bed, leaning against his chest with your hands buried on your face. He wraps an arm around you and hugs you.

“Sweet girl, please don’t cry.”

“It’s hard not to. I’m sorry I’m such a mess”

“You’re not a mess” he kisses your forehead, pulling you closer.

You sniffle against him as he pets your hair. A whirlwind of emotions surges over you and you can’t help but let you an even louder sob. He rocks you, trying his very best to console you. You bawl into him and he hugs you tight, whispering to you softly.

“It’s ok. I won’t ever let him get to you ok. Not to while you’re with me baby”

“You mean that?” You utter

He nods and you lean up to kiss him. He moans unexpectedly, but once you don’t pull back, he kisses you back fully. He can tell you’re still swimming in emotions, your kiss so fierce and passionate. You shift and move your body onto the bed more. He scoots back to accommodate you and then you do something he doesn’t expect. You straddle him, cupping his face as your lips refuse to leave his. He moans in surprise, raking his fingers through your hair. He pulls you closer and moans into your mouth. You kiss him fiercely, and your lips move at a desperate pace. He can barely keep up and pulls back. He looks at you, cupping your face and meeting your gaze.

“What's up, baby girl?”

You blush and immediately kiss him again.

“I need you” you mumble into his mouth.

He’s completely overwhelmed and barely utters out a “are you sure?” as you feverishly nod your head. Then, he is pleasantly surprised when you push him onto the bed.

This is what he’s dreamed of. You, totally in need of him, his lips, his body, his arms wrapping you close to his chest, and his body tangled with your own. You can’t help but to start to slowly grind on his hips. He grins against your mouth, eager for more of you.

“Mmm baby girl. Tell me this is real?”

“It’s real.” You moan

꧁🝮❤︎︎🝮꧂

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[majimaisms]

(im rly wary of coming across as like, rude or something, so forgive me if that's the case, im also enjoying this conversation and i mean no slight by my disagreements)

it never really occurred to me that the mechanics of majima everywhere could be described as kiryu seeking majima out, but i suppose it does become that after a certain point for players who want to unlock dragon style. i also dont know how much of player intent can be ascribed to kiryu, because eventually you do as a player figure out the mechanics of how to make majima appear -- or disappear -- depending on what you wanna do. but that is its own (fascinating) conversation on the nature of "canon" in video games. regardless, i would say that still, mechanically, and for most players (not that # of players means anything here really), you Are jumped by majima. and so i would say majima's obsession takes place in both the narrative And the mechanics, and that kiryu is not "obsessed" with him at all. he's intrigued at best, but he's the immovable object to majima's unstoppable force

i will say though that i prefer to rely on the narrative for my analysis because i can't account for player differences and still arrive at a coherent analysis. but of course, thats not the point of every analysis. i admit im somewhat stuck in trying to clear everything up for myself and reach a definitive conclusion, find clear cut answers to my questions before i can go asking new ones. i would say that that has been the driving force for my obsession with majima specifically, but i understand the need for and value in different approaches to analysis, and i dont want to cut you off from asking interesting questions

with that caveat, i Will say that even if we look entirely at the narrative, it is "canon" that kiryu masters dragon style, meaning it's canon that he completed majima everywhere. but its not until the very end of the majima everywhere plotline that he actually wants to fight majima. so that to me tells me he's not seeking him out until then. he has his guard up all the time, but he's in a defensive position, not actively luring him out. he'll agree to fight him as part of a "performance" (breaker majima)

but he doesn't like fighting because he's angry, which majima has been pushing him to do. in fact majima says that part of the whole point of this was to wake up the sleeping dragon, Because kiryu wont seek him out, and won't fight him even when he does provoke kiryu.

i can talk about this for like. pages and pages though so again i wont go into it here

as for the homoeroticism and overexaggerated sexuality, i do think it's fully part of the act and that majima's enjoyment of fighting is like. deeply wholesome. it's like playing to him, he genuinely has a fun time doing it, it's a bond building activity

this is even acknowledged and alluded to in y0

majima and saejima also fight in y5, though they do it because they're forced to, but it was never about saejima establishing his strength to majima in y4. it was about majima accepting punishment, because hes been blaming himself for 25 years. i also would be surprised if majima doesn't make up excuses to fight saejima, or if they don't do it as a natural way of communication (the way you see kaito and yagami fight in judgment, for example, despite being friends. it's a way to resolve conflict and disagreements over pretty much anything, even though it's definitely not yagami's preferred method.) we're shown so little of their dynamic, so i don't know that we can say for sure that fighting isn't a part of their dynamic. there's actually an rggo story about it and it's referenced in y4 that makes me think majima is just. like this with

thing is, majima is Lonely. especially in the absence of saejima. and he's trying to fill that hole. it's not just like, physical loneliness, like not having friends to hang out with, it's about his social circle being so different from him. he's not understood, his principles aren't shared, there's not enough people he respects around him. not enough allies. and he's hiding behind the excuse of "getting the dragon of dojima back to his old strength" to spend time with kiryu -- someone who reminds him of saejima. yes, a saejima replacement is not all that kiryu is, but he is drawn to him for the same reasons.

re: kiryu showing him respect, i do agree that kiryu treats him more like a normal person than probably anyone else around majima, but even kiryu doesn't truly understand him. he just trusts him. and he's very fond of majima, but that's different from "obsession", which is how majima presents his fondness. present being the operative word here

saejima understands him though. which is what majima craves, i think. so yes, absolutely, 100% that is a huge part of what makes kiryu someone he wants to be close to, or can be close to, but even that is to sort of. fill the hole left by saejima

this is not to say that kiryu has no value to majima outside of being Replacement Saejima, that's not at all what i'm trying to say here. i'm just saying that the qualities that draw him to kiryu are also the qualities that draw him to saejima, which is their willpower and unwavering stance against cynicism in the face of. everything. they're inspirational for majima, they're his heroes really

as for y0, yes, it's 100% because of his love for saejima. he's trying to climb the ranks so that he's a worthy opponent to saejima when he gets out of prison. here's what the guy who did majima's localization had to say about it

he also fully thought that saejima was going to kill him. and accepted that. so, to be exact, his reason for enduring torture and sagawa and y0 and going back to the clan despite all that, was, so that he could give saejima the opportunity to kill him, and have that be a valuable achievement for saejima. so he needs to build a name for himself. he needs status.

so like. yes he's been doing all of That (his life between 1985-2011). to die. lol. normal guy btw !

yeah i bet

[choccy-zefirka]

Hjördis Laidir's Guide to Being Fearless

Fear, you see, comes from overthinking. Thinking in general, even.

The more you turn something that frightens you over and over inside your mind, the more your thoughts begin to drip a very particular black goop. You must have felt it when you were afraid. It bubbles underneath the surface, closing up your throat, filling your lungs, not letting you breathe — sometimes even reaching the backs of your eyes and blinding you. A tiny Blight, if you will, of your very own making.

So to keep yourself from suffocating, just... Don't think. Don't allow yourself those still, quiet moments when your mind stirs and begins playing tricks on you.

Move fast, look ahead, grab on to your very first instinct and let it pull you along — like you are rushing down frothing river rapids astride a giant man-eating raytooth; an even bigger, nastier cousin of the critter that almost shredded Bharv and his team, when yet another of his plans fell apart. Well, when I dealt with that thing, I had no plan, aside from prying a friend's prosthetic arm out of its barbed tunnel of a mouth. And I did just that, with no time wasted on churning thought goop.

We both got our gold and glory in the end, and I landed with an eye-catching new scar: several circles of razor tooth marks right over my shoulder. Beloved by the ladies, the gents, and pretty much everyone else. Would I be getting free drinks in exchange for my scar story if I mulled about on the shore, thinking? I dare say not!

So yes. To be fearless, act like you just grabbed a haul of elven statuettes from some human "collector's" vault and are bolting across his posh gardens, weaving and ducking among the fluttering swan shrubs, the back wall in sight and the guards at your heel. Outrun the guards. Outrun your thoughts.

See a log between two clifftops, bridging a long, narrowing funnel of a drop, with nothing but blue mist at the bottom? Walk it. Walk the damn log. Don't think about what's below. Just keep balance and push ahead.

Catch a glimpse of the cultist you are chasing, a bright-red dot against the city grey, flailing their robed arms and doing their ghastly blood rituals on a rooftop? With the only way to get to them being a zip line? Grab tight, and whizz forth. Over the streets. With the golden windows flickering far below your floating feet; with the moon enormous and bright behind your back; with the rusty smell of your quarry's magic hitting your nose, breaking through the rank mixture of stagnant water and someone's doomed cooking. Don't think. Fly. You will never reach your target if you think.

When someone screams for help from the frothing golden maw of a burning building, be the first to rush in. Give yourself no pause to imagine how the fire will feel, eating at your skin. When the tattoo master offers to ink you, grin and agree to the largest, most outrageous design that would get you banned from entering several Chantries. When you are offered a dare, accept it, and top it up with some extra flourish. To show just how fearless you are.

When your favorite uncle — well, your mothers' best friend, technically, but my first impulse is to call him that, and I never thought twice about it — comes by with an urgent plea to chase down some weird mage he used to know, and stop him from destroying the world... Do not even blink. Follow him into the craziest, upside-down maelstrom of acid-green wild magic and floating rocks. Jump with him into the very Fade. Whatever it takes. No hesitation. No fear.

And somewhere along the way, you may meet another weird mage. Weird — and terrifying. Because he's a necromancer, and you have seen — I have seen — what his kind can do, what horrors they sculpt from the rotting, squelching flesh-clay. You remember — I remember — that night in the old foundry, when Mama Tillie lost her own mother and gained a daughter. I was a tiny, trembling urchin back then; I'd taken a wrong turn on an errand for the creepy mirror man (that story will cost three free drinks), and stumbled into a death mage in the middle of stitching his dead wife back together from matching scraps carved out of other women. Now, that is food for black, goopy thought if there is one.

So. Anyway. Say you do meet a necromancer. And he frightens you to your very core, more than fire or a steep careen off a cliff or the dripping scarlet jaws of a sea monster ever will. What do you do then?

Right. You don't think. You follow your first impulse. Which, since you are — I am — also the daughter of Mama Bela, is to flirt. Relentlessly. Strike a confident pause. Try to stare him down, even if you barely reach his chest. See what will finally make that bookworm stumble over his words; what will finally make a blush creep over his cheeks.

Then, you just might realize that he is not so terrifying after all. That he is courteous and attentive... Which shouldn't matter; Mama Tillie always said that the death mage from the foundry was courteous and attentive with her mother before he took her... He wooed her with white flowers, dammit!

But — but his smile seems so sincere. His eyes seem so kind.

Watch out. You may slip. You may plummet.

Oh.

Oh shit.

[cum-a-calla]

i went a little insane on this Jack Delroy tidbit (is it still a tidbit if it’s 4800 words? get back to me on that)

Jack Delroy visits a diner in the middle of the night to wind down. He has very little in the way of expectations in the midst of fighting his own demons, but one thing he doesn’t expect is meeting a starstruck waitress that forces him to truly reckon with his urges.

under the cut: the lightest touch of dubcon, rough PIV fucking, fingerfucking, oral sex, public fucking, internal misery, and the suggestion of possession.

…

The late-night circuit is taking its toll on Jack.

It’s not so much the show - he lives to host, lives to act and react, lives to hype up his guests, to engage the audience. Genuinely enjoys the silly little skits they do. It’s living a dream, being in front of the camera and feeling that very specific, special feeling - not quite acting, not quite being himself. It’s less a façade and more a specific side of him - just a sliver of Jack, a flavor. A taste.

It’s not even really the late-night circuit, is it?

Ever since - …since, Jack’s been off. And why wouldn’t he be? The loss, the never-ending grind, the… the events that precluded this loss. The carving out of something inside of him, and to that end, when did that start? When the ratings fell? When Minnie did? When everything between those two massive events in his life took place? That secret in-between time, the woods, the eerie hooting in the trees, the costumes; God, the costumes had been so hack. He’d come so willingly, veins sluiced with booze, laughing, jeering with the rest of them. Until… until they weren’t.

Until he was kneeling in the pine needles, feeling them crunch under his knees, and had he ever paid so much attention to his surroundings? Had he ever stopped and noticed how it smelled in the forest? Perhaps not until then. Green, thick, heady. The sound of flapping wings, the whispers of his cohorts in the night. The metallic taste in the cup. Feeling something so unlike anything else, coursing through him, and wasn’t it so easy to chalk it up to nothing? It was easier. It was easier.

And then… and then.

It had been a time between sweet Minnie’s passing and his almost-reluctant return. But how long can tragedy keep you from your ultimate calling? There can only be so many mornings, noons and nights spent in a stupor, crying, vomiting, drinking, drugging. Only so much time avoiding every single part of your life, your livelihood. And what an unfair thing, to neglect one love of your life for the loss of another; Minnie’s face, her voice, she still lives in the back of his brain like an aneurysm. Capable of taking him completely out at any given moment.

And so the meetings in the Grove certainly helped, and perhaps did not at all. Before, after - what difference does time make, anyway? Minnie’s passing feels at once a hundred years in the past as well as five minutes ago. Time. Distortion is the only thing Jack knows anymore. There is only his life as the leading Night Owl and his life as Jack, and what in the fuck does that mean anymore unless he masks it with whatever else he can get his hands on?

His hands.

They tremble a little on the table, slid into a booth at a local diner. It’s a perfect imagining of a fifties spot, the plush, scuffed seats, the ridiculous outfits the largely female staff are wearing - the modest skirts, the aprons. The little notebook balanced against his waitress’s arm as she glides dutifully to his table.

“Evening,” she begins, glancing at him for barely a second before flipping a page. “Or - well, I guess it’s more like… good morning, right?” She laughs a gentle little laugh and it tugs at him, somehow. He watches her as he sweats, resisting the urge to wipe at his damp hairline. It’s been a fucking night.

“Evening and good morning to you, young lady,” he responds. Always genteel, always On.

She glances at him again and it’s a classic double-take. Eyes a little wider, she shifts in place and stares at her notebook, making every effort to conceal her recognition. Jack’s seen this look hundreds, thousands of times, so used to it that he can only smile warmly in return. The price of fame, but also the pleasure. She’s turning pink in the cheeks and it’s endearing, the way it lights her freckles up, the way it makes her squirm in place. Jack is charmed. He’s used to all ranges of attention - clamoring women, shy women, forward men. He takes it all in stride, but it’s the shy ones that get him. Demure, unsure. Something in his gut twists, and he waits politely for her to organize her thoughts before he says anything else.

“Th-thank you,” she stammers, blushing. “I… I know you must uh, get this a lot, but… you look like somebody,” she hints. She flicks her eyes from her notepad to Jack’s own eyes, guarded, giddily scared.

“I do get that a lot,” he says warmly. He drops her a quick, clever wink. “You’re clearly up late enough to know for sure, considering.”

She lifts the pad and covers her mouth with it, making an adorable, almost-silent squeal of excitement. The tips of her ears are burning, she’s so flustered. Jack can’t help but grin, laughing at her genuine and unbridled reaction.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I’m being so dumb! I just - I love you,” she gushes, and the words tumbling from her lips embarrass her even further as she cringes at herself. Absolutely gorgeous - Jack can’t help but run his eyes quickly along the line of her body, noting the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. The hint of bare thigh under her skirt. “I’m such a fan. I know everybody must say that, I.. wow, I’ve never met somebody famous before. Especially not somebody I’m such a big fan of.”

“That’s incredibly sweet. Must be my lucky night, being waited on by such a lovely fan,” he flirts. The dark twist in his pelvis keeps him eyeing her, and he’s forced to take the linen napkin on the table and blot at his forehead. “Excuse me - been a long, long night.”

“I bet,” she says. “I imagine you’re constantly busy. Mister Delroy, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting - what can I get you?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Just a… a black coffee will do me for now.”

She nods and the woman scurries away, glowing with excitement. It’s just one of the many perks, the hoards of beautiful women that lose themselves in his presence. The power there. Jack is easy, kind - hearted. He has no need for applause, not in the way you’d assume - he lives to be enjoyed, lives to be an entertainment, sure. But the drive isn’t for the droves of people begging to worship him - and isn’t that cliché? Isn’t that just something a famous, rich asshole would say, or convince himself of?

But it rings true. All he wanted - all he wants, all he sacrificed for -

All he sacrificed for… is to be needed.

The girl comes back with his coffee, placing it down on top of a napkin in an oversized, chipped mug. Jack smiles warmly at her and winks again, watching her thighs under her skirt as she hurries away again. It’s cute, really. It’s heartening in a way, but mostly… it stirs. Jack forcibly turns his head and stares down at the scratched formica tabletop, coffee steaming. A single drop trails its way down the cup and stains the napkin, bleeding through to the table. In the low of his gut, in the back of his brain, a whisper begins. He sweats - he’s always sweating these days. The cocaine, the alcohol, the various other substances he blinds himself with… and -

And…

The… thing. The thing that makes his belly hot, the thing that turns his cock hard even when he least expects it. It’s like a black, swirling possession over him; it’s the only thing that he doesn’t need a substance for, but a substance against. It’s not a drunkenness, not a high - it’s something else entirely, a tingling, pervasive kind of darkness.

It’s been easy to overcome it most of the time…

Most of the time.

It gets harder every day, little by little. What makes it really hard is when he finds a person, a thing, a place, a situation - something that makes his fucking balls ache, something that fills him to the throat with blackness, with need, and he follows. It’s all part of it. Resisting makes him… not himself. Giving in makes him not himself. Where the line between who he thinks he is and who he is now has been blurred, irrevocably lost in the dust of things, impossible to decipher. The ruins of his life have been buried so many ways in such a short amount of time. He looks in the mirror and it’s a miracle to recognize himself anymore. He rakes his fingers through his hair, straightens the lapels on his suit jacket. It’s hot. He takes the napkin, blots his sweat once more.

He stares serenely out the window at the darkened sky. Stars are out, now, piercing through all that velvety blue-black, like freckles, like pinholes embedded in some luxurious cloth. He checks his watch - just about a quarter to three in the morning, and not even a wink of an urge to sleep. Nothing satiates, nothing helps him rest. Constantly on the hamster wheel, doing his little dance.

“Mister Delroy - I, uh - well - I know you just ordered the coffee, but… we had some extra things, so… I just thought - in case you were hungry… On the house, of course.”

Jack turns to the waitress as she carries a plate to him, steaming with all kinds of fixings - hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, toast. She toes her shoe on the floor, and again he steals a look at the little bit of exposed thigh, the way she nervously straightens the apron affixed to the front of her uniform dress. He smiles up at her and there’s a whisper in the back of his mind - he watches her struggle to try to look away, but she can’t. He indulges her in her sweet gaze, refusing to break eye contact just to see what she does. She squirms a little, pleasantly so - her pupils dilate, flicker from his mouth back to his eyes. Trying not to be obvious. It makes him laugh a little, a hum under his breath as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Thank you very much, dear. You sure know how to take care of a tired man.”

She looks at the floor, smiles so big. She ducks under the length of her hair but it does nothing to dull the sheer delight making her face glow so. Jack wants to grab her by the hips - a line of racing thoughts boil his blood, stir his cock as he sits. Thinking about her lips on him, the warmth of her mouth, his fingers digging into her. Stop. Not now. Please. Fighting the urges, the impulses.

“Anything for you, Mister Delroy.”

He almost winces, dick jumping in his slacks. God, she’s adorable. There’s an almost coquettish quality to the way she looks up at him again, under her lashes, hands clasped chastely behind her back. She licks her lips and he feels suddenly so, so feral. He can almost taste her by power of thought alone.

“Jack is fine… I insist.” He reaches out and takes her hand. Her fingers tremble the slightest bit and it sets his soul on fucking fire. He brings her soft hand to his lips and kisses her tenderly on the knuckles, resisting the urge to take her fingers into his mouth, to gently bite on the tips of them. He imagines pushing his own fingers between her pink lips and feeling her tongue, reaching back toward her throat until she’s teary-eyed. He watches her as she exhales, shaky. Uncertain. Absolutely excited.

“Jack,” she parrots under her soft breath. “Jack it is, then.”

As she hurries back behind the counter, fielding some of the other late night owls in the restaurant, he contemplates what exactly brought him here. Why the cocaine never jumps him the way it used to, at the beginning. Before the - the… gathering. Why the booze doesn’t calm him the way it used to. Why nothing works, why nothing can settle the hot, despicable urges, the constant crawling underneath his own flesh.

He spends the better part of the next hour switching between gazing out the window, sipping his coffee (and then another, and then another) and picking at his plate, forcing himself to chew the food, to taste it, to appreciate his server’s gift. It does nothing to satiate him. He can barely feel hunger these days - it’s just going through the motions.

Minnie used to make a killer breakfast. On lazy weekends, while he slept off a hangover, and -

He pushes those thoughts away.

3:55 A.M.

The cute waitress comes around again and seems pleasantly surprised to keep finding him here, alone, lingering. Is he lingering? Why is he still here? He should be trying to sleep everything off, getting at least a snatch of shut-eye before another busy day tomorrow trying to up his ratings. There’s a very special show in the works - still in the idea phase, still scouting for a story, but… it’s shaping. Things are rolling, building up. The smart thing to do would be to pay his bill and catch a cab to his hotel room so he can rest fitfully for a few hours.

He asks for the bill and she swallows her own crestfallen feelings as she turns to retrieve it for him. He glances at it, pulls bills from his cracked leather bifold and tips her so generously that her eyes almost bug out of her head. She begins to refuse his tip and he rises from his seat, shushing her. He towers over here and she has no choice but to gaze up at him, like the very length of him is hypnotizing. The shared hunger. He can feel it like electricity, and for a split second they’re so close to each other that he could hook his hand behind the curve of her skull and pull her into a kiss. There’s zero doubt she would give it to him.

Instead, he grasps her shoulder and gives her a light squeeze.

“Thank you for a delightful breakfast - or dinner. Whatever is appropriate for this time of night,” he jokes.

She smiles, beaming at him like he’s the sun and she can do nothing more but bask in his light. “Of course, Mister Del - er, of course, Jack. It was such a pleasure to meet you. A dream.”

“I’m flattered,” he says, and he means it. That’s one thing about his job, and about protecting the shreds of humility he still has left - he always means it. There is nothing more intoxicating, nothing more rewarding than meeting a person who lights up at his very presence. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Touching somebody in such a profound way that brings a little joy, a little entertainment? “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Her voice is low, quiet and sweet. He stoops just slightly to catch it, that dark little voice tickles the back of his brain as he finds himself just a touch closer to her, and he swallows against the urge again to crush her against him, to sip her breath into his lungs and feel her tongue against his. Her eyes glitter in the old, yellowed lights of the diner. He, the Jack Delroy, finds himself utterly speechless and hanging on to her silence like a life raft, awash in his own deafening desire. “I’ll never forget this night, Jack.”

He’s the one basking, now, wondering what her feverish cheek might feel like against his, what other parts of her might feel just as hot, just as deliriously pink and warm against his own flesh. He summons a graceful smile, but it comes out as more of a gentle smirk, a huff of a laugh. Since when does Jack get nervous?

She waits and he regains control of himself, running his fingers through his hair and swiping the back of his hand across his damp hairline, straightening up, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sure I won’t be forgetting this night any time soon, myself,” he jokes. She’s delighted, practically vibrating in place. He can almost smell her, her sweat. Some delicate kind of perfume or soap.

He makes his way outside and waves at her as she returns behind the counter, scurrying into the kitchens - he imagines her in there pressing her hands to her own cheeks, shaking out her adrenaline and excitement. It’s endearing. It sets him on fire.

There are a line of pay phones outside of the restaurant, and he steps into one and lights a cigarette, flipping through the pages to find a cab service. He finds himself eyeing the building, seeing if he can see her through the windows as she continues serving. Mere glimpses - he sees her flit back and forth a little, remaining largely out of his view.

He closes the abused phone book and drops it to hang on its heavy chain, the pages nearly in tatters by years and years of use. He exits the booth without having so much as put any coins into the slot, opting instead to walk across the parking lot. He glances at his watch - 4:14 A.M. He seats himself on a cement block at the edge of the lot, finishing his cigarette just to light up another one directly after. God, he could really use a scotch or two - not that it would help any.

Minutes tick by and he waits. He rubs his sweaty palms down his thighs, constantly checking his watch. 4:21 A.M.

By the time 4:45 A.M. rolls around, he spots her. The lot is dark, the flickering neon sign of the diner doing little to expose him to her. She has a purse slung over her shoulder and not much else. Jack rises to his feet, wincing at the pop of his knees, the stiffness in his back. He flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground and smashes the lit end with the toe of his shoe.

He approaches her and the gravel crunching under his feet has her suddenly alert, jerking her attention toward him. He watches her tense up, eyes wide, clutching the strap of her bag. Her features distort with fear, confusion. She can’t seem to decide how to feel, expression blurring and resetting, blurring again.

“Jack…? What are you - what are you doing here?”

“I was, uh… well, I suppose I was waiting.”

“Waiting for…?”

“For you.”

A hint of delight seems to ease her tension, but not enough for her to relax. She shifts from one foot to the other. Jack aches. He feels the heat pooling in his pelvis, feels that pull. His cock is already half-hard, pulsing with his heartbeat as he comes closer. She’s frozen to the spot, unable to do much else but watch him.

“For me? Wh-why?”

“There is something very special about you, I think. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, if I’m being honest.”

He’s nearly touching her, and he slowly brings his finger to her chin, lifting her face to his. He leans down until he can feel her shuddering little breaths against his mouth. She licks her lips, anticipating him, and he finally bridges that gap. Her lips are so soft, her kiss so submissive, inviting. It’s even better than he’d been fantasizing about, and inky black tendrils of desire creep up through his spine, dripping behind his ribs like ichor. Roiling down from his belly to his balls, stiffening his cock. The violence. The utter, blind, salivating need as he pulls her close, buries his fingers in the fabric of her cheap uniform as he does so. She resists for a moment and seems to melt into him, moaning into his mouth.

He could eat her alive.

They stumble together across the gravel, her hands on his face, skating over his sharp cheekbones to muss his hair. He grabs at her ass, squeezing the generous flesh there. He imagines biting her, leaving a mark that she’ll feel for days to come, imagines her craning to look into a mirror and running her fingers along bruises, bite marks. God, how he wants to mark her.

He guides her clumsily into the mouth of an alley behind the diner. Pressed against the wall, he has the freedom to roam further under her skirt. He tucks his thumbs into the band of her sheer, nylon tights, pulling them down to her calves. Kneeling before her, he watches her flushed expression as he rips her panties off her body with his strong hands, relishing the way she squeals his name. Like a trapped animal. A lamb trembling in the jaws of a wolf. He dips his fingers between her thighs, sliding them into the tight heat of her cunt. She gasps as he fills her this way, stroking, thrusting until she’s practically panting. He ducks under her dress and a growl rumbles up his throat as he tastes her. He wants her dripping down his face. He wants her to beg him to stop, to feel her tighten exquisitely around his fingers as he fucks her with them.

She’s alternating between gently pulling his hair and petting it, thumb slipping occasionally down to trace the bridge of his nose. She does this many times, and it’s so unexpectedly intimate it catches him off guard. Feeling him, painting the image of his profile on the inside of her mind’s eye like a tattoo - it’s not enough to be able to look at him, touch him, kiss him, watch him on TV. She traces him. She memorizes the shape of his nose, the gentle slope of his brow, fingers tickling over his cheekbones. It has him leaking in his trousers.

Her breath catches in her throat and his name is on her lips, sweet and soft as silk, thighs shaking, and there it is - she climaxes. He pulls his fingers out of her and stoops even lower, tongue pushing as far as he can into her folds, nosing her clit. This seems to do something animalistic to her; she nearly screams, covering her own mouth as she grinds against him. He wonders idly if she’ll buck hard enough to break his nose (and so be it, he decides).

Jack can’t wait any longer. He wipes his face off on his sleeve, spins her in place and yanks her hips back. She’s still catching her breath, face so red in the shadows of the alleyway. Eyes half-lidded and dreamy, lips swollen. She glances back at him and watches him struggle to unbuckle and unzip himself, pulling his hard cock out to rub between her wet thighs.

“Jack - please,” she whines. “Please, please.”

“Please what?” God, she’s so fucking slippery. He could swoon on the spot. She makes a soft, whimpering sound and he pulls the head of his cock away, teasing. “Come on. Say what you want.”

“Please… make it hurt.”

For a moment, he stares into her eyes in surprise, and she offers him a coy smile. It changes her features into something a little more sinister than he’d expected. It sets him on fire. Without another word, Jack lines himself up to her plush, slick, waiting cunt and fills her in one brutal thrust. She stiffens on the spot and screams, and now it’s his turn to clap a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, but you wanted this, little dove,” he coos in her ear between grunts. He fucks her hard, fast, feeling all that silken flesh rippling around him. “I had no idea you’d be so filthy. Are you like this for other men? Older men? Spreading your legs in an alley for them to fuck you open?”

The sounds she makes against his hand are probably words - surely they are, but all he hears is her desperate mewling, her high-pitched moans and near-shrieks, the feeling of her breath and drool, her teeth as she considers biting into the flesh of his palm.

“Just me, then? How long have you wanted this, how long have you fantasized about Jack-fucking-Delroy pounding into your little pussy? Do you think of me when you try to sleep? Do you touch yourself thinking of it? Is it what you expected, darling?”

He can barely control himself. There’s a special place between heaven and hell, some secret universe they’ve created with all the heat and pressure of their bodies, with the whispering darkness coursing through him, clouding him, transforming him. There’s nothing else but the urge to rip her in half. To make her scream, to fill her so violently that she feels it for days, for weeks even. He releases her mouth in order to grab her hips, hooking his fingers around the soft flesh there to yank her back against his brutal thrusts. He no longer cares how loud she screams. He likes the way her hands flutter back, grabbing at his wrists, reaching for this thighs in a poor attempt to escape his violence, to temper the way he hammers into her. But he’s too far gone - the smack of his hips into her ass, the way their bodies make the most infernally wet sounds… it’s all there is.

Jack hears a sound, something that nags him in the back of his mind. A rhythmic, gentle noise in the distance, something familiar but unable to breach the ferocity of his current focus. As the pressure builds in his balls, cock harder and more rigid than ever before, he recognizes it. Delirious, he recognizes the sound of an owl somewhere among these buildings, the gentle, almost mocking call of it every couple minutes.

Something about it pushes him over the edge, sweat rolling down his forehead in hot, fat drops, tickling the tip of his nose. He holds her flush as release frees him from all that pressure, muscles tightening and relaxing and waves of molten-hot pleasure surge all through his belly, between his thighs. She’s nearly sobbing at this point, and who can blame her? Each throb of his cock has him grunting against her, draped over her body, teeth bared.

Jack’s easing up, now. He rocks through his orgasm and fills her with his cum, pushing himself as deeply as he can as if a slave to his biological urge. Coating her, marking her with his seed. Mine. I did this.

As he’s emptied himself into her, so empties his mind. No more owl sounds, no more swirling thoughts, the darkness dissipating. He pulls his softening cock from her body and tucks himself away, doing his best to help the poor woman straighten up. Tear tracks shine on her cheeks, little sniffles accompanying her embarrassed smile. There’s fear there, just a little. It hides beneath the veneer of guilty satisfaction, of still being starstruck by her company. It seems that she can barely believe everything that’s just happened. He puts an arm slowly around her shoulders and guides her out from the alley, taking a secret and perverse satisfaction in the way she has to limp a little at first.

“Hey - that was… well, that was something, wasn’t it?” He laughs nervously, searching her to make sure she’s okay. “Are you all right? Do you need a cab? I’d be happy to get one for you, to share?”

“That would be great, actually, if - if it isn’t a pain, Mister Delroy.”

“Jack,” he corrects her gently. He turns her toward the phone book and she waits beside it as he makes the call, staring into the night sky and hugging herself warm. He reemerges, and the way she looks up at him fills him with something he can’t quite name. Some kind of near-familiarity. He’s suddenly struck with his need for the affection, to hold her, to lean own and kiss her lips and be tender to her after all of that. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, drinks in her warm little smile as she tugs it around her. They wait in a comfortable silence, occasionally smiling at each other until a car pulls into the lot. It doesn’t take very long at all. He escorts her to it and slides into the back with her once she’s seated, resting his heavy hand on her knee.

“Would you like to… do you need a place to stay the night?” The nip of loneliness. The need, poking its head restlessly into his mind, his body. So different than what they’d done against the wall, so much scarier. “If you’d like to join me…”

She tries unsuccessfully to hide a grin, turning to stare out the window at nothing at all. Hiding her delight, her own need. “I’d love to, Jack.”

[identityquest]

lizzie get two wolves 👍

[the-lady-hestia]

so in the past month-ish there have been two separate instances where a friend of mine has had reason to show me that the fandoms I enjoy (namely star trek and a niche book series I'm obsessed with) have thriving fanfiction communities (context: While I did already know this about Star Trek, I have never read fanfiction or dove into that corner of the internet b/c I find it a little intimidating lol)

Anyways I've been thinking about Star Trek Voyager a little too much, specifically the ending and how unsatisfying it is.

There's a little voice in the back of my head telling me to spend what little free time I have writing something from the perspective of various crewmembers like a month after the Voyager gets back to Earth. It would inevitably be bad and I know this but like what iffffff?????????

[lem-argentum]

everyone should make bad art and bad writing and bad comics and bad games it is good for the soul

[britneyshakespeare]

around 6 o'clock (east coast u.s. standard time) some guy from fucking australia, with no mutual friends obviously, friend- and message-requested me on facebook saying he hoped i didn't mind the add, but "you came up in my recommended and are the cutest ginger i've ever seen." and it like literally gave me chills because holy hellllll, how the FUCK did this guy find my profile? i have no public posts; i hardly ever comment on public posts; i don't post in large, active groups; etc etc etc etc so it creeped the FUCK out of me. sometimes fb puts ppl w no mutual friends in my "people you may know" but, creepily enough, they often are people i... know, if not have some sort of mutual connection with? like they might be old classmates or friends of friends creating new profiles (so no mutual friends yet), etc. and this is true for ppl who also don't have info on their profile saying they live in/near my hometown, went to my school at some point, etc. like THAT is very creepy how meta somehow knows that. but this guy from australia i am absolutely sure i have no connection to whatsoever. WHY WOULD I???? i have no connection to australia at all other than a couple of mutuals i have on here.

so anyway i took a screenshot of the message and showed it to my friends cuz i was freaking out about it and needed to get that off my chest and one friend was like "why dont you block him" (me reading that 4 hours later) and im like you know what i didnt think it was necessary but not a bad idea. and i go to check the message request and the message was unsent, and he also deleted the friend request. lmaooooo. maybe his girlfriend found his phone

[designernishiki]

You asked for a fic rec so I’ll toss this one at ya: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46767358?view_full_work=true Stick through the formatting for the characterization, tone, and really the whole vibe of this fic. I haven’t been able to get the bathroom call between Daigo and Majima out of my head for weeks since I read it with how naturally it all flows. My own little Daigo characterization booklet to review when I feel like I need a refresher on him.

so I may have stayed up until 6am reading this (would’ve slept earlier but I couldn’t stop reading it) and hgggahaghhhhaggahshhhhhhhh that was one of the most well-characterized fics I’ve ever read what the fuck. like the differences in how each character speaks (both tone-wise and in differing levels of authenticity) and how they speak to specific others (the daigo and majima dyanmic specifically- how they actually take into account how long they’ve been working really closely- SO good), the mental anguish and chaos vs the overwhelming emptiness of being daigo dojima but no longer The 6th Chairman Daigo Dojima……….I could keep going but I think you get it.

tbh I’d been wanting to write something exploring a similar set of dynamics/situation (post-kiryu’s fake death, interactions with haruka, daigo, and/or majima specifically, reflecting on his shortcomings while acknowledging the heavy Grief left behind) but now I’m like. well I still could but this was so well written in regards to daigo and haruka that, as far as something between those two goes, I don’t feel the need to.

thanks for the recommendation! my brain is broken now (affectionate)

[waywardsalt]

tag rant but man i fuckin hate the new direction for loz